Although there have been deaths with family/friends before, this is the first of the close relatives to pass away. That is certainly a different thing. I suppose I've gone through life thinking that the older generation would always serve in the role that it has always served in for me: grandparents, caretakers, mentors, and supporters. Alas, I'm finding as I transition more and more into the role of "dad," others transition in their own ways. On some level, I guess I've just always operated as if Noah would get to have Jack and my other grandparents in his life the way I did. I'm seeing now that although this may not be the case for Noah's entire life, he'll at least get to experience their love for some time.
More important is the fact that our ancestors live on through each of us. I'm not the type to believe that some of us are born into greatness but I am a firm believer that lineage is important. It isn't important because of any sort of inheritance or birthright that may pass down but it is important because of the very lives that have gone before us. Honoring the memory of the ones we've lost along the way is not just an option but a responsibility.
I remember Jack as a busy man. He always had a project (or many) going and always seemed to know how to repair things. He fixed up an old car (Model A to be exact) and was always repairing clocks. He was a long time Mason, a fact I knew but never quite remembered until Jack's passing. It seems he was very active with not just one but two Masonic lodges in the area. Maybe on some level I get my urge to tinker and make projects from him. I know I also get this from my father.
For some reason, the thing I remember most about Jack is the smell of his tobacco. Jack smoked a pipe and I can vividly remember the smell of his tobacco as he smoked out in the cold Georgia air during our visits. Jack also had style, whether he realized it or not. The pipe alone would have been a style statement to most younger folks these days but his use of suspenders and fedoras certainly inspired me.
My parents and brother recently came for a visit and they brought me a hat that Jack used to wear. I've worn it every day since and received many compliments. In response to virtually every person's comment I respond with a grin, "thanks, it was my grandfather's." Don't get me wrong, I'm not grinning because of how I came to own this hat. I grin because every time I talk about the hat, I get to reminisce about Jack wearing it to the Waffle House. Or about Jack wearing it as he taught me to drive a manual transmission in the Model A. Or about Jack wearing it as he smoked his pipe behind his house. Or about Jack wearing it as he showed me how to carve a walking stick. Or...the list goes on.
Now I make no delusions about the power of this simple hat. I'm aware that in all likelihood, the hat in my memory of these stories is not the same hat that sits on my head today. Jack had many hats and, I'm sure, rotated them frequently. That doesn't matter to me, though, because for me this hat is a physical reminder of fond memories of my grandfather.
The other thing I tell people when they ask about hat is that it still smells like him. I've found myself stopping as I walk across campus and breathing deeply of the hat's scent. I catch whiffs throughout the day of the scent that has rubbed off on my head as I wear the hat. Every day, Jack's scent fades a little more to be replaced by my own. On some level I'm quite sad about this fading as the scent of tobacco and cologne is as tangible of a reminder to me as the very hat that carries it. On another level though, I'm ok with this fading because it is also a tangible indicator of the progress of my grief at his loss. I think that even though the smell may fade, somewhere behind all of the new smells this hat may acquire, Jack's scent and memory will persist.
When people compliment me on my hat, I happily tell them, "Thanks, it was my grandfather's."
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