Corey Knows Best: Memories You Can Touch

That's what he called me.  Coralee. 

"Coralee" he would say.  "Coralee, what is the meaning of this?" as a giant smile spread across his face. 

I called him Umpah. Thereby paving the way for all the grand-kids who followed to also call him that. Umpah.  Cause when you're the first grand-kid, you get to set standards like that.

Umpah passed away this weekend.  I share this not to solicit sympathy, but to share a life.  Share a passing, and a lesson.

My grandfather was a WWII veteran, he received the bronze star and a purple heart. He loved frozen bananas and Penn State football (incidentally he and Joe Paterno passed away within hours of each other, the irony escaping none of us). He ate salad but never vegetables.  My grandfather loved swimming.  The sport.  And he loved the beach.  Cold beer.  Miller lite more specifically.  Or gin.  Football.  Ice cream.  Those hats with the mesh in the back.  The weather.  Crossword puzzles.  Shooting the bull.  Watching his stocks.  Newspapers.

The last few years Umpah had become less active, and less interactive.  He had Alzheimer's, forcing him to take a backseat in conversations, do a lot of nodding and smiling, and talk about the weather.   Alzheimer's takes away the person.  The personality.  Not the life, but the life.  The life like the energy.  The passion.  The enthusiasm.  And he struggled to get around.  It's not how he would want me to remember him.  And it's not how I will remember him.

Back up a couple weeks to Christmas week.  We spent it at the beach with my parents and my dad brought along home movies (formerly VHS tapes converted to DVD, for posterity).  We went back to the 80's.  When I was 8 and my brother 3.  When slouchy socks and tube socks were cool, horizontal stripes in bright colors were worn with stirrups and Keds, and when you drove a wood grain station wagon (you know the ones where the way back seat faces backwards and you stare at the people behind you) instead of a minivan if you had kids. 

And when Umpah was healthy. 

When he played tetherball with us, took my new rollerblades for a spin, let my brother tackle him while they played football in the backyard.  When he walked miles a day and went for a daily bike ride to Publix to pick up a paper and chat with his buds.  When he said things like, 'thing of it is Cor...' and 'Well I'll be darned...'.  He's in those videos the way I want to remember him.  The way he would want me to remember him. 

My grandfather met my children.  Not many people can say that.  Sure, my kids might not remember, but I will.  And I have the pictures to show them some day.  The pictures.  Not an online album that will someday go the way of the dinosaur.  An actual physical picture that I had printed and I dutifully filed away in an album. 

Here's the lesson. 

My dad sacrificed his coolness card and hauled that enormous video camera just about everywhere.  Didn't care how silly he looked doing it.  And sure then, it may have been a joke among us.  But now?  Now I am so very thankful to have those memories, those times when Umpah was healthy.  So thankful. 

Take videos of your kids.  With your parents, with your grandparents (if you're as lucky as I am to still have grandparents), at family get togethers, or just on a random Tuesday afternoon.  Doesn't matter who's watching.  Your kids will want to watch someday.  And they will appreciate it.

And take your camera.  Everywhere.  Take pictures.  And have them printed.  And put them in an album, or a box, or on your walls.  Have them printed.  Or have a photobook printed every year.  Just have something you can touch.  Memories you can actually hold on to. 

And.  Tell people you love them.  Out loud.  Don't assume they know.  Tell them.  Because it's what makes the world go round.

This is adapted from my personal blog where I did my best to write a fitting tribute to my Grandfather.