In Memorium

My grandfather's lair was the den. That's where I see him in all my childhood memories. I'd arrive for a visit after a long ride, my grandparents live in New Rochelle, New York, and he'd be sitting in the back room, in his recliner with wood paneling all around. The aroma was of beer. Grandpa drank Budweiser out of longnecks - the kind they don't make anymore - and if we were very good he'd let my brothers and me take a pull out of the bottle, or a sip out of a Dixie cup. I'd pretend to like it, to feel more adult, but I didn't. I remember playing at my grandfather's feet, occasionally looking up to for validation whenever I did anything I thought particularly clever. It always came.

His chair has permanent lean to one side, caused by years of resting on the lamp side to get light to read by. He read voraciously. At some point he even picked up a taste for romance novels, the kind with women fainting into the arms of ripped shirted latharios on the cover. I remember seeing stacks of such books on the table next to his chair and thinking it odd that he read the same things my mother did. I never said anything. I wouldn't dream of it as a child, and as I got older I discovered Grandpa had been a marine in WWII, was among the first deployed at Gualdelcanal. I figure he'd earned the right to read what ever he wanted.

Grandpa spent countless hours in that den. It's easy to forget that he had a full life outside of it. By all accounts, he moved through life with quiet strength. He grew up tough. He enlisted in the Marines after Pearl Harbor, but was hard pressed to discuss it. He came back became a plumber, married my grandmother - who he loved and remained married to for over fifty years - and started a family. He worked hard. My father has told me about the long hours spent in cramped conditions which often remained unheated in winter and insufferably hot in summer. He didn't stand for doing a job in any other way than the right way. My father has told me that in his summers spent helping my grandfather, he was given very limited responsibilities because he did not do things the right way - my father did not inherit grandpa's talent with his hands. My father also has told me many times that grandpa was an excellent mason. He was good with stone and brick, and produced wonderful walls and walks. When my father talks of this I sometimes think he views this as more of an art than a simple skill. Although my grandfather would probably deny such talk.

Grandpa did not brag. He did not boast of himself. He was by all accounts a very good golfer. He had - I am told - an excellent short game. But I never heard him brag of this. When he talked about golf - which was quite often - I usually remember him talking about the weather, the guys he was with, the good times had. He did brag and boast about one thing though - his family. He was proud of my father who graduated from college joined the Air Force later became a minister, and, most important of all, started a family. He was proud of his other four children too and of their children. My later visits with him were filled with news about how well my cousins were doing, how good some were at sports, or how some had started college and were doing well, or how well some were doing in there jobs.

I remember talking to him the day of my college graduation. He was proud of me. I told him I made magna cum laude. He was proud because I had done it, that I had applied myself. I remember telling him about my doubts for the future, how I had no real plans. He encouraged me. He told me I could do anything. Even over the last couple of years, as I've become something of a screw up with vast periods of unemployment, he was still proud of me. The last time I saw him - last summer - he was still proud of me. He had no doubt I would make it, that I would make him and the rest of my family proud.

My Grandfather, Sonny Catullo, was laid to rest last Thursday, leaving behind a loving if grieving family. We stood in awe of him, who had done so much, much more than I can tell you now. He leaves behind children and grandchildren who were proud of him and who he was proud to call his family. He also left behind at least one grandson who wants to live up to the pride his grandfather had in him, I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Shalom