He Knocked it Out of the Park

Handsome, isn't he?  That's my Papa. Those steely eyes lit up when he smiled.

MAN am I going to miss those eyes.  And his laugh...you can't beat that laugh, especially when he thinks what your saying is particularly funny.  Like when I asked him to take me for a $5 coffee at Starbucks. Hysterical. Or when you were going to turn on a movie when he wanted to watch a baseball game. Oh wait, that wasn't funny at all.  That was treason.  

He loved to make others laugh, which was easy with his quick wit and great sense of humor.  I feel sad that there will be a hole now where his jokes used to be.  He was tough as nails and a total clown at the same time.  Pretty extraordinary.

I loved his hands the most. Calloused and worn from a lifetime of hard work. He carried all of us in those strong, capable hands.

His eyes got wide and serious as I asked him to hold Aurora for a picture, "No. Not tiny babies." I handed her to him anyway as he exclaimed "God damnit Brianna!"  But look, he smiled and everything. :)

I couldn't be more proud of my Papa.  He was the kind of man that his grandkids wrote essays about in grade school.  He played in the first Olympic baseball game in 1956, and taught me and my sisters how to swing like champions.  Weight on your back foot, pivot your hips, throw your hands at the ball and swing right through the ball upon contact.  Practice enough that when you step up to the plate, you know you can do it.  When you strike out, try again.  No matter what, I'm proud of you.

                         


When we were kids he insisted that he was a hundred year old Indian.  The gig was up when his grandson Ben insisted as much to his elementary school teacher, which resulted in a parent-teacher conference.  No one saw that one coming.

I still have a quarter that he gave me when I was almost sixteen, joking that it was for my first tank of gas--whatever was left over was for college.  I always knew the value of Papa's attention, wisdom, and affection, and I am forever grateful that he was generous with all of them.  When I was very young he pointed out my birthmark: "You have a butterfly just like me right on your calf...now that is something special." I felt like a million bucks. I still do.

He was the foundation of our family, the solid base that encouraged each of us to become and grow and succeed.  My world is rocked without him.  He worked to instill in us our worth and to recognize the strength of our hearts and minds.  He gave me the greatest gift of all by seeing me, all that I am, and showing me that I am valued and loved.  I could be exactly who I am around Papa, and he might not agree with it, but he valued it nonetheless.  And he taught me to do that, too.

He was certainly not hesitant about voicing his opinions, and he would dual it out with me for hours, each of us defending our ideas and (sometimes) learning from one another.  Either way, there were no hard feelings or grudges.  Its a rare and beautiful thing to stand on opposite sides of an issue, and not have that create distance. One of his many admirable qualities.

For now I am left longing for more conversations around the dinner table late into the night, and a deep feeling of gratitude for the amazing man that was George Zucca, my Papa.  I hope everyone can rest in the knowledge that you don't have to be perfect or avoid mistakes in order to be truly great and to leave an incredible impact on this world.  Papa didn't get everything right, but he absolutely knocked it out of the park.

 

Being Unforgettable

"Don't forget me," said Mimi as I hugged her good bye.

 I had been able to stuff down my tears the entire day, but her words shattered my resilience.  She had requested that people didn't say things to make her cry, and that she didn't want to say good bye. She thought this whole ordeal of knowing that you were going to die was quite cruel, and made it clear that she didn't want to think about it.   But I had to get on a plane, and in that moment that we both knew would be our last together, we couldn't help ourselves.

"You've made me who I am today Mimi. I could never forget you."

She nodded, accepting the weight and truth of my tear soaked words. "I need you to know how much I love you, and that you have always made me feel beautiful and loved and cherished."

"I know. I know." She said gently, looking straight into my eyes. She diverted her gaze to her dresser across the room, "Now stop."

"I will. I love you Mimi." I let go of her hand that I knew so well, walked down the stairs, and cried for all the moments ahead that I wouldn't have her with me. I wept for all the life we had shared for the last 29 years. The good, the bad, the big and the small. I cried for the pain and fear she had now that I couldn't take away.

Mimi is certainly unique, but that is not what makes her unforgettable.  The connection she built with me, memory by memory, makes her a part of who I am. She has helped shape the way I think about myself and the world. She is a co-writer of my story.

Week-long visits over the summer, yearly vacations to Graeagle with the whole family, holidays, birthdays, whatever-days.  My memory is filled with nights snuggled together on the couch watching movies; waking up to the smell of eggs and pancakes before rushing down to find her in her purple robe and slippers. Long days at Great America with hot dogs for lunch...animal keys at the zoo...even a dance party in a limo bus. The list goes on and on.  The stories I could tell are endless.  One particularly funny time started with: "I have to put my feet in the sand in Rosarito." The tale includes a 3-hour senior citizen bus tour down to Mexico, being rescued by strangers on an ATV from a beach sandstorm, and Mimi happily having tequila poured down her throat like a feisty college student.  So many times and in so many ways, we got to share life together.

Mimi is not perfect.  Our chapters together were filled with both love and conflict.  She could insult you one second and hug you the next.  Profanity was deemed appropriate anytime, anywhere. There are certainly many "what the?!?" stories I could tell.  But I know that Mimi doesn't want me to forget those either.  We learn from each experience, and grow through our relationships.  Mimi's roots run deep, and I am grateful that I got to reassure her of just how unforgettable she is.

This week close your eyes and breathe in the details of life--the feeling of sun on your skin, the smell of cool fresh air, the taste of something delicious, the sound of beautiful music--its a tribute to this great woman who always remembered to enjoy the small things.