Yesterday would have been my grandfather’s 103rd birthday. Opa was one of the first men I loved, besides my dad and my uncle. He and grandma lived in the same house as my parents and I when I grew up and he was the one person in my life that I remember always being around. He was just always there! When I was in kindergarden my mom would drive me there every morning even though we could have easily walked. As it was we were running late most mornings, due to the fact that my mother refused to leave the house if she was not properly dressed and made up. So as the mornings of my early childhood were frantic I always looked forward to the time kindergarden got out and Opa would be there to pick me up and we would walk home together, talking about our day and planning out our afternoon together. We did this every single day during my time in kindergarden (which is the equivalent to pre school here in the US), rain, shine, snow, hail. It was our routine and nothing could break it.
When I entered elementary school this routine changed to doing homework together every afternoon and by the time I was in high school we took bike rides every sunny Sunday afternoon. On those bike rides we talked about everything and anything. He never tired of reminding me that he only wanted the best for me, his only grandchild, and that he hoped I would have a fulfilled life full of love and joy, just like he had had. When I started playing tennis he would come to all of my training sessions and my games and when I was not playing myself we followed all big tournaments on TV together.
My grandfather was an avid gardener and since we had a lot of land surrounding our house he could grow vegetables and fruits to his heart’s content. Most days you could find him tending to his potatoes, tomatoes, celery, parsley, lettuce, raspberries, rhubarb, with me by his side lending a hand whenever and wherever I could.
During those long afternoons he often told me the stories of his long, eventful life and I was always a willing listener. Both my grandparents were young children during World War I and parents during World War II. While my grandfather fought against the allies in France his first wife passed away from asthma and left him a widower with a 10 year old boy, my dad, to take care of. While in France he was captured by British forces and spent the rest of the war as a POW. Although I could not have been easy he had no ill feelings towards the British and always told me that considering the circumstances they treated him as best they could. Come to think of it Opa never had ill feelings towards anyone.
After the war he moved in with his mother who had looked after my dad until Opa came home, and took a job with the city, a job he kept until he retired at the age of 60. If it had been up to him he would have stayed with the job but his health forced him into retirement. Opa suffered from chronic bronchitis for as long as I can remember and his coughing was one of those sounds from childhood you never forget. In fact for all those years I visited my parents after Opa had passed away I could still hear him cough. I once counted the amount of times he coughed during a soccer match: 78 times. Most of the time he dealt with his illness fairly well but the foggy days of fall and the bitter cold of the German winter often left him breathless, literally. As a child who loved him it was one of the hardest things to witness and the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. During the last few years of his life he spent all of his Christmas and New Year Holidays in the local hospital, and so did his family.
Opa was the most humble, frugal, unassuming human being I have ever met – to this day. I can not recall him ever buying anything new for himself. Instead he was happy as a clam wearing my dad’s hand me downs. He ate any meal you put in front of him without ever complaining about anything, showing nothing but gratefulness. He wore the same prescription glasses for all the years he needed them, glasses the insurance covered in full. He was also extremely witty and had kept his sharp mind until the day he died. And he was tough beyond anything I can imagine. I once witnessed him falling out of our plumb tree, ripping his leg open in the process and continuing on pruning said tree without the slightest flinch. My dad had to force him into the car that night to have the wound checked, a wound so deep it needed 40 stitches. But I guess after spending months as a POW nothing can make you flinch anymore.
The last time I saw him I was on my way back to the States to spend the summer in California. He was not feeling well at the time even though it was June and when I said good bye he hugged me just a little tighter and held me just a little longer. Looking back I believe he realized we would not see each other again in this life time, and when I think about it I realize I knew it too. We were in touch during the three months I was in California and everything seemed to be going OK. But the moment I walked back into our house in Germany upon my return and did not see him sitting on the couch I knew. Opa had passed away the morning of my arrival. In the end his respiratory system had finally given in and after spending one last week in the hospital he knew so well he had peacefully gone to sleep and not woken up again.
My dad asked me if I wanted to go see him in the morgue to say one last good bye but I could not bring myself to do it. Instead I wanted to remember him as the man full of life, with the bluest eyes you’d ever see, Opa, who had said his last good bye to me when I had last seen him alive.
It has been almost 20 years since the day he died. He passed away before knowing that I had met the man I would eventually marry, a man who was born in the country that had captured Opa in World War II. I know he would have smiled and rejoiced in the fact that I had found someone that would share the rest of my joyful life with me, someone who will always treat me as I am the only person in his life. Just like Opa wanted!
Today’s Running Tip: Run a race in memory of a loved one!
Running a race in memory of a loved one, family or friend, is a great motivation and will make pushing yourself much easier.
