Papa

by Jeffrey Mindell

When I was eight years old, I began playing Gin Rummy with my eighty-two year old Lithuanian born grandfather who spoke broken English and had smoked two packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day since he was thirteen years old. When he turned eighty, heeding his doctor’s advice, he cut down to a pack a day, which he thought made him the pinnacle of healthy living.

My grandfather ate the same thing every day, boiled potatoes with sour cream and a bowl of beet borsht. He lived until he was 93 years old – still smoking away until his last days when he reached a state of dementia. I used to love playing Gin Rummy with my grandfather when he babysat me on Saturday nights. As a father he was gruff and emotionally distant, but he sure loved his grandson, so I never saw that side of him.

We’d joke around, laugh, talk about nothing. He’d say in his funny accent, “Boy this is a pretty card, a real pretty card. I hope you can use it.” I’d giggle and say, “Hmm, yeah actually I can use that one, it’s just what I needed.” He’d feign frustration, and laugh as I stuck the card into the overstuffed fan that I could barely hold together in my small hand. Yes, my papa and I sure loved each other.

As I got older, a funny thing happened. I lost much of the purity and innocence of my early childhood, and became concerned with things like being popular and fitting in. Gin Rummy with papa wasn’t cool anymore, and neither was being babysat by an old man who barely spoke English.

When I was eleven, I invited the most popular boy in school to sleep over and to my surprise he agreed. This was my big chance to impress him. There was just one problem with this plan; papa was babysitting me that night, and papa was not cool.

Jack (not his real name) was a wild one, bent on creating havoc and destruction. I, on the other hand, was not. I was timid, shy, fearful of getting into trouble, and as my mother used to call me, “a worrier.” On that night I remember being conflicted, afraid that Jack would make fun of my papa or take advantage of his age and naivety, yet desirous of making him believe I was cool.

Jack and I played video games for a while and made a few crank phone calls. Papa sat in the kitchen smoking his cigarettes and reading his philosophy books. I tried to avoid him as much as possible, but eventually my worst fear came to pass. My playmate was hungry and wanted to raid the kitchen.

The three of us stood awkwardly together for a few moments looking at each other. I told papa that we were going to get something to eat. In his sweet loving old man way he wanted to help, he walked to the fridge and said, “I can fix you boys something.” What happened next is now just a painful memory I wish I could erase.

I heard my voice, as if being spoken from a different person, say in the most mocking fake accent I could muster, “I can fix you boys something to eat.” My friend giggled, so I continued on in an even thicker accent. “Yes, we want something to eat, maybe make us some potatoes and beet borsht. Yes, yes, that sounds delicious.” Jack laughed even harder.

My grandfather stood silent for a moment, looking at me in disbelief. His grandson. His Rummy partner. The boy he loved, was making fun of him. Then, in a flash, the look was gone and he smiled and laughed along with us. My heart sank then froze over completely. It took everything in me not to break down and cry on the spot, I was so ashamed.

I don’t recall much after that. I remember visiting my grandfather in the convalescent home many years later. He was lying on his back mumbling incoherently, sometimes shouting. My father whispered in my ear that I should say hello, he said that papa would recognize my voice. I was frightened, I said, “Hi papa, it’s Jeffrey.”

For a moment he was quiet, and I was certain that he heard me. Then he began to mumble again. I wanted to leave as soon as possible. I wished I had always stayed that pure eight-year old boy who had joked with my papa. I wished that were the only memory he had of me as he prepared to leave this earth. But it was not.

My papa died shortly thereafter. I remember feeling as if I should have felt more, but I didn’t. Soon I didn’t think of my papa much at all. I continued to grow up, and instead of Gin Rummy I was at college parties trying to be cool and impress girls. Then onto Chicago, in fancy bars, flagging down cabs at much too late an hour and much too intoxicated a state.

And not until many years later did I realize that the true me was more Gin Rummy then Gin and Tonic. Nowadays, a favorite evening for me is hanging out with a few close friends, good food, some board games, and a lot of laughs. Kind of how it was with papa when I was eight: that simple, that pure. And as each New Year passes I find more of myself, becoming a simpler more compassionate version of who I am.

It has been a long journey since the kitchen table, unfiltered cigarettes, and “Boy, this is a pretty card.” But I think my papa is proud of who I have become: real, searching, loving, clumsy and imperfect, and everything else it means to be human. And, I also believe that my papa forgives me, because he knows I was only a child finding my way. He was just an unfortunate casualty of that childhood insecurity and awkward desire to fit in.

There have been so many casualties in my life. People I have treated cruelly, coldly, or insensitively because I was hurting or insecure. So many people I have loved and currently love, that I have treated badly. But I vow to myself, and I vow to my papa, that I will continue to deepen my love, my compassion and my golden heart, because my papa taught me. He taught me with Gin Rummy and unfiltered cigarettes, and “Boy, this is a pretty card.” That’s how he taught me everything. I love you papa.

Jeffrey Mindell is a writer, poet, cartoonist, and all around nice fellow. He can be contacted at jmindell@hotmail.com