Remembering Grandpa Julie

It's hard to believe, but today marks 11 years since my grandfather on my dad's side passed away.

I was a freshman in college, and I'll never forget the phone ringing early one morning. Half asleep in my bed on the eighth floor of Metcalf Hall, I answered the phone, and my mom told me the sad news, "I'm sorry, but Grandpa Julie passed away this morning."

I remember not knowing what to do. I didn't know how to react. Family members had passed before, but none who were particularly close to me. Not like a grandparent. He was the first.

I didn't cry, not for a few days. It wasn't real, though. I had no concept of what "a death in the family" was supposed to feel like. I'd never felt one before. I still had friends all around me. I was still on campus. Nothing really changed for me in the immediate present at the time.

My parents drove up from Charlotte and picked me up in Raleigh, and we hit the road to New Jersey. Strangely, I remember almost nothing about the drive to New Jersey and the immediate aftermath of arriving. I don't remember where we stayed. I don't remember seeing my grandmother for the first time after we arrived. It's all gone, until the morning of the funeral.

I remember the car ride to my grandparents' condo in Woodbridge. I immediately grew attached to the song "In My Life," by the Beatles. I listened to it exclusively on repeat the entire day, and for months afterward, I couldn't listen to it at all because it reminded me of that day.

My emotions finally caught up to me when we got to the funeral home. We hadn't seen him yet, but the act of arriving at that place triggered it. I was inconsolable the entire time we were there before the funeral actually started. Finally, to break the tension I undoubtedly had a hand in creating, either my father or one of my uncles came up to me, and, as only one of them could do, said, "Listen, I know you're upset, but it's not like you can hop in the coffin with him."

Lulz.

It was funny then, and it's funny now, so don't feel bad if you chuckled. I certainly did at the time. I was better after that.

Anyway, this post is not so much about that as about him.

He was super outgoing and super friendly. And he always seemed happy and content wherever he was.

The very last memory I have of him, he called me in my dorm room. I believe he was in the hospital at the time, but someone had just given him a Backstreet Boys CD. Like you do. I know when I think of a 77-year-old man, I think of the Backstreet Boys, too.

But he had never heard of them, so he called me to do some research on them.

"Hey Bri, I just got this CD. I don't know these people. What kind of music is it? Should I like this?"
"Haha. Yes, Grandpa, you should like this. It's fun, peppy music. It's like dance music. It's really fun, and you should listen to it."

So he did. How can you not love that? haha.

The other lasting memory I have is one of my family's favorite stories about him. My uncle used to live in Atlanta, and one year, my parents and grandparents went down there to visit him and his family. We all went to the Coca Cola museum one day. I've been there a few times, and it's a pretty cool trip.

Well, the thing with Grandpa Julie was you always had to keep an eye on him -- not because he couldn't handle himself and he needed to be taken care of, but because he had the tendency to just put his hands in his pockets and wander around, checking things out.

He was very laid back, and he liked to walk around and check out his surroundings. So we're at the Coke museum, and we're walking around. Sure enough, we lost sight of him.

We're asking each other who saw him last, where was he, what direction was he going. We weren't panicking or anything; we knew he'd turn up like he always did.

Finally, after a few minutes of our own wandering around in search of him, the doors to the theater where they show old Coke commercials and films opened. Out strolled Grandpa Julie with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face.

"Grandpa, what happened?"
"Well, I was walking around, looking at everything, and I found this room with the screen. When I got to the other side to leave, the doors closed and the lights went down, so I just sat down for a few minutes."

Of course he did.

And I'll always remember how my grandparents had their own little game of Marco Polo in every store we ever visited. Because of my grandfather's penchant for wandering, they often got separated in stores. What happened next never failed to crack me up.

From one side of the store (or, in most cases, one aisle to the aisle next to it), you'd hear them shout to each other, exactly like a game of Marco Polo:

"Etta!"
"Julie!"
"Etta!"
"Julie!"

And hit repeat on that chorus until they found each other again. Hilarious.

So yeah. Sorry it got a little sad up at the top; it's just such a vivid memory for me, I felt compelled to write it down. It's still sad, of course, but after 11 years, it's much easier to remember and smile about the happy memories than that day.

And even 11 years later, I can still hear his one-beat laugh that broke the silence and traveled above the din of every room in which he found himself, either accidentally or on purpose. It seemed to come decibels louder than the rest of his laugh, "HEH!" And you know, I can't remember what his laugh sounded like, other than that. But I'll never forget that.

It's so funny -- the things that stick with you over the course of time.

Eleven years today. Incredible how fast time goes. Anyway, he was as much of a character as one person could possibly be. And it's truly hilarious to see my father picking up more and more of his mannerisms as he gets older. And it's truly terrifying when I catch myself picking up the very same mannerisms as I get older.

We're all destined to become our fathers, I suppose. But that's not always a bad thing.

We miss you, and we love you, Grandpa. Always!

-BG