Your great-grandpa, better known as Papa, passed away on Thursday, May 5. I wrote an obituary for him, which contained the kind of things that you can write in a newspaper about someone you loved. But here, I can tell you so much more. I can tell you how Papa used to offer me a quarter to scratch his back (I learned later that inflation meant my younger cousins got a dollar for the same job.) I would sit behind him on the couch in the living room at 140 S Cuyler and scratch his back with the comb he kept in his pocket. He used the comb to tame the hair that rested evenly on either side of his head and nowhere else. For as long as I can remember, Papa had only wisps of hair across the top. Distracted from my mission, I would start combing his two sections of hair, straight up, then together over the top. I would brush them down, long over his ears, and then finally I got them back to a semblance of normalcy. But Papa still had to redo it himself, which I guess is why I never got my quarter.
Papa always served ice cream after dinner. Neapolitan: vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, and he would scoop the long way, so that you got each flavor, but sometimes we just asked for one flavor. For me, it was either chocolate or strawberry, vanilla being so...vanilla. Papa dipped his scoop into a glass of warm water and the ice cream practically floated out of the container. He was a professional. Literally. Papa worked at and later owned Kay's Sweet Shop on Pulaski in Chicago. After the neighborhood turned too rough to own a business there, he opened up a Baskin Robbins. I later worked in a different Baskin Robbins, to continue the family tradition, but I just ate a bunch of banana splits, gave out too many free cones, and got tendonitis from scooping. I'm not sure I got the ice cream entrepreneurial genes.
Papa always had a dog. When I was a freshman in high school, one of my friend's families had a litter of puppies, and Nana surprised Papa by getting him one. I remember sitting in the kitchen with the little dog, waiting for Papa to come through the door. He named her Murphy, because he had a crush on Candice Bergen and loved the show Murphy Brown. Papa told me that Murphy was his favorite dog, the best one he ever had.
Almost exactly 4 years ago, I rented some audio equipment from StoryCorps, a company that travels all over the US and records people interviewing each other. I brought it over to Papa's to do an interview with him. It took us a while to get our groove, because Papa kept grabbing the microphone and saying things like "They call me Swing and Sway with Teddy Kay!" When he wouldn't give the microphone back to me, I had to remind him how interviews work.
Then he told me some great stories. Playing saxophone in The Jimmy Dale Band and The Gents, with his older brother Ray; coming home after school to clean the house and get dinner ready before his parents came home--a particularly interesting story, since I never actually saw Papa make dinner in my entire life, although he did grill, and I guess that counts; meeting Nana at Kay's Sweet Shop and their first kiss in the apartment above the shop. He didn't ask for her parents permission before he proposed to her. He told me "I think they knew we were for each other." They were married for 63 years.
About Nana, he said "She was a beauty. She reminded me of Linda Darnell, the movie actress."
About parenthood, he said "I thought we would have three." They had eight.
About me, he said "Get some grandchildren going."
It took me a little longer, but eventually Dad and I got married, and we did get you going. And in enough time for Papa to meet you. He came to San Francisco to hold you when you were 3 weeks old, traveled to Lake Archibald with you, and spent your first Christmas with you. His hearing was pretty bad, but I think he may even have heard you say "woof woof." And for a man who loved dogs as much as Papa did, that must have been music to his ears.
Love,
Mom
