Remembering Grandpa

          On Thursday, December 18^th, 2014, at 7 o’ clock in the morning, my grandfather, Frank James Brown, passed away at the age of 93. He suffered with Alzheimer’s for many years and eventually lost the use of his legs, but his health was otherwise very good near the end of his life. However, several weeks ago his body began to fail him, and after spending several days in hospice care, he passed peacefully into eternity. I knew he was in hospice care and so was close to his final breath, but when I heard my mother’s message in the afternoon of the 18^th, telling me that Grandpa’s struggle had finally come to an end, I immediately began to cry. Brian had been filling the gas tank of the car, but when he got back into the car and saw my face, he knew what had happened, and he held me.

My husband, Brian, and me on our way to the Point Defiance Zoo with Grandpa and Grandma in 2011

            I have hope that I will see my grandpa again in Heaven, but, until then, I will miss him greatly. He was a kind, giving man who loved nothing more than to help others and to spend time with people, sharing his life’s stories; asking them his favorite trivia questions (“Who won the battle of the Little Big Horn?”); driving the 5-mile-drive through Point Defiance Park; spending time at Beth and Don’s Ruston Market and Deli, enjoying the company of those around him while munching on his requisite Snickers Bar; dining at Harbor Lights, his favorite restaurant along the Tacoma waterfront, chatting with dear friends and new acquaintances while enjoying his favorite meal of steamed clams (a liking I inherited from him).

 

            Taking walks along the waterfront was a daily ritual for my grandparents, one my siblings and I always joined them in whenever we came to visit. Grandpa’s favorite part of those outings was to walk out onto one of the docks and try to pitch pennies onto the wooden pylons lining the shore. Pitching pennies with Grandpa is one my dearest memories.

Grandpa and Grandma walking along the waterfront in 2007

My sister, Grace, walking the waterfront with Grandpa and Grandma in 2008

My brother, Daniel, chatting with Grandpa on the dock in 2009

My brother, Jordan, walking the waterfront with Grandpa in 2009

Walking the waterfront with Grandpa and Grandma in 2010

On the dock with Grandpa and Grandma in 2011

Brian taking his first stroll along the waterfront in 2011

Grandpa pitching pennies in 2009

Grandma pitching pennies in 2011

Grace pitching pennies in 2008

Daniel pitching pennies in 2009

Jordan pitching pennies in 2009

Me, pitching pennies in 2008

Pitching pennies in 2011

Brian joining in the tradition in 2011

            Growing up, Grandpa gave my siblings and me silver dollars almost every time we saw him and
 Grandma—I still have several of them. They are a dear reminder to me of the fact that he was thinking of us, even when we weren’t with him.

            Many years ago, my grandparents bought a cabin in Randle, WA when their children were young, situated in a quaint, forest neighborhood along the banks of the Cispus River. One of Grandpa’s favorite memories was the time he spent at the cabin, which is why he enjoyed the 5-mile-drive through Point Defiance Park so much, as the deeply wooded park reminded him of the years he spent at the cabin with his family. Eventually, my grandparents had to sell the cabin, but by this time my parents had met, and my dad’s parents agreed to purchase the cabin from them. As a result, my siblings and I also grew up enjoying the many adventures to be had at the cabin. In 2009, my brothers and I drove to the cabin with Grandpa and Grandma; it was the first time we had ever been there with them. It was a wonderful time, reliving the memories with Grandpa as he strolled the grounds and took in the sights he knew so well.
   

Grandpa and I enjoying the swing he put up many years ago at the cabin

Lounging by the Cispus River

Looking down from the attic above the garage

            Growing up, when visiting Grandpa and Grandma at their home in Tacoma, we would often play croquet in their backyard. One of my fondest memories of Grandpa is how he would jokingly put a curse on the other players’ balls, waving the end of his croquet mallet at their ball in a theatrical manner while mumbling a few made-up words, in an attempt to foul up their plays.

            Grandpa loved hot chocolate with whipped cream at Denny’s—especially the whipped cream—another preference I inherited from him. Whenever I visit a diner and order a hot chocolate, I always think of him as I lick the whipped cream off the top.

            I also affectionately recall how he taught me to blow at red street lights as we were approaching them in the car, in an effort to turn them green.

       
            One of Grandpa’s favorite expressions was, “We’re off like a shot, haulin’ freight!”

Grandpa would proudly share his limited Spanish vocabulary with others, counting to ten or introducing himself as Francisco José Café.

            Grandpa loved John Wayne and Bonanza—a love of Westerns he passed on to my mom, who passed that love onto my siblings and me.  

            Even more personally, at the time when my mother was pregnant with me, before they knew if I was a boy or a girl, my sister, Grace, told Grandpa that she badly wanted a little sister, that having two brothers already was more than enough. Grandpa said something to the effect of, “Alright, Grace, then we will pray to God and order a girl.” Grandma told him not to do this, saying that Grace would never forgive him if I turned out to be a boy, but he responded without a hitch, “Corinne, we ordered a girl, and a girl it’s going to be.” And, sure enough, I was!

