I HATE obituaries. And not for the obvious connotation; they signify death, but the structure of them: they are poorly written ramblings of grief filled individuals who can barely spell check a statement before submitting a culmination thereof to a local publication. To anyone who has ever cared about the beauty of the written word, obituaries are the bane of its waning existence (a poetic irony in and of itself). Obituaries are succinct statements designed to summarize ones entire existence in a brief column; they downplay the impact of the mortal existence while simultaneously attempting to over exaggerate it.
I read my grandfather's obituary today. It chronicled his life in subtle grandeur: his upbringing on the family farm, his time in the armed services, his work at a technology company, the synchronicity of the latter with his time as a father, grandfather, and great grandfather and active civic member of the only community he ever knew.
The obituary summed up the basics of his life in the way it should have. What it didn't state was how blue his eyes were, or how he used to say, "well ain't that something?" when he was interested in anything I told him about my life, or how he always liked the way my mom made scrambled eggs best, for some reason. It didn't delve into the details of how he bought a red pickup truck after my grandmother, his wife of 50 years, died, because he had always wanted a truck but knew my grandmother wouldn't stand to ride in one. The obituary didn't state how, for 50 years, he never took his wedding band off, and when he had to have wrist surgery, the doctors had to saw it off because it had become as much a part of him as his late wife had. The obituary didn't talk about how he kept calling my little dog "Chesapeake" instead of "Chestnut" when he met him, even though he loved how he would jump in his lap and sit with him for hours. It didn't talk about how he kept a handwritten list of all of his kids' and grandchildrens' (and great granchildrens') birthdays on the refrigerator, because he mixed up dates innocently. The obituary didn't state the unwavering and unconditional love he had for his family, regardless of all the imperfections.
Obituaries sum up the surface level of one's life. To someone who had never met my grandfather, from this brief newspaper segment, they could know him from his civic duty and his surviving family. They won't know him from his laugh or his smile.
There's an irony in accomplishment. We all strive to succeed to the level of making a mark and leaving something to be remembered by. Everyone works so hard to have their name embedded in something great. I live in a city full of ambitious people who feel their careers are the "great" things they were destined to do, casting aside personal relationships for the plight of true accomplishment.
At the end of the day, many people can remember my grandfather for the money he saved tax payers while he was mayor, but few people can remember his handwriting on the cards he would send for Christmas. Honestly, I think he would consider the memory of the latter a greater accomplishment.
In his last days, he told me and my siblings, "I want you to remember me with a big smile on my face, not like this, ok?" while he lay in his hospice bed, bundled in blankets and hooked up to oxygen.
And I will. Because that's what he wanted.
It's so funny. I'm a little angry at myself, in a way. I've spent so many years running away from and living in fear of a life I deemed too "normal" to be meaningful. I've ended relationships and run away from loved ones in my plight for doing "great things." But I look at the obituary of my grandfather, who did indeed accomplish so much in the eyes of the bystander, and I wonder if I've had it all wrong this entire time. Before I left my grandparent's house after visiting him in hospice, I knew it was the last time I would see my grandfather alive. I took a look around the kitchen of the house, the house he built and raised a family in. This is a family who fought and managed to hate each other and love each other at the same time. I took the house in one last time, and I thought about the families who had memories there. And then I started to realize, all of these things I've been running from because they seemed too little to be an accomplishment, because I was searching for "great" things; falling in love, having a family, being happy...maybe those are the great things.
I read my grandfather's obituary today. It chronicled his life in subtle grandeur: his upbringing on the family farm, his time in the armed services, his work at a technology company, the synchronicity of the latter with his time as a father, grandfather, and great grandfather and active civic member of the only community he ever knew.
The obituary summed up the basics of his life in the way it should have. What it didn't state was how blue his eyes were, or how he used to say, "well ain't that something?" when he was interested in anything I told him about my life, or how he always liked the way my mom made scrambled eggs best, for some reason. It didn't delve into the details of how he bought a red pickup truck after my grandmother, his wife of 50 years, died, because he had always wanted a truck but knew my grandmother wouldn't stand to ride in one. The obituary didn't state how, for 50 years, he never took his wedding band off, and when he had to have wrist surgery, the doctors had to saw it off because it had become as much a part of him as his late wife had. The obituary didn't talk about how he kept calling my little dog "Chesapeake" instead of "Chestnut" when he met him, even though he loved how he would jump in his lap and sit with him for hours. It didn't talk about how he kept a handwritten list of all of his kids' and grandchildrens' (and great granchildrens') birthdays on the refrigerator, because he mixed up dates innocently. The obituary didn't state the unwavering and unconditional love he had for his family, regardless of all the imperfections.
Obituaries sum up the surface level of one's life. To someone who had never met my grandfather, from this brief newspaper segment, they could know him from his civic duty and his surviving family. They won't know him from his laugh or his smile.
There's an irony in accomplishment. We all strive to succeed to the level of making a mark and leaving something to be remembered by. Everyone works so hard to have their name embedded in something great. I live in a city full of ambitious people who feel their careers are the "great" things they were destined to do, casting aside personal relationships for the plight of true accomplishment.
At the end of the day, many people can remember my grandfather for the money he saved tax payers while he was mayor, but few people can remember his handwriting on the cards he would send for Christmas. Honestly, I think he would consider the memory of the latter a greater accomplishment.
In his last days, he told me and my siblings, "I want you to remember me with a big smile on my face, not like this, ok?" while he lay in his hospice bed, bundled in blankets and hooked up to oxygen.
And I will. Because that's what he wanted.
It's so funny. I'm a little angry at myself, in a way. I've spent so many years running away from and living in fear of a life I deemed too "normal" to be meaningful. I've ended relationships and run away from loved ones in my plight for doing "great things." But I look at the obituary of my grandfather, who did indeed accomplish so much in the eyes of the bystander, and I wonder if I've had it all wrong this entire time. Before I left my grandparent's house after visiting him in hospice, I knew it was the last time I would see my grandfather alive. I took a look around the kitchen of the house, the house he built and raised a family in. This is a family who fought and managed to hate each other and love each other at the same time. I took the house in one last time, and I thought about the families who had memories there. And then I started to realize, all of these things I've been running from because they seemed too little to be an accomplishment, because I was searching for "great" things; falling in love, having a family, being happy...maybe those are the great things.
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