Today, our Papa died.
I say “our Papa” because “my Papa” sounds too possessive for a man lovingly claimed by many. Originally, he was my mother’s and her siblings’ Papa. When us grandkids came around, the name became more of a title and we picked up the moniker. Weeks ago, when my Mom and I told my childhood neighbors about Papa’s health decline, they told us that their own girls grew up calling him Papa. They also said that they didn’t even know his real name until about ten years after living next door to my family. I know in writing that seems weird, but it’s the best compliment in the world. His legal name didn’t matter. His character did. For my family, that character was Papa.
When at undergrad, I had a professor who – while explaining the criteria of assignments and what would constitute as a reasonable request for extra time – announced to us not to use some dead grandparent as an excuse. It wasn’t as crass as that, but the message was clear: no grandchild ACTUALLY cares that much for a grandparent so don’t pretend to be so upset by it. In all fairness, I think he also got a lot of fake death claims so students could get extensions. Either way, the first thought to pop into my head was: You don’t know my family.
Papa was the first person to take me to a collegiate sporting event. I was around the middle school age and I got a t-shirt: a beautiful cardinal red shirt with STANFORD plastered across the chest.
I remember going to his home and there always being a stash of See’s Candies espresso lollipops. The aroma filled the house and it is that smell, plus the smell of his favorite chewing gum, that I remember him by. Also, oatmeal and granola. When I first heard the expression “crunchy” or “granola eaters,” I didn’t understand why it was applied to new age hippies since I’d always associated granola with, well, older people. No offense.
We shared a love for the movie Beetlejuice. It was my “go to” film whenever he babysat me and when I discovered he had accidentally taped over it for Niners football, I didn’t speak to him for a week. By the way, I was little, so it was more like a temper tantrum.
Every birthday party and Christmas get-together was filled with his presence. He had a quick wit, dry humor, and he chuckled at his own remarks as if to invite us to laugh with him, reminding us that he’s only joking.
Papa, with my brother Jon and my Dad at mine and Nick’s wedding.
We could count on Papa to be there for every family event. He was there for my graduation ceremonies. For my wedding. The first thing he did when he visited me my first week at college was go into the bookstore and buy a UC Davis Under Armor pullover. We went to women’s basketball games together and ate at Burgers & Brew. Even after Nick and I moved to Texas, I’d hear about how Papa occasionally drove to Davis for dinner at B&B and a basketball game. To be honest, when Nick and I first found out that we were moving back, I thought we’d get to do that together again. Why not? Papa was always there for us. Especially for all of the fun and exciting things. Going to Giants games. Tahoe for Christmas. Nick’s Masters’ commencement ceremony:
Realizing that this presence is removed from my life is beyond upsetting. I believe in heaven, which should be comforting (and I guess to a degree it is), but right now I don’t feel comforted. I don’t feel Papa’s love all around me in a spiritual manner. I feel him gone. And I feel sad.
The nice thing is, while Nick was comforting me with the thoughts of the memories we still have of him, I realized that I have more than that. More than the Vonnegut memory time travel. When I first learned that Papa’s health had quickly and suddenly declined, I flew out to see him. Part of the trip included my Mom and I discussing “Papa-isms.” Things that Papa said; things that Papa did. And the coolest part? These “Papa-isms” have been passed on generation to generation. She passed them down to me and I have started passing them down to my own children.
It’s more than his favorite catch phrases, his favorite jokes that we’ve inherited. The reason why the idea of Papa’s sickness, of Papa not being alive, is so upsetting is because a year ago he was white water rafting. In October, he was in Northern Ireland with my Mom and my Aunt Nora. After that he went on a motorcycle ride to camp out. He was always doing that. Hitting the road on his Beemer and camping in Death Valley. Camping in Zion. Taking only enough gear to fit in the cargo saddle bags of his bike. In addition to his sayings, I have the desire to be just like him. To do the things I want to do. No excuses. Papa died at 81. When the doctor told him he had two to six weeks to live, he said, “That’s okay. I’ve had a good life.” And while being inspired by Papa doesn’t help me process his death or sort my conflicted sorrows, knowing that I want to live like Papa lived does help me feel connected to him. Like practicing a philosophy or a religion. I hope to practice for a long time.
Meanwhile, Papa is a name and it is a title. When James was born, I introduced my Dad to James as Papa. It’s one of the highest forms of praise I can give him. Here’s to you, Papa: a husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and choice.
The Brothers Spada! 