A Tribute To Papa

The news couldn't possibly have come at a worse time for me.

It had already been a lousy couple of weeks. I was still nursing a broken heart over the loss of a certain woman, my living arrangement had deteriorated because of a major fiscal crisis, and my entire life seemed in limbo somehow, poised at the peak of a great precipice... to use a tired analogy. The way I saw it, I had one of two options--I could either get my shit together or I could give up entirely and drown my sorrows in vodka, leaving my life as nothing more than a giant, boozy mess of wasted abilities and unrealized potential. I had high hopes to achieve the former, but the latter seemed to be a far more likely scenario--so I guess I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. On the plus side, I couldn't see things getting much worse... unless, of course, FOX decided to cancel "Family Guy" again and air a reality show featuring William Hung in its place. (Shit, I hope I didn't give them any ideas.)

So, I decided to check my e-mail one night earlier this month, hoping to be cheered up by the rambling, often drunken letters sent to me by my Dean's Planet readers. Instead, I was greeted by something far more sobering and not at all cheerful--it was an e-mail from my Aunt Maryellen, and it brought bad news. My grandfather, it seemed, had slipped into a diabetic coma and couldn't be roused. He was already in frail health,  not only being diabetic but also having Parkinson's as well. He was rushed to the hospital, tests were run and the prognosis looked grim. An EEG test revealed that his brain had ceased functioning, but his 78 year old body remained alive, struggling for every breath. A few days later, he was gone. And none of us even got a chance to say good-bye.

John "Papa" Wright 1927-2005

Please understand, I don't expect anyone to care one way or the other about my grandfather dying. It's a fact of life... we all have grandparents, we all grow up with them and sooner or later, they all end up dying on us. I was no stranger to this sad reality myself, having lost both of my grandmothers within the space of a year. But this was different... much different. It hit me deeper than any loss I'd ever faced--and to top it all off, I had to go through it alone. I had no significant other to help me bear the brunt of it, and my friends and roommate sure as hell didn't want to hear about it, either. Telling them about my profound sadness and feelings of loss wouldn't have brought me any comfort--the ONLY thing it would have brought is an extremely uncomfortable moment between two grown men. Besides, it would have seemed kind of... well, kind of gay.

My grandfather, or "Papa" as we all called him, was an amazing guy. He lived with my grandma in a house that was only two miles from where I grew up, and it's truly been my home away from home for more than 30 years. He'd bought that house way back in 1959, not long after the subdivision had been built. My dad and aunt were raised in that house. Many of the neighbors moved in right around the same time, and most of the ones who are still alive reside there to this very day. The neighborhood has a definite "small town" sensibility that you rarely see anymore. It was the pinnacle of the suburban dream--everybody on the street knew everybody else. They'd seen it all, done it all, and they went through it together--everything from Vietnam to the Jacko trial. Their children all grew up together... and then, years later, their grandchildren did the same. Just days ago, I stood alone in my father's old bedroom, looking out the same window he had once looked out as a child. I looked out over the neighborhood which had played such a large part in my life and knew that an era had truly come to end. There was a "For Sale" sign on Papa's front lawn and the sight of it filled me with unbelievable sorrow. I had never even considered that the day would come that I would no longer be welcome in that house, that neighborhood. I wasn't just losing Papa, I was losing my extended family.

Papa wasn't a religious man, not by any stretch of the imagination. So there wasn't going to be any ministers or priests at his funeral. In fact, he didn't even want a funeral in the first place--he'd often said "When I go, I want to be cremated. Then I want everybody to throw a big party, a party that's so good that I'd want to be there. Put my ashes on the mantel, raise a glass and have a drink in my honor. Hell, have two... one for you and one for me."

I knew there was going to be a lot of discussion as to the right way to go about handling things. There were a lot of details to sort out. Papa's house had to be sold, his assets divided, his affairs settled... and inevitably, I'm sure there will be some disagreements on these things. But one thing we ALL agreed on was that we wanted to send him off in a manner that was consistent with the kind of guy that he was. No frills, no fuss and no tears.

