My Eng 319 Blog

Memoir Final Draft

Audra Doutrich

Dr. S. Allen

Eng 319

November 20, 2008

WC: 1521

My Grandfather

            I am twelve-years-old. I'm riding on the back of a golf cart facing backwards, while my grandfather drives and my fifteen-year-old brother rides shotgun with two fishing poles tightly grasped in his right hand. We're on our way to a small lake that sits close by the trailer my grandparents own. Although my grandparents live in a small town called Niles in Ohio, their trailer is in Pennsylvania close to the state border. My brother and I have spent many summer days at the trailer with my grandparents, but today is different. Today, my grandfather is taking my brother and me to go fishing - I love fishing. The air is thick with humidity as we follow the narrow path through the woods in search of the lake my grandfather claims is full of fish. I'm anxious. We take a slight turn, and then there it is.

            The lake is calm, and everything is quiet. I can tell that it's going to be perfect for fishing. The three of us quickly run up to a small wooden dock suffering from age and set down our supplies, two fishing poles and a loaf of bread (we don't use worms). Both my brother and I excitedly pick up a fishing pole and cast out our lines to the middle of the lake. An hour later, my excitement has died down. I have not caught any fish, and neither has my brother. Due to our lack of success my grandfather turns to my brother and asks for his fishing pole. He's going to catch a fish. I know it. My brother hands the fishing pole to my grandfather: a man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, dark tan skin, a mustache of Mario, and a big round belly - a true Italian. As my grandfather takes the fishing pole from my brother's hands I keep my eyes on my own line, hoping desperately something will bite. Nothing does.

            When I turn to see how my grandfather is doing, I am greeted by a humorous scene. Sometime between him asking my brother to hand him the fishing pole and him trying to cast out the line, my grandfather had gotten the fishing wire tangled completely around him. I watch my grandfather struggle to get free, and while the sight of the old man trying so desperately to free himself is somewhat pitiful, it brings a smile to my face. My brother, who hadn't noticed what my grandfather was doing either, turns and to my delight blurts out a "What the...?" My grandfather asks my brother to help him, but after one attempt to detangle the fishing line, with a puzzled look on his face my brother tells my grandfather that he can't figure it out. I burst out laughing. I can't help myself. I laugh so hard that warm tears come streaming from my eyes.

            Now when I think of my grandfather my eyes still swell up with tears. The only difference is that today they are no longer joyous tears made up of happy childhood memories. Instead, these tears are tears of sadness and disappointment. Not disappointment in my grandfather, but rather disappointment in how things have turned out, disappointment in God for letting things happen the way they have. My grandfather once was the man in my memories, a man as jolly and as round as Santa Claus; however, in recent years my grandfather has essentially deteriorated. His friendly round frame has become a skeleton with wrinkled, weathered skin drooping off of it. And while my grandfather once stood tall and proud, he now bends over hunch-backed from lack of strength, barely able to stand more than a few minutes. His eyes that used to sparkle have become dwindling flames and his laugh that used to be loud and vivacious has become no more than a deathly cough.

 Trips to go see my grandparents have become more frequent as well as more painful. Just looking at my grandfather has become a challenge, the challenge of not bursting into tears in front of my entire family. I don't know why, but I would prefer that my family doesn't know how hard this is on me. I want to be strong for my mother because I know this must be killing her, I know that she must be torn apart on the inside, and I know she's sad that her father is dying. I know because when we have to leave to come back to Colorado my mother cries as she hugs my grandfather goodbye. She cries because we all know this may be the last time any of us see him. When I hug my grandfather goodbye I hold back my tears, even though I want to cry. I want to cry and cry and cry. But if I let go and let my emotions take over, then I am admitting to the world that my grandfather is dying. I do not want to admit this. I cannot admit this. I know that my grandfather is sick, and I can admit that. But that is it. I can admit that he is sick because sick people can be nursed back to health. He'll get better. He has to. He has to because he needs to be there for me. I want him to be at my wedding. He needs to come see me get married, he's already missed out on too much.  

I am seventeen-years-old. I am sitting at a large round table with my mother, my grandparents on my father's side, and my grandmother on my mother's side. I was nominated as a finalist for a scholarship, and so we're all at a banquet anxiously awaiting the announcement of the winner. The scholarship is through an organization called the Sons of Italy and is granted to young people with Italian heritage. It is the day after my high school graduation and the day before my eighteenth birthday. My grandfather is not here, and will not be here. He is too sick to travel.

Before they announce the winner, they have someone from each nominee's family come up and speak about them. My mother's kind and gracious words about me make me cry. The tears run down my cheeks as my mother explains to the crowd my past achievements and my future goals and ambitions. I am embarrassed. I don't like crying in front of people, let alone people I don't know. Soon enough I hear my name announced as the winner of the scholarship. As the crowd applauds, I go up on stage to receive my award. I shake the hand of the president and thank him, but out of shyness I decline the offer to say a few words. I do not want to say anything.

Finally, after pictures have been taken, congratulations have been said, and handshakes have been exchanged, it is time to go home. On the car ride back my grandparents all tell me how proud they are of me and what a great achievement this scholarship is. While I am grateful and happy that I won the award, I'm disappointed my grandfather couldn't be there.

The fact that my grandfather, who to me embodies every aspect of being Italian, was not able to be there made the moment bittersweet. It didn't mean as much to me as it should have because the person I wanted to be there the most, wasn't. It saddens me that today my grandfather no longer can make it to important events in my life and that most likely, in the near future, won't even be around to hear about them. With each absence his situation becomes more and more real, and the fact that he is dying becomes more and more solidified.

My grandfather is constantly on my mind and constantly in my prayers, but I do not talk about it. I do not tell my family, and I do not tell my friends. I don't want them to worry about me, especially my mother. I want to be strong for her so that she doesn't have to worry about both me and my grandfather. While I pretend to be strong and unaffected on the outside, I am crumbling on the inside. Occasionally I lock myself in my room and cry out all the tears that I have held back while in front of my family. I lie on my bed and soak my pillowcase with mascara stains. I lie there until there is no emotion left in me, until there are no more tears to cry, and until all the thoughts of my dying grandfather have escaped me. In this dysfunctional way, I burry my vulnerability and lock up my depression. I'm dreading the moment when I no longer can be strong enough to withhold my emotions, the moment when it will all come flooding out. I dread the moment when my mother has to hold me and be my stability, when really I should be hers.