Bop

Today Felix turned 5 months old, and today I lost my Bop.

I wrote that sentence and I paused for about 30 seconds, not quite sure where to go from there.
Pause again.

My Bop was a great man.  A man with personality and presence.  I have lots of fond memories of him as a child, mostly up at their Wisconsin cabin telling bear hunt stories in the old red chair in cabin 2, and playing a silly close eyed owl game that I still play with my own children. And visiting them at their home in Winnetka.  Every single time you pull out of that driveway Bopper was there to direct you.  He was the first one to offer you a drink at cocktail hour and taught me that holding your pinky up while you sip is not a lost art.  Oh, and don't even think about wearing a hat to the dinner table or using your fingers to get food on your fork.  Don't, even, think about it.

This is not to say that Bop was without his faults, just like the rest of us.  He was an opinionated man, a stubborn man.  He was hard on waiters and all around a bit intimidating.  But man, he could build the most beautiful furniture with just his hands and the tools in his workshop, was always fixing something in his flannels, and one summer helped all of his grandchildren (all 11) make beautiful walking sticks from branches we found in the north woods.

The summer before my freshman year of high school he took me on a trip, just us two.  It was a new tradition he'd started with my older sister, and continued with my other sisters and four more cousins until his age caught up with him.
He took me to Williamsburg VA.

I remember packing my bags for my trip.  Full on in that pre-madonna pubescent stage of girlhood I packed a different outfit for every night, and two separate ones for each day.  I believe that I and a whole separate bag just for shoes too.  Bop made fun of me for that, relentlessly.  But every night he'd squeeze my hand with his strong bony ones and say "you look nice kiddo".

The first night of our trip I called my mom crying.  Bop and I had gone to an authentic colonial tavern for dinner and all they'd had on the menu was a half of a chicken or roast beef.  Full on pre-madonna Becky didn't eat meat like that.  And Bop had scolded a young waiter for bringing him the wrong type of glass for his cocktail.  I felt scared and small and worried about connecting with this great man on our week trip.

But then?  Magic happened.  We strolled along the streets of colonial Williamsburg, visiting plantations and the Jamestown dig.  We watched demonstrations and reenactments and took tours.  We ate delicious food, swam in fancy pools and ate breakfast the moment our feet hit the floor.  Just as Bop liked.  We connected over our love for the past, a simpler harder time.  I got him, and he got me and we had an absolute blast.

He and I kept reliving that trip over the years to come.  For Christmas one year I made him a scrapbook of our trip.  Another year I painted a small picture of The Slave Quarters an adorable cottage that Bop and I stayed in.  We talked about that trip every time I saw him until he couldn't' remember it anymore.  That was about 5 years ago.

It's been hard to watch my grandpa decline.  First they thought Alzheimer's, then no, dementia and aphasia.  He lost words and memory, but not the spark and ability to communicate.  We've all known that this was coming.  That doesn't mean it's not still hard and sad.

The last time I saw Bop was up at their cabin this summer.  I wasn't supposed to go, there hasn't been enough time in the summer to get up there with all the kids.  Then Ian's plans changed last minute and a stopover on our way home from our family cabin seemed like just the thing.

I hadn't been up there in 4 years, not since Ainsley was 6 months old.  It was a hard trip with all the kids on my own, but I'm so glad I went.  Mostly because I got to see Bop in his favorite place in the world, one more time.

Though I'm not going to remember Bop the way he was this past time.  I remember his full face and thick white hair, broad chest and strong nimble hands.  I remember his smell.  Like wool and flannel and sawdust and pine needles, sometimes a bit of pipe tobacco or scotch thrown in there.

That's the beauty of the end of a life, to me.  You get to remember all the bests, the most perfect version of the person you lost.  Though he's not lost, we know right where he is.  I am sad, yes,  but I know he's not in pain anymore, not confused or frustrated or weak or tired.  He is whole.  And I will see him again some day.

I love you Bop.  I am so thankful for the time I've had with you.