For Grampa

My Grandpa Charlie left his body last weekend, days away from completing his 97th trip around the sun. His longevity hinted at his tenacity and pluck during his time on Earth. My hope is that the small string of words that follow do his memory the measure of justice it deserves.

Stepping into this world six years after The Great War, Charles Goldstein was born to immigrant parents from Eastern Europe. When they couldn’t manage to provide for their six children, he was sent to live with a foster family and later an orphanage. Forced to navigate a difficult upbringing, he also had to learn how to survive some of the toughest times the 20th century could offer. 

Charlie enjoyed telling tales like a gunslinger shoots bullets from his hip: quickly and without warning, in such rapid succession he seemed unconcerned with where the shots landed. I recall him telling many of these anecdotes while around the dinner table as he nursed his favorite Leffe beer, a cloudy Belgian brew poured with his idea of the perfect head, surprisingly thick like the hair that remained on his nonagenarian dome.

His scattershot narrations painted himself as a latchkey kid, always on the loose and making mischief wherever he liked. One favorite yarn he spun encapsulated for me how it might have felt to be a child during The Great Depression. Grandpa and his friends would scour the floors of subway cars, bars and the streets of the hardscrabble Lower East Side of Manhattan looking for abandoned cigarette packs. The prizes they sought were literal silver linings: the wrappers inside. With enough foraging they would diligently peel off the precious metal, conjuring wads to bring to the local metal scrapper in return for pocket change to buy candy.

Grandpa raised my father Martin and his sister Gerri with my Grandma Zelda in Brooklyn, NY in the 50s and 60s. As a city kid myself, I got a kick from learning that he had been a yellow cab driver, a familiar means of transport from an early age. However, it became apparent through inference over the years that making ends meet was sometimes a challenge. Nonetheless, he endeavored to provide his children with a childhood better than his own.

Some of my favorite memories are of the many weekends spent at my grandparents' apartment in Rockland County, NY, close enough to the city for my parents to drop me on a regular occasion. Mornings started with cereal for me and bagels with creamed herring (yuck!) for Grandpa. The burbling, ancient stovetop percolator that made his morning joe always fascinated me; I think it was the combination of his semi-religious habit and his attachment to this relic of the past that I could find in use nowhere else but in the time-traveling portal of my grandparents’ kitchen.

I can easily summon the comforting taste of the egg- and tuna-salads my Grandma Zelda fused onto fragrant rye-and-pumpernickel-swirled slices and wrapped in silver foil. She would hand me those heavenly hybridized sandwiches with a cold box of Yoo-Hoo chocolate milk midway through hot days by the side of their pool, where I splashed away so many summers. If he wasn’t poolside with us for lunch, Grandpa would reliably be found back at the dinner table to share the scrumptious meals Grandma made for us. He was especially vocal of his gratitude for her delivering us delicious dishes like buttery shrimp scampi, something I would never find back home in NYC.

After dinner, I would sit beside him on the couch or stretch out by his feet on the shag carpet floor watching reruns of shows from the 50s and 60s on ‘Nick-At-Nite,’ maybe as my father once did when they first aired. Sometimes we meandered through a Yankee game where I reestablished the familial line of loyalty to that greatest team of all time; my dad had jettisoned them to favor the upstart Mets of his young adulthood.

Grandpa was an avid consumer of current events as well as the arts. There was always a folded newspaper around, the New York Times crossword in various stages of completion, while opera or big bands of the forties played on the stereo. I’m sure my passion for music and thirst for knowledge were stoked in large part by his influence and genes.

He was a loquacious and hilarious banterer –intentionally or otherwise – and as he accumulated years on earth, he lost filters for his orations. He invariably focused on The War – WWII – of which he was a proud and valiant veteran, mostly telling of his antics and misadventures outside the vicious battles of the Pacific theater. My grandma had passed away decades before and despite the eye-rolling of his saintly, younger girlfriend Karen, he carried on with his semi-lurid tales. My face would turn red when he used blue language in public, especially around women, though he usually got away with it through his deft mix of humor, charm and a touch of innocence; being old kinda helped, too.

