And Here Was I (April, Part II)

When I was in middle school, my grandparents came to visit and my parents went out to dinner. After picking me up at school and navigating the unpaved parking lot, my grandparents and I went to the world's best video rental store (losing intermittent access to this may actually be what I dislike most about my parents' impending move) and picked up The Four Feathers (this was before the Heath Ledger version) and The Man in the White Suit. We watched The Four Feathers first and whenever I saw my grandfather after that, I took to reciting what my imperfect memory could dredge up of the above clip.

Here were the Russians: Guns, guns, guns!
And here were the British: The thin, red line.
And here was the commander in chief.
And here. Was I.

It started sounding like poetry.

Movies were our thing. Movies and stories and Paris, France. It was kind of the perfect grandparent-grandchild relationship, because those were the things I loved most anyway. Then I moved to Princeton, New Jersey and all of a sudden I was inundated with recommendations of restaurants that had been closed forty years or more. We had even more to talk about, which I guess was partially adulthood on my part.

Whether we were in California or Illinois or France, Grandpa was always trying to foist alcohol on me. It's kind of a thing in our family; it's an Irish family, so it's not weird. (I was the weird one, since I didn't drink at all until I turned 21; freakishly well-behaved, that's been me all along.) I turned down wine in California, I turned down wine in Illinois, and, most shockingly, I turned down wine in France at age 18. I was also offered beer, champagne, and bourbon, and all my family members looked on in amusement as I declined every single time. I did dip my finger in my mom's wine and act out the Four Feathers scene, though. That's just what we did.

My grandfather passed away on April 6th and on April 7th I was sitting in my parents favorite bar with my father (Mom was in California), drinking bourbon. It seemed appropriate, which didn't prevent me from making every novice mistake in the book. In my attempt to water it down, I released the flavor. All the ice I added melted and it lasted forever. We arrived back home, tipsy, and cried all over the pizza dough. We wetly discussed Kansas, adulthood, and my closeness with my parents. Dad revealed that he had no regrets. We blew our noses, made the pizza, and watched the first two episodes of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. The next day was Easter. We hosted some friends, did our (last) traditional Easter Egg Hunt in the backyard, and I took over Mom's role and cranked out some really amazing (if I say so myself) profiteroles.

The friends left and I packed my stuff to drive back to Chicago. I couldn't carry everything myself, so Dad helped me out to the car. I shut the trunk and he glanced through the window. "If you wanted," he said, "I could ride up with you and help you carry everything up to your apartment, and then you could put me on a Greyhound back." At the time I thought he was only 70% kidding. Now, looking back at the emotional roller coaster that weekend was, I'm sure it was only 30%. (If you called him and asked him, he might admit to 20%.)

I don't have many regrets, either. I certainly don't have any big ones and even if I did, my closeness with my parents would never be one of them. We've always been a very close family, and I don't think distance is going to change that. It didn't when I was in college and I don't think Kansas, even if I don't get those nice long breaks every six weeks, will do much to hurt it either.

So it's been an interesting spring, but I'm still quoting The Four Feathers, and I'm still trying to plan out my life with as many trips to France as possible, and I kind of like wine now, and I'm turning into a professional storyteller, so if that's my contribution to my grandfather's legacy I'm happy.

And if I'm tempted to turn around and stare at April like a charging buffalo and yell, "AND HERE WAS I!" then I think I would be entirely justified.