Eulogy

My grandfather's hands were steady enough to pop a cyst on an infant's eyelid with a needle. With those hands, he built a surgical practice from scratch through will power, hard work, and brilliance, the brilliance that let him be first in his class in medical school. He was a kendo master and a clever linguist with a dry wit. He made people laugh, and he made them afraid. He had a deep voice and a fierce temper: his children did not sit down at the table until he had first been seated and served.

His philosophy on children and child-rearing was that children benefited from doing without. Then they could withstand whatever deprivations life threw at them later on. Or, if they were fortunate and life gave instead of withholding, they would appreciate all the more what they were given. As a child, my father rarely had a new pair of shoes. When the old ones wore out, he would patch the soles with whatever he could.

My grandfather's philosophy on grandchildren was similar. For the most part, he took no notice of them. Except for me. One of my earliest memories is of being carried on his shoulder. I would sit perched on one shoulder and he would march around town with my legs dangling on his chest. At home, he would carry me this way over to the big freezer that sat outside. In this freezer he kept Andes mints. To this day, Andes mints are still my favorites. Even after his stroke, when he sometimes didn't remember people's names, he never forgot mine.

The force of his personality was such that other people paled in comparison. He was always the most substantial presence in a room. He made a heavy imprint on people's lives. On his first wife, who died young. On his second wife, my grandmother, who suffered in silence for long years. On his life-long mistress, who bore him ten children. And on his children, whose lives continue to be shaped by his actions.

I loved him, but I didn't know him. The only real memory I have of him involves those chocolates, and the heavy watch he always wore, and the cane he carried until his stroke made him unable to walk. I wish I had known him better. I mourn for the stories I will never hear. I mourn.