Dear Reader,

Before I recount this tale, I must confess to you that this of a story of perhaps the weakest time in my life, and perhaps one of my least fond memories. I demand from you the utmost respect, as I do not share this memory lightly. This is the story of the final years of Joseph: A World War II veteran, a father, a respectable man, a sign-hanger, a grandfather, a friend.

A man of greater value I’ve yet to meet, and probably will never meet. Joseph was a jolly, kind soul, but he was not a pacifist in any way, nor was he weak. I often remember a story my father told me, about when he had been in a fender bender. He’d spent all day trying to straighten out his bumper, and then Joseph came home. My dad explained the situation, and in one move, my Grandfather bent the steel beam back into place.
But, this is not a story about the physical strength of the greatest man I’ve ever known; this is about how I knew him.

The earliest memories ,that come to mind were back when I was a toddler. Perhaps two or three years of age. I lived in Port Chester, New York at the time. It was and is still a quaint little village of mostly Hispanic populace on the border of Connecticut, and it has a harbor that runs under the I-95 out into the Long Island Sound. The Town also homes Port Chester High School, famous for its tower and marching band; but that is another story.

As I was saying...up until recently, my grandparents, Joseph and Ann, lived in a sunny little house- like you would expect grandparents to live in -on the corner of Maple Place and Haseco Avenue, house number 33, postal code 10573. It was a small, suburban, two-story house with a separated garage, a dingy basement with peeling walls (you could see the sheet-rock), a mighty Oak in a small backyard, and a number of tomato plants growing in the driveway. My Garden of Eden during my childhood. I don’t believe I spent as much time anywhere else as I did in their home.
I would always come home from preschool to Grandma and Grandpa’s house; unlike my brother or sister who weren’t born yet, but would eventually go to school down the ol’ I-87, my preschool was in town, and on Haseco Avenue. So, as you might imagine, this worked out well for my parents, who’d only been married for roughly two years and had little to their names. Grandma and Grandpa, as well as my Aunt Ann (my father’s sister), took much enjoyment in helping me grow- each day was an adventure in itself. There was often a game to play, or a movie to watch, or a book to read, or a classic Windows 95 game to toy around with in the attic, or a cat to play with. I could probably fill a page and a half with things to do at this house, single spaced and size 7 font, and I would still have more to say.

Thinking back, I remember my grandfather had a certain fondness for birds and bird-watching, as well as a fondness for chess. His favorite bird was the black-breasted Chickadee, a common enough bird. I most definitely remember was his love for chess and checkers. I don’t think you could call it an obsession, but it was certainly a hobby- a hobby he passed on to me. Unfortunately, with the uprising of video games, I was too blinded by the obliviousness of childhood to fall in love with chess; but we played once in a blue moon. It actually turned out I wasn’t half bad at it; I beat him a few times, but his skill was far superior to mine, and I believe that more often than not, he let me win.
I joined the Cub Scouts. It was always great fun, and we’d take camping trips a few times a year. One of my favorites, though, was visiting the U.S.S. Massachusetts Battleship, and sleeping over on it. As interesting as this already sounds, this is not the only reason I enjoyed this trip; my grandfather was often in attendance as a guest with me and my father, and he was as enthusiastic as I was. When I wanted to explore the submarine also moored with the battleship, I ended up getting my grandfather to go. As sweet as this might sound, it was also problematic- as my grandfather didn’t quite fit through the doorways, not to mention they were off the ground. I didn’t find out until I had gone through the museum submarine twice, but my Grandfather actually got stuck in a hatch! Supposedly, both he and my father were stuck there for a short while trying to free him, before they turned around and let me off to enjoy myself (which I did).
Unfortunately, all things must come to an end. Joseph was at the peak of his 80s and he was a diabetic, not to mention he had open heart surgery after a heart attack before I was born. And over the last three years of his life, his health rapidly deteriorated. At first, as 10-year-old boy, I was still stupid. Or, perhaps, I was tricking myself into not seeing it, but he was certainly getting weaker and he began to walk a cane.
I remember how often I would grab the cane when he was sitting down and pretend I was a soldier with a rifle in front of him; pacing and marching back and forth. Everything was okay. Then, when I was about twelve, my now-stepdad and mom began openly dating, and my stepdad showed me the wonders of online gaming, right about when my grandfather was admitted to a local nursing home. I still was oblivious to being worried, and I would go visit Joseph almost once or twice a week with my aunt. While the nursing home itself was nice, I think it must’ve been hell for grandpa. Jello cups filled with apple juice, needing help to take a piss, the constant needles in your arms...the whole package. His legs were also in poor health because of poor circulation, due to his heart problems. I remember getting the “honor” of watch a nurse press into his discolored calfs, and watching the watery puss ooze out. But, grandpa always kept smiling...I think he didn’t want to let us down.

And then…came the hospital. I don’t remember much about the first time, save the fact that he was eventually sent back to the nursing home...and then to the hospital again. This time I got to see him, and honestly? I wish I hadn’t. I was in 8th grade now, and the date was April 7th, 2011; a Monday; I was 13; two months and two days from being 14. The man was a ghost of his former self; he was barely conscious, the few strands of snow-hair on his head, accompanied by scabs, lay across his scalp in a disorderly fashion. I think my aunt was in denial as I watched her arrange the personal effects that we’d brought the nursing home. To be fair, I was in denial too. I refused to believe Joseph could die! The man was immortal...oh how I wish...that night, as we left the fairly large room, we told grandpa that we were leaving, and, eyes closed, he said “You do what you want...” in an almost whining voice. I was somewhat concerned.

Joseph passed away at 1:30 AM on the morning of April 11th, 2011; Thursday; a week before his 89th Birthday. About five hours later I woke to find my mother in tears, with myself to follow 30 seconds later. Somehow, I had known before my mother had even delivered the news...but I was in denial. Grandpa wasn’t dead...Grandpa can’t be dead. I attended the wake, and stood with his sons (my dad and uncles), shaking hands for hours with hundreds of people I’d never met, including friends, distant family, the Mayor of Port Chester at the time...the turnout was amazing.

In his life, Joseph touched many people, thousands of lives; including mine. I hate myself for being unable to go to the cemetary, and I refused to bring myself to visit it for almost a year. Grandpa was buried on a hill overlooking a freshly paved road, a small creek, and a thin tree-line that cut off several suburban houses. His gravestone wouldn’t be unveiled until mid-2013. And I will never be able to stand on the hill there until ever.