in gratitude

On the afternoon of the day Gramps got his terminal diagnosis, I happened to stop by his house. I was there the previous afternoon for a visit, and as I was leaving, I asked if he needed anything or if there was anything I could do for him. As it turned out, there was: On his weekend shopping trip, he had accidentally purchased whole wheat bread instead of his preferred enriched white bread — a situation that needed to be rectified with haste. So that day, the day of his doctor's appointment, I showed up around 4:00 with a loaf of white Sunmaid.

My mom had gone to his appointment with him that morning, so I already knew the news wasn't good, but Gramps gave me a rundown of everything the doctor had said. In short, he concluded, the only thing left to decide was the exit strategy.

We sat there in silence for a minute, then Gramps said, "I don't have any regrets, or things I've left undone. I suppose I could have made more money, been more successful in business."

I replied, "I think you've done extremely well in business ... if that's how you want to measure your success."

Gramps didn't hesitate. In the quiet of his kitchen, he told me that he measured his success by two things: business and family. In the first, he said, there would always be room for improvement, but in the second, he gets an A+. He spoke at length about how proud he is of his kids, how happy he is that everyone is settled and seems to have found lives they can be happy living. He talked about his own parents, how he has outlived his dad by 18 years already, and how no one should outlive his mom (who was 102 when she died). He talked about his hope that once he's gone, his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren will keep on being as close as we all are, because the family he created is his finest accomplishment and his lasting legacy.

His voice was steady and his eyes were dry ... except when he told me the story of how his mom once threw a surprise party for his dad. All the people were gathered at the back of the house, and Grandpa Jeff came in the front and there was Grandma Ethel with her accordion. She started playing Happy Birthday, and the people started singing, and Grandpa got so overwhelmed that he started crying and couldn't stop. He had to hide in the bathroom until he got his composure back. And when he came out, Grandma reassured him, "I'll never throw you a surprise party again."

Gramps talked for almost an hour, and when he was done, he said, "I didn't know I was going to tell you all of that."

I didn't know he was going to tell me all that either, but for the rest of my life I will be grateful that he did, that we had that hour together, that I could be there for him when he needed someone to listen.

I owe so much to Gramps. Aside from the obvious, I mean. I owe him my career, my husband, my children, the life I have now — and all because of one conversation that he probably doesn't even remember.

The summer I graduated from college, I came back home to my parents' house while I tried to figure out what to do with my life. I had a job lined up in Plymouth, and an apartment to rent (conveniently, one of the apartments Gramps had above his liquor store) ... but I also had this idea that maybe living in the city was something I wanted to do. And one day, while I was giving Gramps a ride home from work, I asked him what he thought I should do. And what he said was this: "I can't tell you what's best for you. Nobody can. But I will tell you to look at my kids. They all have very good lives, but they're different. Look at the ones who stayed, look at their lives ... then look at the ones who have moved away, and look at their lives. And ask yourself: Which life is it you want to have right now?"

It wasn't long after that when I packed up my car and moved to Chicago. I stayed with Pam and Alison for a couple months, got a job at Borders, moved into an apartment with some friends, and made a life I loved. A life I found the courage to go out and get because of one question from Gramps. Without that, without spending my twenties in the city, I wouldn't have the job I have today, and I wouldn't have met Mike and built the life we have together.

It's been a tough summer as Gramps's health has declined. For the past few weeks, one of us (my mom, my aunts and uncles, the older cousins) has been by his side night and day. My own visits increased from once or twice weekly drop-ins before he got sick to stopping by every other day to staying a full day each week with him plus dropping by most other days to say hi and to see if the person with him needed coffee, a meal, a break, anything. I wish I could have done more, but I'm indescribably grateful for every single minute I could spend helping him. It will never even the balance between us, but my hope is that in a small way, I made things a little easier for him.

Michael Joseph Jeffirs, my beloved grandpa, died early yesterday morning. I am devastated for myself, for my mom, for the boys ... but through it all, I KNOW that we have all been privileged beyond measure to have had such a singular figure in our lives. Not a perfect man, but a fundamentally good one. A man with an A+ in business and in family. May we all live up to our role as his legacy.