As we grew older together, I took greater interest in his stories of his service. During what would be my last visit with him, I was grateful for his blessing to record him while I, along with my father and his partner Ellen, interviewed him about his childhood and stories of the war. I hope to edit and publish it soon. He fought in some of the fiercest battles of the Pacific campaign, and though he would remark about the close friends he lost and the ways he coped with intense trauma, he never delved deeply into gory details. Either he was protecting my psyche or his, perhaps both. Nonetheless, I was deeply proud of him for the sacrifices he made, sensitive to the emotional toll he endured and carried with him, and I was honored when he shared that side of himself with me.

When Grandma Zelda passed away suddenly, Grandpa moved to North Carolina to be near his daughter and son-in-law along with his two other grandsons. Tragically, my aunt Gerri lost her battle with cancer soon after. My uncle Marty stepped up selflessly into a supportive caregiving role for his father-in-law, joined by my aunt Meg when they married years later.

Visits by my dad and me began to take on a familiar format in the following years. Grandpa could swing a golf club and bowling ball well into his later years, better than me at both if I’m honest. We always made plans to hit the course, as well as fill some frames at the alley when it wasn’t a league day. On those centrally important weekly meets, he loved to show us off to his bowling buddies between betting pennies per game, which he pocketed regularly. He loved to fill us in on the local gossip or talk mild-mannered trash about their games or etiquette on the lane. Despite all that, or perhaps because of it, his mates adored his presence there.

At night we’d eat at some of the Triangle Region’s fine and casual dining spots. Closer to my heart are the dinners we enjoyed around the table of his wonderful and doting partner, Karen, which she hosted at her beautifully appointed apartment, the care for her roses shining through the back patio windows. Karen was always gracious with us and particularly Grandpa. I’m especially grateful that she became his partner and a part of our family in his last decades.

There’s no telling how long Grandpa could have kept up his carefully curated routine. Fate dealt him a literal blow when a car t-boned him as he drove, to the bowling alley I believe. He was still capable on the road in his early 90s and though the other person was found to be at fault, it didn’t matter to his body, which could never fully recover from the catastrophic accident at his advanced age. After a months-long rehab, he still managed to live on his own for a few years, adamant in resisting assisted-living. That choice was taken out of his hands after his ability to stay stable on his feet wavered too much for our comfort. Perhaps more devastating was the bowling ball taken from his hands that he wouldn’t again roll down the lane.

Despite his physical setbacks, Grandpa maintained his humor as well as most of his wits through his remaining days. Though my aunt and uncle and cousins might beg to differ, I always found him cogent and clear in spite of the memory lapses that I found more than reasonable given his age; I wonder if I’ll measure up to his example when (or if) I make it to the mark he set. He also relished in aquiring a new moniker, GG, short for Great-Grandpa. His delight when playing or speaking with his five beautiful great-grandchildren was irrepressible. He definitely looked like the happiest, luckiest GG there was.

In the wake of Grandpa’s passing, I feel bundled in my emotions, ready to be released. I’m in awe of my family in Durham for their diligent and loving care in his final years. I give my utmost thanks for the incredible amount of mental and emotional energy they spent to make sure he was always well-provided for. I wish I could’ve spent more time with him and helped more, and I’m truly sad I couldn’t be close to him in his final days. But this regret is likely best contrasted and replaced with my appreciation and love for him and my family down south.

I’m so grateful for my grandfather and his role in bringing me into this life. I continue to recognize with further reflection the lessons he provided with the example of the life he led. His tenacity and perseverance to manage through incredibly difficult circumstances is something to marvel at and emulate. We differed in certain aspects of how we viewed life, particularly in the more esoteric and spiritual realms, but we agreed on far more, particularly on what is most important. Those include relishing the simple pleasures in life, and heartily loving – and expressing that love to – the beings closest to us. I will always remember how Grandpa would end a visit or call with him, never failing to include an “I love you, bub” (short for bubala, a Jewish grandparent’s term of endearment) and plant a kiss on my face at every opportunity. 

I might’ve squirmed in those moments when I was younger. Now I miss them and him, and I wish I could reciprocate once more. His was a big, loving, strong spirit. I know I can always draw on that strength and love no matter where he or I might be.