THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, April 7, 1996 TAG: 9604050074
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E6 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ANN G. SJOERDSMA
LENGTH: Medium: 76 lines
NO SOONER had my Great Uncle Ed died than my grandfather started to drift.
He told me of Uncle Ed's passing, asked if I remembered him. Several times.
Ed, my late grandmother's oldest brother. The tall, thin, stately man. Of course. Of course, I remembered.
I had seen Uncle Ed last April, fragile but upright in a favorite chair, by a picture window, watching birds scamper about his small yard.
Grandpa had been there. The younger, healthier old man. The old man who always tells me when I call and ask what he's been doing: ``As little as possible.''
This past winter 96-year-old Ed Vandergiesen decided to die. He wouldn't eat for his daughter. Within a week, he was gone.
And a little bit of my grandfather died, too.
At Ed's funeral service, Grandpa introduced my father, his oldest son, as his father. The day was bitter cold. The cemetery familiar.
Shortly after Uncle Ed's death, I called Grandpa to wish him a happy 95th birthday. I asked him how he had celebrated. His 90th had been occasion for an extended-family reunion.
Nestled in a close-knit community outside Chicago where age, even temper and religious devotion have earned him the regard and affection of many, Grandpa loves to tell me about his gifts. At Christmas and for birthdays. Food, cards, phone calls. ``Not bad for 90, 91, 92, 93 . . . ''
This time, though, he said he had eaten pizza with my Uncle Pete and ``Pete's son.'' Pete's son? Pete has two sons, I thought. Which one, Grandpa?
``Pete's son.''
Depression over Uncle Ed's death had scattered his thoughts, I decided. He needs time and some TLC. The family will have to be more watchful now.
That was before I learned about Moochie.
Life is tenuous at any age. But at 95, when much of life is death, it is almost unbearably so. For Grandpa. And for me, one who loves him.
Moochie stayed with my grandfather when my cousin Bob and his wife needed a break from raising their two spoiled, out-of-control children. Grandpa had grown to love the dog who slept at the foot of his bed and accompanied him from room to room.
Moochie didn't urinate on the carpet or rip up furniture in Grandpa's peaceful house. He hadn't been displaced there.
My cousin had the dog destroyed. ``Pete's son'' didn't even bother to tell our grandfather about the ``Moochie problem'' until after his quick ``solution.''
Grandpa died a little more.
Thirty years ago, during a magical summer visit to his farm, my grandfather warned me: ``Grandpa won't be around much longer.'' At 65, he was contemplating mortality, preparing for an end to life, just as mine was beginning.
Maybe Grandpa felt himself ``slipping.'' Maybe he felt sorry for himself. He was no longer the strong, resourceful man he had been. Old age was his future. He might not live to see his adventurous granddaughter grow up.
For years I worried about his death, convinced - because I'd been told - that it would happen at any time.
Waiting for death, one's own or someone else's, is no way to live.
My 71-year-old father, long accustomed to a commanding, robust life, is starting to think - and speak - often of death. I understand why. It still hurts.
A used-car lot now consumes the yard where I pitched rings with Grandpa, and the farm is lost. The land barren. But my grandfather lives, reminding me how much life there is left as long as there is still life.
Today, on Easter Sunday, Grandpa will rise with the sun. He'll sit in the church that he has served for a lifetime. Sam, old Sam. He'll pray. His faith will restore him. He'll go home.
And later in the afternoon, he'll get a phone call. This time I hope he can tell me, ``As little as possible.'' MEMO: Ann G. Sjoerdsma is book editor of The Virginian-Pilot. by CNB