I had been tapped to give Papa's eulogy during the service. I wanted to do it, but I wasn't sure I was the most qualified to do so. He'd had so many friends, some of them who'd known him for close to half a century. And God only knows how many kids he had. For many, many years, we all thought that my father Mick and my Aunt Maryellen were his only two children--but around 1991 or so, we found out that Papa had been involved in a brief marriage before he met my grandmother, a marriage which resulted in his daughter Diane. And then, just earlier this month, we found out about yet ANOTHER child that he'd sired, a boy whose name I don't even know. Well, what can I say? The man had a way with the ladies. I mean, it led the family to wonder just how many women he knocked up when he was stationed in Europe during World War II. It's anybody's guess, I suppose, because the man was a true stud in his younger days. So... I didn't exactly feel like I was the best person to try and honor his life through words. I was just one of seven grandchildren and many great-grandchildren. I was nothing special, just one tiny part of the grand legacy of the best man I'd ever known.

I could tell right away when I arrived at the funeral home that this was no ordinary funeral. Papa's beer drinking prowess was legendary , and I noticed that someone had placed a can of beer on top of his casket. Not a normal thing to do, I know, but Papa wasn't your average guy. There was also a framed picture of his battered old Suburban Sierra Classic, aptly nicknamed "Old Blue." Papa had taught me how to drive using Old Blue--not to mention my brother and my three cousins as well. That Suburban had logged thousands upon thousands of miles, especially during the summer when Papa would take all of us kids on wonderful camping trips throughout the state of Michigan. A wreath of flowers was on display next to the casket, adorned with a sash that read simply, "Papa." Seeing that sash just about tore my heart out. But it wasn't as heart-wrenching as the sight of Papa himself--his lifeless body looked frail, feeble, thin... and old. It looked nothing like the man I remembered, a man who was robust, handsome and so full of life. There had been something so timeless about him, and I instantly compared the old man in the casket with my personal memories of Papa... I could see him so vividly in my head, standing there with his white T-shirt, cutoff shorts and the ever present can of beer in his right hand. I remembered his smile, his infectious laugh and his friendly old eyes, which I knew would never open again. A huge lump came to my throat, and I remember wondering if I was strong enough to get through the service without completely losing it.

JTL (left) and his brother Kevin, circa 1982.

Fortunately, I was among friends. The whole neighborhood had turned out for Papa's funeral, and seeing them all there made me feel a lot better. Chuck, who had been Papa's best friend, was standing near the front with his wife Pat. Chuck had always been his drinking buddy and partner in crime, and the two of them used to sit on Papa's porch and hang out since long before I was born. Chuck and his family also used to come along on the summer camping trips, so I knew him very well. When I looked at Chuck, a lot of great memories came to my mind--I remembered how he and Papa used to throw huge block parties, and everyone on the street would tap a keg of beer, listen to oldies and get tanked. I remembered them coming back from games of golf and horseshoes, in which they always played on opposing teams. I could see him and Papa sitting in their lawn chairs at the beach, drinking beer and having fun while Chuck discreetly recorded shots of hot women in bikinis with his camcorder. They were such dirty old men, those two guys. But I mean that as a compliment. They'd matured into men and raised their families together in a friendship that had lasted 46 years. Everybody should be lucky enough to have friends like that.

Papa's friend Ralph was there, too. Ralph (who was nicknamed "Rotten Ralph") was a little younger than Papa and Chuck, and I always got the feeling they had somewhat corrupted him. Ralph was the guy always saying "I should be getting home," while Papa and Chuck were the ones telling him "Aw come on, Ralph, you can have ONE MORE beer..." And when I was 9 years old, Ralph's 16 year old daughter Lori was my ideal image of womanhood. (Along with Princess Leia, of course.) She was a knockout, the kind of girl Papa used to refer to as a "Wow-wow." When you asked him what a Wow-wow was, he'd say;

"A Wow-wow is the kind of gal that, when she walks by, makes you say 'Wow!' And then, the guy behind you says 'Wow!'" Hence, the term "Wow-wow."

