Two years ago today, my grandfather died.

He was old and kinda racist, but he was also the kindest relative I had.

I think he tried really hard to be a good person around me. In my eyes, he was perceptive, thoughtful, and compassionate. I guess earlier in life, he was kind of an angry, prideful, volatile man. I think somewhere in him, he wanted to change, but just.. I don't know, I guess we're all works in progress.

One of my first memories of him is him intervening when my parents were angry with me for touching something I shouldn't have. I was a pretty curious kid. I didn't really understand why they were acting the way they did and was pretty upset. I was maybe three or four? And he just sat next to me with his hand on my back while I cried things out. He must've done something to get them to stop yelling at me, but I don't really remember what. I just remember him as a reassuring, strong, peaceful presence.

The Trump years and Fox News hit him hard. Maybe it was a combination of losing his vision and a resurgence of national pride, but whatever it was, it changed him some. It was often difficult for his own children to talk to him about meaningful issues, since he'd often shift the conversation to immigration and isolationism. In a small town, I guess it makes sense, but it.. I don't know, it was a tension I'm glad isn't at the dinner table anymore. Hearing stories from relatives, I guess this was kinda typical of him in his younger days, but it's not as much like the man I'd grown up with.

It was a small blessing that he died when he did, surrounded by family, a few months before the pandemic started. By then, he'd had a myriad of health issues, and had had a Do Not Recuscitate for about eight years, couldn't see well enough to hunt, and had troubles breathing due to inoperable lung cancer.

In the early days of spring in 2020, I often thought about how fortunate we were to have been able to spend a few weeks together with extended family talking, eating, and playing cards and music while holding vigil at his bedside. Weirdly, it was about as nice of a death as you could ask for.

I have a few regrets, mostly centered around things I wasn't able to do for him. He'd wanted a blood oxygenation sensor to let him know to sit down before he got too dizzy, he wanted working eyes, and we wanted hearing aids that a stubborn, tough old man would actually wear. I guess my experiences with him impacted a lot of the accessibility work I've been working with these days. A bone conduction baseball cap would've worked great for him.

I wasn't able to build anything for him, but I did compose a song at his bedside and played as much as I could. I had bruises on my thighs from holding my harp so much, and I needed to track when I'd gotten my fingertips wet so they wouldn't blister. It was good to be there with him. Good for both of us, I think. It was the best I could do.

When he finally died, it was the first morning I'd gone into work in two weeks. There was a violent thunderstorm and I was trying to start my car to leave to go visit the hospice when I got the call. It feels like he just wanted to spare me from being there at the time.

A friend drove out and gave me a lift about half an hour later and I was just a bawling mess. It was a really cathartic drive together.

Anyways, today is a bittersweet day for me. It's a day of remembering death and of togetherness. My grandfather treated me so well, and yet, I don't know, he was just also deeply flawed. I guess no one's perfect, but it was tough sometimes.

He grew up hunting in a frozen swap, was orphaned as a teenager, and was just so quietly supportive to me.. I don't know, I get the feeling he knew he was kind of an asshole and just tried not to say too much. Going through his things after his death, we found a St. Jude pendant. As a devout catholic, his patron saint was that of last causes. It feels like him.

Here's to changing and fighting and love and long walks in the swamp. Hold each other close today. 💙