GP

I think it’s fair to say that we often don’t realize the good moments until they’re past. Whether the passage of time casts our experiences in a more favorable light or simply provides us a better barometer by which to judge, it’s damn tricky to know just how good a moment is when we are in it. 

When I was approached to write about my grandfather’s passing, I remembered the exciting moments first. The highs. Limo rides, celebrities, trips to Europe and Asia and Africa. Film premieres, talk shows, award ceremonies. And of course the book signings. First his, then later mine. By the time my first novel was published, Wally [I was the only one allowed to call him that!] was considerably on in years and seldom left his study, much less his home, much less his beloved ‘hamlet’ of New Hope, Pennsylvania. Over the phone he apologized profusely for his inability to attend the first signing of my tour, kicking off in Los Angeles, and when I reminded him I had scheduled a stop, to the great chagrin of my publishers, at Hawkes, which was all but ten minutes from his doorstep, he became evasive, noncommittal.

On the day of the signing, my brother and I popped into a limo just like the ones Wally used to rent, also to the chagrin of our publishers, and headed for Vroman’s bookstore in Pasadena. It broke down about a block away and we walked the rest of the way which proved to be almost too much for my agent who obsessively craned his neck upwards and forwards with each step, attempting to gauge the length of the line at the front door. The nearer we came, the clearer was the reality, and his excuses rang hollow. There couldn’t have been more than five people outside the door and he finally went silent as we waited for the crosswalk. We approached in silence and my brother began to turn me by my shoulder, presumably to give me a pep talk, but my agent darted back to us, repeatedly muttering, “holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”

It was packed. The five people outside simply couldn’t fit. They were smoking and laughing and cheered at me when I walked up. I suddenly became aware of a healthy din coming from inside. My agent, levitating like a poker player that’s just bet the house, pulled open the door and I entered and the entire crowd seemed to turn on cue. I could feel my brother begin to vibrate and he put his hand on my shoulder, but this time softly, reverently. The manager of the store emerged from the throng and led me towards the little podium they’d erected for me to read from. All I could do was smile. Physically, all I could do was smile. It was the only way to take it all in. My head, reeling, remained empty until I got to the front and then it was my brother’s turn to say, “holy fuck.”

A white haired gentleman in a dark sweater rose from his wheelchair. I burst into tears and we hugged like in the movies. I sobbed into his chest. He chuckled and when we finally broke apart, his proud eyes were glassy. Then he joined in the applause. Later, the manager told me that he’d been there since the early morning, the first in line. Mittens, cocoa, blanket.

That is, without a doubt, the best moment of my life. [sorry Lily, sorry Thomas, sorry yet-to-be-named-clump-of-cells-in-my-tummy] Not even in birth did I experience such a flush of endorphins or serotonin or whatever it is that that does that.

But, and I think this is what this piece is all about, it is not my favorite moment with my grandfather. It is not really even in the top ten. It is not really much more than a good story. 

What I find myself dwelling on, are some simpler moments. To call them simpler moments is unjust. What I find myself dwelling on is something I’ve come to refer to as aggregated nostalgia. Not one moment, but a sensory mish mash of all the good times. A vibe, if you will. It was mostly the summers that I remember. My aunts and uncles and cousins. We all had rooms there. Most of the adults would spend their mornings on the patio with coffee and their days by the pond with gin. The cousins would swim and then we’d go into the woods. Grandpa would write in his study and come out for dinners. Grandma would cook mostly, but he’d throw on some finishing touches and he always made the dessert. And that was how it went until I was about ten. I’d had a creative writing project that Grandpa had gotten wind of, and suddenly I seemed to exist. He started giving me books to read, adult books, but my parents didn’t seem to mind. He’d quiz me on them, ask my opinions, and sometimes he’d give me assignments. A chapter on Holden in his forties. What if George hadn’t killed Lenny? What if Jay Gatsby was a woman?

And so I became less and less interested with frogs and birds and tag. A new world had opened to me. A world located in the wood paneled study that overlooked the pond. And that was the defining vibe. The far off cries and laughter drowned out by the soft creak of wood. Fall became my favorite because the whole house seemed to speak back to us. With my nose in a book on the bench by the door, I’d know without looking up if Grandpa read something he liked because he’d lean forward in his chair and I’d hear his pine floors whisper. In winter we’d get some wind whistling in. Everyone else skated but we threw logs on the fire and read and wrote.

Some days we didn’t speak, even at dinner. My Cousin Eddie always asked me what we talked about and sometimes all I could do was shrug. 

This is all to say that as clear to me as these beautiful moments were, I had not a second thought of them when I was living them. I’m in my late thirties now and I’m constantly observing the moment and questioning it and asking myself how good it is or isn’t. That seems like something gained, doesn’t it? This sense of observation. But I can’t help feel that I’ve lost something. That I’ll never quite get back to those moments in his study. I guess now I just hope that I can give my children and grandchildren a little bit of what my grandfather gave me. Maybe that’s what he hoped. But he never showed it. He was the real deal, wasn’t he?