            Grandpa loved to say that he named me after Eleanor Roosevelt. Though this was not the actual reason for my being named Eleanor, I never refuted him when he shared the story of how he named me—rather, I would often ask him, “Remember how you named me, Grandpa?” It was a special connection we shared that I will always cherish.

            I will also never forget his hands—his strong hands that never lost their strength, even into his 90s—hands that were a testament to his younger days when he milked eighteen head o’ cow for Ol’ Dad Fleming every day, as well as to his service to our country in WWII and Korea.

       
            My grandpa served in the U.S. Navy as a radioman. The last destroyer he served on during WWII was the U.S.S. Twiggs (DD-591). During his time aboard ship, Grandpa helped to administer blood (or plasma) to the wounded. On one occasion, however, the blood he was administering to a friend ran out, with none to replace it, and he helplessly watched as his shipmate and friend died in front of him. From that time forward, Grandpa vowed he would donate blood for the rest of his life—and he did, long into his senior years, until the blood bank told him he had to stop. If I remember correctly, in his lifetime my grandfather donated 22 gallons of blood.

            Near the end of WWII, my grandfather’s ship joined in the Battle for Okinawa, performing antisubmarine and antiaircraft patrols, as well as offering covering fire for land forces. On June 16^th, 1945, the Twiggs was attacked by a Japanese kamikaze, first with a torpedo to her port side, exploding her number two magazine, and lastly by the plane itself. Grandpa’s ship was enveloped in flames and sunk within an hour. 152 men were killed, 188 were rescued from the oily waters of the Pacific, my grandfather among them. However, before entering the water, Grandpa stayed aboard the Twiggs, despite the danger of exploding ammunition all around him, to throw those who were unable to leave the ship on their own overboard. He did not leave until all the wounded men had been rescued. The Twiggs exploded just a few minutes after he abandoned ship. For his selfless actions, my grandfather received the Silver Star.

Grandpa receiving the Silver Star, with his mom and two of his sisters looking on

       
            Throughout our childhood and into our adulthood, Grandpa shared the stories of his military service often with my siblings and me. His legacy of service and his love for our country played a significant role in my three older siblings joining the military, and I am proud to be a military wife, largely because of the example my grandfather set. I will never forget the stories he shared and the way he looked as he shared them—I will always be very proud of Grandpa for the service he gave to our country and to the men whose lives he saved.        

           

            It was during his time of service, between WWII and Korea, that he met his wife, my grandmother. Though ten years his junior, her maturity and beauty caught his attention almost at once—as he saw her walking down the street through a diner window—and that was it for him. As much as I respect my grandpa for his military service, what I respect him for the most was his unwavering devotion to and love for my grandmother, and hers for him. My mom shared with me recently about a time when she was a little girl, when Grandpa told her that he loved her and her siblings, but that he loved their mother more. Rather than feeling hurt or disappointed by this, my mother felt happy and secure that he loved Grandma more than he loved them. My grandparents’ 65^th wedding anniversary, which they celebrated less than a month before he passed away, was a testament to their love for one another. My mom witnessed the physical manifestation of Grandpa’s words to her throughout her childhood and into her adulthood, and I witnessed them in mine.

            The Alzheimer’s Grandpa suffered with stole much of his memory, especially in the past few years, but one thing he never forgot was my grandmother or his love for her. Grandpa’s eventual inability to walk or support his weight on his legs ultimately required him to move to a home-set nursing home near the end of his life, after years of devoted service to him by my grandmother. Thankfully, being near their home, Grandma was able to visit him on a weekly basis throughout the few years he lived there. 

The photo by Grandpa's bed

            On the wall by his bed, there was a photo of Grandma and him. During a visit to see him, one of the nurses shared with me of how, one evening, after settling my grandpa into bed, she went to give him a “goodnight” peck on the cheek. As she leaned down, however, he immediately said, “No, no! I can’t do that!” and pointed up at the picture of Grandma on his wall. The nurse thought this was so sweet of Grandpa, as did I, though it was something I was not at all surprised to hear. Grandpa’s love for Grandma and his faithfulness to her were such a deep part of his being, not even Alzheimer’s could snatch them away. This is the legacy from him I cherish the most and wish to emulate more than anything else.

            Grandpa, it is hard to think I will never see you, speak to you, or spend time with you again this side of Heaven, but I have hope I will see you again someday, and I rejoice to imagine the day when we will be together again with our Savior! When that time comes, I can’t wait to drink hot chocolate and lick the whipped cream off the top with you; to playfully jinx one another’s croquet balls; to walk along the shore and pitch pennies; to just sit and talk with you, listening once more to your stories that I love so much. I love them because I love you, and they were a part of who you were—they were your life, your story, your legacy to us. More than the stories of your past, however, the time I knew you, spent time with you, and witnessed your interactions with others, especially Grandma, was your greatest legacy to me, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I miss you, Grandpa, and I will always love you.

            With love and joy,

                        Your granddaughter Eleanor