Ode to Grandpa

As far back as I can remember, I have known and loved the French National Anthem. It was my Grandpa’s favorite song—quite a statement, considering his incessant humming and singing. His music-making presence filled up my house for years. The influence he had on me can hardly be measured in a few hundred words.
After serving in World War II, Grandpa became a chef, and his passion for all things culinary was contagious. Every time he visited, we baked oatmeal bread and proper New York-style pizza. Although he did teach me to love baking, it was those hours spent one-on-one with him that truly held the appeal.
The impact Grandpa had on me was much more significant than his sharing of hobbies. He taught me a multitude of life lessons, simply by example. Everyone he ever encountered, he treated like a friend. Consequently, he was always surrounded by people who loved him, even if only the cashier at Wal-mart that he met and talked with for five minutes.
He showed me the secret of happiness: being content. Grandpa’s thought and feelings were simple. He was always satisfied with his life. He lived as though he could not imagine a better place to be, and he hugged the people he loved as though there was nothing more important. He always looked for things to be cheerful about. And during his long battle against Alzheimer’s, that lesson was the one I needed most.
I was twelve when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and the five years that followed grew progressively more difficult. He forgot more and more first his recipes and the lyrics to his favorite oldies, then his family. There was so much to grieve about, but I didn’t because he had taught me to search for the silver lining. He believed in dwelling on the best of any situation, and especially looking for the humor. When he wasted away to skin and bones, instead of being worried, I laughed because his flannel pajama bottoms frequently fell to the floor when he shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast. I knew he would laugh too.
Watching Grandpa age and die of Alzheimer’s gave me perspective I could not have gained any other way. It taught me to cherish the small things, like the times he told me he loved me even though he could not remember my name. It also taught me to look at life from a far-reaching standpoint, how to recognize the things that may seem small but aren’t. When his care was too difficult for my family to handle, we took Grandpa to a nursing home, and I didn’t get to see him nearly as often. One afternoon last summer, though I was busily preparing music for my cousin’s wedding, I took the opportunity to go see him, devoting a whole afternoon to him. I put him in his wheelchair and played on the out-of-tune piano for him. I rolled him around and around the tiny garden, singing his favorite hymns. I read my book aloud and held his hand. By that point, good days were a rarity for him, yet all afternoon he was cheerful and affectionate. He died less than two weeks later, and I have few memories more meaningful than those hours I spent with him.
My Grandpa was delighted with his life. He loved his family and his God. He never failed to appreciate the small blessings in every day. At his funeral, I played “Simple Gifts.” No song could have been more appropriate.