That phrase always signaled a decisive end of my grandfather’s visit to my parent’s house when I was younger. With those words, my grandfather would rise sharply from the couch, sneak dollar bills into my hands and the hands of my siblings and drive off, more often than not, in his paint-encrusted, white Chevrolet station wagon he used in his work as a painting contractor.

A decidedly handsome man, he reminded everyone of a Hungarian Caesar Romero, with dark, thick, wavy hair which, in later years, turned shock-white, all the while maintaining its thick texture. I can still sense his smells– the after-shave mingled with the lingering scent of lacquer and paint thinner– whichever he was using last.

His strong, sure hands were those of a true artisan, chiseled and firm as only a man who has used them in labor for decades would possess, yet at the same time, gentle, passionate and artistic.  The hands one would imagine a painter on the left bank of Paris would gesture in the air to judge the scope and shape of any scene about to be painted.  My grandfather would wave those hands before any scene as if he were able to transpose the images directly onto canvas through thin air. 

This was a man of great contradictions, wearing jackets mismatched to pants, but always jacketed and always elegant. Until his very last days, he would never hesitate to kiss any woman’s hand as they entered his room. He was strong, firm and direct, but a kidder of the first degree.

One of my most favorite (and conversely, one of my younger brother’s least favorite) memories is of a fishing trip the three of us took so many years ago. I couldn’t have been older than twelve and my brother eight years old. We went on a chartered deep sea fishing boat out of Miami, Florida. 

The boat was filled with other families seeking to catch Marlin, Tarpon or Yahoo, but, more likely than not, they were just catching colds, good memories and deep sunburns (these were, after all the sixties and the idea that a sunburn could cause skin cancer into the next millennium had not even been imagined).

The weather was particularly nasty, and as the boat heaved across the turbulent seas, my brother was experiencing his own heaving down below. Owing as much to his bad luck that day, the Head (or bathroom), where he spent the bulk of that trip was located right next to the dining table where my grandfather and I were consuming great quantities of the fried chicken, potato salad and pickles packed with loving care by my grandmother. Suffice it to say, the timing of our turning to the bathroom door and crunching pickles or devouring chicken drumsticks was coincidental with my brother’s brief but colorful visits outside the bathroom door. He was as green as the ocean and the color of the ship– as I said, a great memory. 

My grandfather came to this country in the 1930’s, yet he never lost his thick and luxurious Romanian accent. Born in Transylvania, the land of Dracula and shifting borders, he jumped ship into the waters of the Baltimore harbor off of a Russian freighter onto which he had been consigned at the age of seventeen. Making his way to New Jersey, he became an American citizen, and at the age of 35, he enlisted to fight in World War II.  He became a baker in the Navy construction forces, (the Seabees). This, according to my mother, was a mixed blessing, as after the war, he could never seem to be able to adapt the military recipes designed for battalions to baking for his family of three. My mom fondly remembers giving away or throwing out mountains of extra cake and cookies whenever he took to the kitchen.

Another brother story: When my brother was in his late teens and enrolled in Miami Dade Community College, among his classmates was, (you guessed it) my grandfather. Desiring to complete his interrupted education, my grandfather enrolled in courses at the same college. I have to admit that seeing your grandfather on the Dean’s List semester after semester could certainly be disconcerting to any college student!

I returned home for a visit to celebrate my grandfather’s eightieth birthday in 1987. As I entered my mother’s house, I saw my grandfather standing on a chair that was placed on top of a desk in my childhood bedroom. He was painting the house– the entire house– alone. Why?  “Because it should look good for the celebration.”  And besides, he had been meaning to do it for a while.

In the mid-nineties, when in his mid-eighties, my grandfather started showing signs of early stage Alzheimer’s. This was a devastating blow to the entire family. Here was invincible Joe Weiss, the man who, until his seventies, had never been a patient in any hospital, who worked until his early eighties and who was, in the truest sense, adored by his extended family. 

Our goal from that point forward was to create a sense of what I call “Transparent Caregiving.” We would construct a world where he felt he was still in charge, but where he was also safe from harm. The adult day care center where he spent the day became his “job.” He would stand outside of his apartment complex and wait for the bus to take him to “work.” During off-days, he would be on “vacation.” Ms. Monica Dunkley, a magnificent caregiver who ran the center, took him under her wing. But, to Gramp, his boss was the man who was the activities director. In Gramp’s time, the bosses were usually men, so this man was boss. Which was fine with everyone concerned, including Monica.

In time, as his disease progressed, the day came where adult day care was no longer an appropriate answer, and as his medical needs changed, he was moved from assisted living to nursing home care. Throughout the entire time though, he never failed to brighten up when my mom, his daughter, entered the room. She was the center of his universe and was always there for him.

I loved to sit for long periods of time holding his hand and “talking” with him about what, I will never know. I will always remember these as bittersweet moments; I savor the times we spent together and cherish the occasions he would smile and point to his mouth, asking for a kiss, which I cheerfully administered. Alternatively, I have never felt sadder for him. Sometimes, while in the assisted living facility, he would hit his head repeatedly, as if to say,  “I know I am not thinking as well as I should and I am no longer in control.” As if he could beat his mind to be better, like hitting the side of a soda machine when the drink fails to appear.  Although I could always redirect his energies, and he eventually stopped the practice, this fleeting acknowledgment of his own failing mind haunts me to this day.  

The day he died, I was packed and ready to travel to New York for business. It was about 9:45 in the morning and as I sat on the couch in my apartment, I suddenly looked over my shoulder at a picture on the wall behind me. It was a self-portrait Gramp had painted in the mid-seventies.  The face that he saw looking back at him when painting this portrait was strong and kind and handsome, with no idea of what future lay ahead.   A moment in time, which came alive for me at that instant and replaced the face afflicted by advanced age and illness, the one I had become used to over these past few years. 

By the time I left the house and entered the car to go to the airport, I received a call from my brother. The call had come from the hospital where our grandfather had been battling pneumonia for the past week. Gramp was gone. He had passed about fifteen minutes earlier… around 9:45.

To this day, when thinking of Gramp, I can only conjure up the self-portrait, which hangs over my couch, painted so many years ago. Not his later visage– one last gift from Gramp.

“Okay. We go now.”

Gary Barg
Editor-in-Chief
gary@caregiver.com