We record so much of our lives nowadays. I think it is good to take some time, and go thru our digital, virtual shoe boxes of memories.
I miss you Grandpa.
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I have a
habit of repeating stories… a lot. And
the thing about repeating stories is that, one, everyone has heard them before
and two, I never get them quite right. Oh, the gist of the story is o.k., but there
are always details that are just a bit off.
Add the fog of time to the story, and it gets even worse. When I’m talking with family, well, that’s
when things can get really out of hand.
With very
few exceptions, most elements of the story I am telling get corrected by
someone in ear shot, and by the time I finish the story – if I even get that
far, everyone has added or subtracted something, and I some cases, completely
‘re-written ‘ my memory of the event.
I think this
might be something that I inherited from Grandpa.
When Dad and
Mom asked a while back, if I wanted to give the eulogy today, I kinda
panicked. I started to think of the
types of tributes you hear in the movies, or see written in history books –
when the person was born, where they went to school, when they married, what they did for a living and so on. So I started putting together questions that
I could ask all of you, and combine them with what I know of Grandpa’s life,
and voila’, a text book eulogy.
Then I
remembered my habit of telling stories, and I realized that no matter how many
of you I talked to get all of the elements of Grandpa’s life ‘right’, I didn’t
want to have my memory of Grandpa changed.
I remember
going on camping trips, of lying down in the Volkswagen camper with Grandma, barley
able to contain our laughter, as Grandpa’s snores filled the air like some kind
of massive grizzly bear, as he slept in the hammock above us. A sense of humor
and of sense of self that said it was ok to laugh and make people laugh
originates.
Going to the
water district offices, drawing pictures on big sheets of paper and playing
with the electric eraser, hiking through the trails at the arboretum, hearing
stories about Tarzan movies being filmed there.
A fascination with how things are created, how movies are made, starts a desire to be involved in the
entertainment industry.
I remember
Grandpa putting the blue headphones on me, and playing Finian's Rainbow or Iso
Tomita, and my love of music was begun.
Hiding
behind his chair in the living room, playing with the reel to reel recorder,
thinking I was being so secretive, now realizing he was being silly just for my
benefit, the seeds of my career in video games being planted.
I have this
image of him sitting with his head in that weird neck stretching device. No real reason I bring that up, just
something I thought of.
Watching
Bennie Hill or Monty Python with him, at least until Grandma came in the room
and made him turn the channel - my love for British humor was set in motion.
I received a
collection of science fiction stories once, Robert Heinlein’s Juvenile series,
and this was the beginning of my lifelong love of reading and the world of
science fiction. My memory is that I got
them from Grandpa – whether that is correct or not, I choose to remember it
that way. And if, in fact I got them
from one of you here today, I choose to believe that it was Grandpas love of
science fiction that spurred whoever got me those books, to do so.
Sitting on
the ice cream maker, freezing my …and yes it was electric, not the hand crank
that MY dad had to sit on.
Dinosaurs,
well that skipped a generation - it’s my son Jacob Richard, who loves the world
of Tyrannosaurs Rex and the velociraptor.
Drinking a
malted milk, using the long silver spoon
with a built in straw…To this day, given the choice, a malt over a shake for
me, every time.
Curling up
on his lap as he smoked his pipe – I know this sounds cliché but anytime I
smell a pipe smoke; I think of Grandpa and smile.
Watching him
set up the little portable planetarium, and listening, as he described the
constellations all the while using that cheesy little red arrow flashlight to
point things out.
In my
memory, Grandpa never talked down to me, and I am hard pressed to remember him
yelling or angry.
Now I know
did did yell and get angry - probably at me – but now, for today, for
me, that is neither here nor there.
As I was writing down all of these simple little
stories, it dawned on me that as I was recounting them today, most, if not all
of you, would have clarifications and corrections for me…and that ok. I am but one voice that is trying to put into
words how we all feel about Dad, Grandpa, Great grandpa, Richard White.
Today, we
are ALL here to remember and celebrate. Each one of us possesses a myriad of memories,
of stories, antidotes an fond remembrances. Your stories, our stories – that is
the legacy of Richard White.
