“It is all a journey. From one land to the next. From one life to another. Remaking ourselves always under the same sun and moon. A generation later, that immigrant’s child stands for the first time on the old land. Familiar, yet strange. A bittern weaves its music over the mountain. Memory rich in song. The heart come home.” — Riverdance, 2002
About a week ago, I spent several days with my grandfather[1], Papa, in San Diego.
I’m a homebody, so it’s difficult for me to want to travel, but I knew I’d be making a trip to California after seeing Papa last Christmas.
My papa is a bit like an Irish Tom Cruise; he doesn’t age.
Papa’s distinct red curls are what I adore most about him. While my hair already has streaks of gray tangled with dyed blonde highlights and natural browns, Papa’s hair has always been mostly red. On our trip to North Carolina last year, for the first time, I noticed a slight change in his appearance. His hair was more gray than red, as if he were a mere mortal and not the ageless, all-seeing wise man I know him to be.
Nothing else was different. Papa still looked half his age. He was as sharp as ever, ridiculously strong, and more in shape than I was, with the same wise-cracking mouth I grew up emulating. Still, I couldn’t shake my misgivings when I thought of him in San Diego, far away from his family in Pensacola.
My head was full of thoughts of persuading Papa to move in with me. I considered options on how best to entice him to uproot his life in San Diego, or failing that, how to relocate my small family to California to be with him. I knew I was being silly, blinded by my failure to convince my dad to move in with me when he was sick. I wanted Papa to need me the way Dad needed me, so I could make up for all my mistakes.
Papa doesn’t need to be saved. He has a rich life full of travel and friends (he has more social[2] engagements than I do!) He’s been all over the world and has no plans to slow down anytime soon. Papa has family in San Diego, and he knows where his daughter and granddaughters are if he decides to move closer to us one day. A part of me still wants to insist upon his immediate evacuation to wherever I may be at any given time just to be safe, but I know that’s crazy and selfish. Too many people in California love him, and he’s too independent for me to demand he give up everything just to make me feel better.
Papa always knows just what to say to make me feel better.
When I was eleven, I began to develop an intellectual curiosity about the world. I struggled to reconcile my budding interests with the religious beliefs my friends held. I remember going to church with a friend and falling in love with all the pageantry and Latin, though I was less thrilled about all the standing up and kneeling. When someone told me I could not believe in both evolution and God, I turned to Papa for help.
Papa replied with a detailed email outlining evolution, God, and most importantly, how to think about them both. He did this in a way that an eleven-year-old could understand, with no bias or judgment. Despite being a non-believer himself, Papa wrote, “It is okay to believe in God and evolution. The important thing is for you to ‘think’ and use your brain to decide what you think is right. Anyone who tells you that you cannot think a certain way or believe a certain way is narrow-minded.”
At fourteen, Papa took me (plus Libby and Mom) to the New York Times offices in NYC for a “behind the scenes” tour of that big-time newspaper. Papa went to school with the Foreign Desk Editor, Ford Burkhart, and scored us an invite. I was too young, and not yet sure of myself or what I wanted to do in life, to truly appreciate how big of a deal this was. I enjoyed it immensely, of course, but lacked the life experience to understand how rare and monumental this gift was.
When I graduated from high school, Papa and I set off on our greatest adventure yet, just the two of us. We flew to the land of our ancestors, Ireland. We took a bus tour around the coast. Our driver was a sweet old Irish man with the cutest accent. We wined and dined in a castle while being serenaded by a harpist, and stopped at quaint seaside villages—each one equipped with a bar and locals willing to play Irish drinking songs for the adoring tourists. Ireland was everything I hoped it would be, and seeing it with Papa for the first time made it even more special.
I have so many memories with Papa, so many other trips we’ve been on together. When we were kids, we went snowboarding for the first time with Papa, staying in a beautiful log cabin over Christmas. Dad went to rehab during that trip, and getting away from all the drama at home was the only thing that could have saved the holiday that year.
Papa always made the effort to see us growing up, at least once a year, and that made a difference. His influence in my life can’t be overstated. Papa was there for me whenever I needed guidance and support, which is incredibly important for a young person.
I’m ready to be there for him in the way he’s always been there for me, but I’m happy to know that he doesn’t need me quite yet.
Happy birthday, Papa. I love you so.
[1] He’s my grandpa on my mom’s side. I never met my dad’s parents, as they both passed before I was born.
[2] OK, that’s not really saying much. I’m notoriously anti-social. How about, He has more social engagements than my sister and mother combined!
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love this!
So beautiful and heartfelt. Love your writing – and love learning more about your people and your adventures.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate your support more than you know ❤️
Kinsey, I just read (or re-read) that piece you wrote after your visit in June. I don’t recall reading it before, but then maybe that is just my memory going haywire. Honestly, I had to wipe away a little tear. You have such a wonderful way of describing events and people, especially those people you care about. I want you to know that I feel the same way and that I am getting to know you as an adult and it is very heartwarming. I love you so… Papa
I re-read my posts often, checking for inconsistencies and grammar mistakes, making minor edits to sentences or even major overhauls, should the mood strike me—so, this version might differ from the one you read all those months ago! (There should be an “updated date” located somewhere, for those interested in that sort of thing.) I know for a fact that I added several photos to this post that weren’t included originally, so you’re likely seeing pictures this time that weren’t included before. Photos can make all the difference. Before, I was excited about all the baby pictures I came home with, so it only had those, but later I realized it made more sense to include photos of us on our trip to New York and Ireland, given that’s what I was talking about in the post!