It is after 4:30 am in Indiana, 1:30 am in Portland. Either way you look at it, it is a time where most people are asleep. Right now, clearly, I am not one of those people. Yesterday was supposed to be a day of closure but here I am typing away, restless as ever. My former home feels unfamiliar and my wife is 3,000 miles away. My hand has a bruise on it from the casket, it doesn't hurt.
For those of you who didn't know Ervin Jankowski, I feel sorry for you. You missed out on encountering one of the most sincere and endearing individuals of the past 100 years. As far as grandfathers go, I do not think it gets much better.
When a 6 year old me needed a partner to play catch with while mother worked overtime, Dziadzia would lumber out, put on a mitt and run after poorly thrown pitches that rolled down the hill. If I had a sporting event, Erv would be there. And although he would be drowned out by the boisterous cheers of my mother, his support rang clear and true. He brought joy to our little faces at Christmas time when he played Santa. When we became old enough to know it was him, the joy remained, even increased, as we watched a younger generation be filled with that sense of wonderment that only an old Polish man with a huge nose and a hearty laugh dressed as Santa can bring.
The last time I talked with him he asked about Lisa (He had a thing for beautiful women). The conversation was brief as he wasn't much of a talker but he sounded great in that short time before he handed off the phone to Busia per the normal routine. While the conversation was always brief, the message was always conveyed with utmost clarity. You could tell through a shrug or a pause how he was feeling that day. That last time we talked was a good day. I could tell he was happy for me. He was happy that his grandson found love. He was proud of me. He was always proud of me, of all the grandchildren, even when I was terrible. That is who he was. That is what made him wonderful.
I think I can sleep now. God bless you, Dziadzia.
