Note to gpa

That’s how the entry read on my PDA to-do list today.

It’s short hand for “Send a card to Grandpa.” And it's been on my list for a couple of weeks.

Sadly, the window of time has closed on that action item.

Grandpa died yesterday.

I regret I didn’t send him that note. Was going to include the latest picture of our kids. Maybe have them write a heartfelt, hand-scrawled expression of their love, too.

Woulda. shoulda, coulda. As with most passings, the living are left holding regrets like this. “If only I’d . . ." seems to dominate the ethos of those who grieve.

Remarkably, I can easily extricate myself today from this feeling– usually located somewhere between self-pity and self-loathing. My guilt isn’t as heavy, as it's simply no match for the sense of joy that comes with reflecting on a life so well lived.

We last saw Grandpa in September. He was 98. And he looked dapper in his woven suspenders as he waited for us in the lobby of his nursing home.

“Heyyyyyyy” he exclaimed gravelly as the four of us walked through the open sliding glass door. (This particular greeting was a Grandpa signature.)

My son shook his great-grandfather’s hand. My daughter gave him a gentle hug around his bent legs; he marveled at her strawberry blonde hair. This was the first time he’d met our then four-year-old, Chloe.

We enjoyed dinner with him in the dining hall, then returned to his room to visit. There we sat comfortably, chatting the time away. With some prompting, he’d regale us with stories about the boys (my dad being one of his three) and about life in California back in the 1930s and 40s. All I wanted to do was to listen, to absorb him. I was quite cognizant that this was a moment in time.

Yet moments pass. And as our time on this evening with Grandpa was nearing an end, we snapped some pictures to capture this wonderful, multi-generational occasion.

My favorite is the one posted here. I took it. But I forgot to take the self-timer off. So as I tried to hold the camera and the kids’ poses steady while the 15-second-timer ticked away, both the kids – and Grandpa – began laughing infectiously at my mistake. It was a total smile.

I cherish this image of our kids with their great-grandfather. And while we’ll never forget the time we spent together on this Monday night, we knew that, someday, these images would have to substitute for time spent with this true gentle man, this “radiant soul”.

And so it is that this must substitute for my Note to gpa.

"A Radiant Soul"

While jogging down Grand Avenue in Milwaukee last night, I ran past a historic, beautiful old church. Formerly the Grand Avenue Congregational Church, the building today serves as The Irish Cultural and Heritage Center.

Which would explain the music and hearty applause coming from its halls Thursday. Curious, I dropped in to discover what turned out to be an annual bagpipe and drums festival.

While I stood in the musty, narrow foyer listening to the spirited music, my wandering eyes met a large plaque on the wall. It was a memorial to someone. His name wasn't familiar to me. Looked like he was a minister deeply involved in the establishment and growth of this church decades ago.

As I perfunctorily read the plaque, I was struck by this description of the man:

“He was an inspiring, radiant soul.”

With these few words, I longed to know him.

Even as I walked away from the festival, that profound, poetic description lingered in my mind, overshadowing any onstage performance I'd witnessed.

I wondered what this man did to exhibit a radiant soul. Who did he inspire? How did he and his “radiant soul” impact the people who knew him? I thought of those who were fortunate enough to have been in the presence of his “radiant soul” – and how richer they must have been for it.

What a tremendous legacy to leave.

It’s a legacy that now extends to a middle-aged business traveler/erratic jogger from Dallas. And it will soon reach my children, who will hear of a remarkable, joy-filled way to live and be regarded.

May we all be remembered in such a way.

Why I Am Not A Mason

Yesterday, a co-worker posed the question:
“What would you do if you weren’t in advertising?”

I couldn’t come up with anything positive, so I offered this spin.

“I wouldn’t be a stonemason.”

That answer was based on my most recent “home improvement” effort, pictured here. (To be fair, this project is closer to the alley than the home.)

Based on the comically glacial progress of this deconstruction project, you could also eliminate any profession related to stones, building, demolition, or bricks. While we’re at it, let’s also cross off the list jobs having to do with project management, resource allocation, or multiplication.

A little background on my project. Apparently, back in the halcyon days of non-rolling, metal trash cans, homebuilders were flush with cement, bricks and a utopian vision for well-organized alleys. So they built an aesthetically pleasing place for the homeowner to house his unsightly trash can.

Sure, this square of bricks was fine for the static, late 20th century trash receptacle.

But these myopic homebuilders didn’t foresee the mobile technology that would revolutionize home sanitation services.

Because the arrival of the wheeled trashcan rendered the unramped trash square irrelevant. The thousands of vacant trash squares dotting our fair city bear witness to this trash-edy.

It was one spring day that I gazed upon our own discolored empty trash square with a disdain like never before. Its mere presence mocked me. That yawning, empty space . . . those walls that shielded nothing . . . why, it hasn't played host to a trash can since the '90s. The clarity came swiftly.

Destroy the trash square. Tear down these walls!

A few whacks of the sledgehammer into it and the project was officially underway.

That’s when my wife spotted me. Shrouded in a cloud of dust, striking my signature “Sledgehammer” pose. I was a heroic symbol of spontaneity and industry.

Of course, that’s not exactly how she saw me.

“What are you doing?”

“Knocking this thing down. It has to go."

“What are you planning to do with those bricks?”

[LONG PAUSE]

“Well, I mean, there aren’t that many. I’ll just put ‘em out for big trash.”

“And how are you going to get them out there.”

“Andrew’s wagon. It’s perfect.”

Hearing that, she spun to return from whence she came, leaving me to my destructive folly.

As the sun set, what remained of the trash square resembled London during the Blitz, the center of the square filled with brick shrapnel. For weeks the ruins stood, undoubtedly fueling the head-shaking chagrin of our second-guessing neighbors who viewed the devastation daily as they drove down the alley. Monday morning quarterbacks, all!

How could I possibly know how many bricks were involved in the creation and subsequent destruction of the trash square?

Last Saturday (that is, ahem, two months later), I knocked down the rest of the bricks. There's a pile of them in our pool yard. Big trash is coming this week. And Andrew’s wagon is getting pretty scratched up.

Alas, my vision for the open-spaced, border-free, wheelcan friendly trash zone is nearly complete.

Now that I think of it, I'd probably go into urban planning.