Veterans Day has always held a special place in my heart because of my grandfather. Today I choose to post the eulogy I read at his memorial about ten years ago. The older I get the more I feel like I can barely begin to grasp what this man carried back from war, but I can fully appreciate the love he had for his country. I read in a book about a man who couldn't understand or appreciate jazz because it didn't make sense. But he watched a man playing it one time and came to love it because he saw that man love it. That is kind of how I feel about our country sometimes. I am not always proud of it, I don't even begin to understand the state of it, but I love it because I saw how my grandfather loved it. I doubt I will ever carry a gun into battle, but I hope I will always choose to fight for the heart of its people.
The Measure of a Man
I have heard people talk about the measure of a man. It's a phrase I've heard tossed around in eulogies, in speeches honoring men who have been great leaders, men who have done great things for their country. It's not something I have ever thought much about--at least in reference to regular people--until my grandfather died.
Sitting at his funeral under a bright sky, the sun shining down on the flag covered casket, I thought about a lot of things. But the one question, the one thought that would not leave my mind was "what is the measure of a man?" I couldn't understand how I could be preoccupied by this question at my own grandfather's funeral. But the question haunted me for days afterward. I realize now that the question came to mind because in my grandfather's death, I had found the answer.
The night Paw Paw died I got to say goodbye to him in the emergency room at the hospital. I stood with his daughter Renee and my husband over his body. We weren't prepared for the sight of him lying there on a hard table, under a sheet and bright lights, tape holding a tube down his throat that was meant to sustain his life. He was blue and swollen with lack of life. It was difficult to see him that way, as though death had exposed him, but I could not help but look at him closely. Absorbing the details of a man who had earned every year of his age and then some. The sunken cheeks under which teeth no longer rest. The fresh haircut Renee had given him not that long ago. The haircut that made him look boyish despite the silver color of his hair and the fact that he was eighty-five. And the hands.
I had seen Paw Paws hands many times before. When I was a child, reaching out to ruffle my hair when I had done something that tickled him. And in old age, misshapen and ravaged by arthritis, carefully arranging the afghan on his lap. But in the hospital I saw the hands of a boy who became a man at twelve. The hands of a young man who set down a son and daughter and left his wife to carry a gun in a war. The hands of a man the same children didn't recognize when he returned home fifteen months later and brought the war back with him. These were the hands of a man who had seen more than his share of pain and violence in his life but chose nonetheless, to pass on kindness.
As hard as it was to see my grandfather lying there, knowing that he died alone, I would not give that moment back. Because seeing him in death helped me understand his life. The stories I had heard first and sometimes second or third hand somehow made sense. The erratic behavior that was often misunderstood became easily explainable. The fact that the one person who should not have had to die alone did, became a last concession to his intensely private nature. I didn't know it that night, but standing in the emergency room I began to answer the question I would be compelled to ask two days later as we lay Paw Paw to rest: What is the measure of a man?
Listening to the words of the minister as we sat on the cement benches within the gates of the Veteran's cemetary--gates that bear the words "Lest ye forget?"--my mind swirled around the measure of my grandfather's life. I heard Pastor Mickey talk about a patriotic man who loved music, who had a deep respect for hardwork and the American way. A man proud of his Czech heritage, who loved God, his family, and his country. I heard him say these words with conviction, yet knowing that he had never even met my grandfather. But I don't doubt the sincerity of the words he spoke. He knew they were true because of the loving way Renee had spoken to him about her father. He could see the truth in the arms of a seven-year-old in a Cub Scout uniform, a child who carried himself and his grandfather's casket with the dignity of a man. It was in the way an eleven-year-old in his own Scout uniform folded the flag his grandfather had fought to protect. The truth was in the way a man's daughter paid one final tribute to her dad by playing taps on the trumpet he bought for her when she was in the sixth grade. The measure of a man is not in land, or money, or fame. It's in love.
The measure of a man is in the way he lived his life. With pride and dignity, humble, loving and loved. I spent almost every afternoon of a large part of my childhood at my grandparent's house. Nanny and I used to have to shout over the television to carry on a conversation as Paw Paw watched the news. She would yell at him to turn it down. He would shush her and keep on watching, absorbed in current events. I remember feeling slightly annoyed, greatly amused, and completely safe. For me, their home was my haven, the feeling of security, immeasurable.
I am proud to say that I spent the day before my grandfather's funeral helping find the the perfect outfit in which to lay him to rest. His shirt and slacks were ironed on my ironing board. We bought him a new undershirt and socks. We found him the perfect pair of soft-soled slippers so he would have have something soft on his feet. And knowing how he was always cold, we gave the funeral director his favorite afghan Aunt Gerry crocheted for him. We wanted him to be comfortable. I can't help but think that the measure of a man is not only in the way he lived his life, but in the fact that at the end of his life, the love he has given is given back to him in soft slippers, a warm blanket, and the deepest respect of a handful of people who live and love by his example.
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