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"Just be who you are, calm and clear and bright." - Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea.’

My grandpa Ted passed away this afternoon. He was ninety, and hadn’t been well in quite awhile, but it still came as a bit of a shock. You know how, when you’re little, you think your parents are invincible? That’s how I’d always felt about Grandpa Ted.

(With his father and four of his six sisters. Thanks to our cousin Paula for this picture.)

During the war my grandfather was a petty officer aboard a destroyer in the South Pacific. He went for more than a year without setting foot on land, and that was the easy part–he’d survived kamikazes and two typhoons, during which the temperature in the engine room reached 180º F. When he got back to the States, he spent nearly a year convalescing in naval hospitals; for the rest of his life he dealt with some serious medical problems as a result of war-related injuries, and yet he always seemed to defy everybody’s expectations. (Just to give you an idea, today he received Last Rites for the fifth time.) He never thought he’d live to see ninety; I sometimes joked he’d outlive us all.

(Summer 2005. This is how I want to remember him–robust, striding around the block in his Abercrombie & Fitch ballcap and t-shirt.)

(At the Mary Modern launch party with Grandpa Ted, Grandmom Kass, and Grandpop Mike, July 2007.)

We didn’t always agree–heck, that feels like an understatement, given our diametrical political beliefs–but he was a good man, and I loved him very much.

(Two pics from summer ’06, with kids and grandkids.)

I want to tell you the story of how my grandparents met. At the naval hospital in San Diego, they told him they were sending him home to New York for his big operation, and gave him a choice between hospitals in Queens (St. Albans) and Brooklyn. He knew that St. Albans was the newer hospital, and naturally he wanted to be treated at the best facility available. He opened his mouth fully intending to say “St. Albans,” but “Brooklyn” is what came out. If he’d chosen the hospital in Queens he would never have met my grandmother.

She was a lovely 23-year-old volunteer social worker, midway through an M.S.W. she would never complete. Sitting up in bed, he’d strain for a glimpse of her as she passed by his room. So he could speak to her, he kept asking for another pack of playing cards, and she asked him tartly how he could possibly lose so many decks. He wore her down, of course, and they married seven months later.

I’ve always been fascinated with this story for that one inexplicable slip of the tongue. Thank you, thank you, thank you for choosing Brooklyn, Nonno.

(What’s even more uncanny is that she wasn’t supposed to be in Brooklyn either–she’d been assigned to a hospital in Trenton, but another volunteer, who’d been assigned to Brooklyn, asked my grandmother to switch so she could be close to her family. My grandmother agreed, even though Trenton offered free housing and Brooklyn did not. She was that nice.)

I’m so glad I got the chance to sit down with Grandpa Ted while he was still in good health and ask him about his childhood in Italy and his life during the war. I’ve been meaning to edit the raw audio and put all the stories on CD. Now would be a good time, eh?

(Outside the Brooklyn Naval Hospital, sometime in 1947.)

Home is the sailor, home from the sea. (I think I like the A.E. Housman version better than Stevenson’s.)

[Note on 19th May: I have made a few edits to the above for historical accuracy–after talking to my aunt Eileen and listening to the stories we recorded in 2007, I realized I’d made a few mistakes.]

9 Comments to ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea.’

  1. Emily's Gravatar Emily
    May 18, 2010 at 4:12 am | Permalink

    What a lovely homage to your grandpa, Camille. It sounds like he had an amazing life full of love, despite all the intense stories of war. 🙂

  2. Neil's Gravatar Neil
    May 18, 2010 at 5:44 am | Permalink

    I'm sorry about his passing. He seems to have had a full, well-lived life.

  3. Pare's Gravatar Pare
    May 18, 2010 at 11:11 am | Permalink

    This was beautiful, Camille, in so many ways. With a love that defies plans & words & human intention like that, how could your grandparents be anywhere *but* together right now? Maybe they're in Brooklyn…

    All my love to you & Kate & the rest of your clearly wonderful family. I'm thinking of you.

  4. Maggie, Dammit's Gravatar Maggie, Dammit
    May 18, 2010 at 12:01 pm | Permalink

    You honor him, Camille. This is so lovely and he sounds like an amazing man. What a story.

    Again, I'm so sorry for your loss. Love and more love and then a bit more love to you.

  5. nova ren suma's Gravatar nova ren suma
    May 18, 2010 at 2:21 pm | Permalink

    Camille, I am so very sorry to hear about your grandpa Ted. This was such a beautiful and touching tribute to him and to his life and his legacy.

    Much love to you and your family.

  6. proper miss's Gravatar proper miss
    May 18, 2010 at 2:30 pm | Permalink

    that was lovely. So sorry for your loss, he sounds like an amazing fellow.

  7. Anonymous's Gravatar Anonymous
    May 18, 2010 at 5:23 pm | Permalink

    Your words and the depth of your love are beautiful – just like you. What a lovely tribute to both your grandfather and grandmother!

  8. Kate's Gravatar Kate
    May 18, 2010 at 5:46 pm | Permalink

    It's so weird to think that he's no longer here. I'm going to miss the man who taught me how to dive, encouraged me to be a lawyer, and told me that he would vote for me even if I was a Democrat.

  9. yvonne's Gravatar yvonne
    May 19, 2010 at 10:09 am | Permalink

    Camille, lovely tribute to your Grandfather. Really romantic story about how your grandparents met and beautifully written xx

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Hi! I'm Camille. I only write stories that could never ever happen in real life, though I do believe in real-life magic. If we were in the same room I'd fix you a cup of tea, but for now we'll have to settle for a virtual connection. I'm really glad you're here.