Lori is married with children now, and not too far off from 40. But God help me, the woman is still a looker--and when I saw her again after all these years, her effect on me was exactly the same as it had always been. In other words, I instantly turned into that stuttering 9 year old that once worshipped the ground she walked on. Some things never change.

There were many others as well. Wally, the hard drinking Polish guy... Lois McCallister, who lived a few doors down and used to go square dancing with Papa and Chuck... Linda, who had grown up next door to Papa and had known my dad since they were both kids... Alice from across the street... the Camillos... the list went on and on.

Papa's service was scheduled to start at 3:30pm, and right on time, everyone started settling into their seats. I had been under the impression that The American Legion (which Papa had been a member of), was going to do a ceremony of some kind. As it turned out, that wasn't exactly true. They were going to present an American flag to my father on Papa's behalf--but that was the extent of it, and it ended up taking all of three minutes. The ONLY other part of the service was to be my eulogy. Had I known that beforehand, I'm sure I would have taken more time to prepare. As it was, I wasn't sure I was up to the task.

After a brief introduction from my uncle, I took my place behind the podium and looked out over the crowd. I stood silent for a good five seconds, without having the slightest idea of what I should say. This was a new experience for me, because I'm usually never at a loss for words and I'd been getting up in front of crowds since I was in grade school. But the significance of what I was about to do was weighing heavily upon me, and I wanted to do it right. Still, how do you sum up a great man's life in a few short minutes? How could I possibly do justice to someone who had been so important to me, especially in front of all the people that loved him like I did?

I glanced over at Papa, lying still in his casket just a few feet behind me. I started thinking about everything he'd done for me over the years... not just the big things, but the little ones as well. I thought of all those times my brother and I had ridden our bikes to his house to see him, knowing he'd have a refrigerator full of cold Cokes for us when we got there. Papa hardly ever drank it himself, he always kept it around because we liked it. This was back in the days before the Feds taxed the death out of alcohol, so Papa used to say "This pop is too expensive... we need to get you kids drinking beer." I thought about all those times he'd taken us out to dinner and told us to order anything we wanted. I thought about the time we were camping and I broke the pedal on my bike... and not wanting to be left behind by the other kids, I started crying and acting like a spoiled brat. Instead of giving me a backhand across the face (which is probably what I deserved), he IMMEDIATELY bought me a new set of pedals so I could ride with the other boys. I thought about the time that he'd bought a new car and just gave me his old one--even though he could have sold it and probably gotten a thousand dollars for it. But he knew I needed a car, so he gave it up without a second thought. (That's just the kind of person he was.) I thought about all the birthdays that he'd sent me a card with a ten dollar bill inside. I thought about all the school plays he'd come to see me in, always sitting up near the front, always laughing and cheering me on. I thought about all of the time he'd spent with me, freely passing on his experience, his wisdom and his extraordinary sense of humor. Papa was quite possibly the funniest person I've ever known, and he literally knew thousands of jokes that ran the gamut from mildly off-color to downright raunchy. Once he got started telling jokes, he could go all night. It was like putting quarters into a jukebox--only instead of quarters, you'd give him beer. And instead of songs, you'd get jokes like;

"So, this guy walks into a barber shop and asks 'Bob Peters here?' And the barber says 'No, we just cut hair.'"

I remembered being a little boy and sitting with Papa in his basement, listening to old Bill Cosby records on the turntable until I had the routines memorized. And up until the end of his life, he used to ask me to perform the routines for him. "But Papa," I used to say "We can just listen to the record." And he'd say "I like hearing YOU do it better." Papa taught me how to be funny, because he was so funny himself. To this day, people tell me that my mannerisms, my speech patterns and my own personal sense of humor remind them of Papa. I take that as a very high compliment.

Papa, a couple of weeks before his death.