I am eighteen years old and I only have one grandparent still around. Before I was born one of my grandfathers died, and at the age of seven I attended both the funeral of my dad’s mother and my mother’s father, both funerals within a month of each other. Since I was so young, I do not have a lot of memories about my grandparents that are no longer here, but I do remember a few things about my grandfather. Daddy Jack, which is what my brother and I called him. He was born in the late 1920s and lived most of his life in Washington, Indiana, where my grandmother, his wife, still lives. He lived through the Great Depression, WWII, Korea, Vietnam and other wars. I do not know if he served in any other wars besides the Korean, which I am not completely sure on anyway. But, I do know that when he served he was a secretary, not a Solider. I also know that he was a beer distributer in Washington and had three children. Other than that, I am not sure on his background and I wish I knew more, and I know that all I have to do is ask.
But some things I do know are this: he was a lover, not a fighter, he was a slender Irish man, he wore fedoras and other hats, he played chess and the piano, and he loved to read.
The fact that he was a lover and not a fighter is exemplified in the fact that he never saw combat and was too sweet to ever engage in any brawl. There are pictures of him from the war, in army holes and other various places, but my mother and grandmother look at them and smile because we all know that we did not see anything and he was just goofing around, because after all, he was a secretary in his own little room.
Cavanaugh was my grandfather’s last name. He was Irish through and through, without the red hair though. He was a beer distributor for a long time, and I think that should explain a lot. His stature was also Irish. He was a short slender man and probably could not hurt a fly, even if he wanted to.
Though I was only seven when he passed away I do remember the hats he wore. I know he wore fedoras and he would hang them up whenever he came inside from a chilly day. It seems so silly to remember, but that is what I tend to picture him in.
There is a picture in my house of my grandfather and brother playing chess. They are both staring quizzically at the pieces and I did not know how to play. Daddy Jack tried to teach me, but I was younger than eight and my attention-span was no bigger than that of a gold fish I’m sure. After he died I remember wishing I could have paid attention long enough to learn, but I eventually learned and realized he would be proud, though he would have probably beaten me if we would have ever played. Another thing I am sure he would be proud of me is that I have learned to play the piano. I took lessons before his death, but continued for a couple of years in his honor. I now own some of his piano books. He wrote in some of them and I try to play them how he rewrote them and I feel accomplished when I play it the way I think he would play it.
Last, but not least, is the den in my grandparents house dedicated to books. The bookshelf covers one entire wall and there are a couple of other small bookcases in the room. This is where he loved to be, sitting in his old brown, leather recliner. I am so impressed when I walk in there, because I like to think he had read most, if not all, of the books in that room.
I wish I could have been able to know my grandfather longer, but now I can do nothing about it. I only have fragments of memories that faded long ago, but I remember a few things. One thing that I will always remember is how excited he seemed to get whenever my brother and I showed up to their house. Whether it be for random visits, or the holidays. We only live an hour away, but with two young kids, it was sometimes hard to get us to go up there, but we always tried. He seemed to have this glow about him whenever he came up and he always had a warm, loving smile on his face. Another memory I have is embarrassing, for me. When I was younger, I was the demon child. So, when in trouble, I would be sent to sit in a corner or on the steps. I do not remember what I did, but I remember I was in trouble at my grandparent’s house and had to sit in the corner. Apparently I looked quite pathetic and Daddy Jack came and sat with me because he hated me sitting there by myself. It’s silly now and I laugh at the thought, but I know he loved me very much and hated to see me in trouble.
Daddy Jack died two days after my eighth birthday and five days before my brother’s twelfth birthday. We went and saw him in the hospital on my birthday, and I remember feeling bad that he was not able to live long enough to make it to my brother’s. His death was no true shock to us. Before I was even born he was sick, in and out of hospitals. I was never fortunate enough to see him looking 100% healthy, but I never knew what was really wrong, except for he never had too long to live. The last memory I have is at the funeral home. I had barely turned eight and I had been to the funeral of my other grandmother a month prior to this one. I was upset, but only being eight I did not know all of the implications of death and funerals, but my twelve year old brother did. He loved my grandfather as much as I did, but they seemed to have formed a tighter bond. They always played chess together and my brother even wanted to attend Georgetown University in footsteps of Daddy Jack. And, on the day of one of his showings, when we all went up to pay our respects, I remember watching Matt, and watching him lean over the casket, and kiss Daddy Jack’s forehead, one last time.
I hear stories people tell of him being a sweetheart and being goofy. My family tells stories about him that I wish I was there to see. The stories always tend to make us laugh and I am grateful that we have good, funny stories to reminisce on. I miss my grandfather and I know my grandmother does too. They were the best grandparents any child could ask for and I was fortunate enough to know Jack Cavanaugh for even seven short years.
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