Tre Miller Rodriguez's Blog, page 55

The gang gets educated on sazeracs, sugar and bootlegging....

The gang gets educated on sazeracs, sugar and bootlegging. #DrinkAndLearnTour (at Jackson Square, New Orleans)

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Published on February 07, 2016 09:41

Mr. Present’s 40th birthday + 5 members of his krewe + my 2nd...

Mr. Present’s 40th birthday + 5 members of his krewe + my 2nd Mardi Gras = NOLA on tilt.

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Published on February 03, 2016 04:34

It’s 5 o’clock Somewhere

On Friday, my grandfather and his cancer were placed on hospice in Texas. My mom, aunt and I placed ourselves on Saturday airplanes to Dallas. In the same bedroom where my Grandmother died in May, we gathered around him. His recent morphine dose meant we spent much of the afternoon watching his closed eyes and trying to decipher his inaudible words. Despite the meds, his pain was so great that holding his hand caused him to wince. I could only witness his physical pain and his daughters’ emotional pain in 10-minute shifts before dissolving into a mascara puddle.

Each of us took turns with him until 3pm on Sunday, when we all found ourselves at his bedside. I wondered aloud if we should share a few favorite memories of our 93-year-old patriarch, for whom it was always 5 o’clock somewhere?

I led off with summers at the beach house in San Clemente, where Gramp would send us grandkids down the street with a $5-dollar bill for ice-cream cones and a lotto ticket for him. Waiting my turn to brush his silky gray hair before sleeping on banana chairs under the stars, side-by-side with my cousins. Waking in the morning to sunburned cheeks and a view of the ocean.

Mom chimed in with stories of crewing with him in sailboat races (and winning a few trophies). Auntie wrapped things up with her adult appreciation of his support for her childhood equestrian hobby (what little girl doesn’t want to ride horses every afternoon? Her, apparently.) Our tear-choked ineloquence aside, we attempted to thank him for being the strong anchor at the center of these family memories.

When mom and my auntie exited for more Kleenex, I touched Gramp’s hand softly and told him I had to catch a flight. His eyes flew open—had he actually heard our memory dump?—and asked Where?

Back to New York, Gramp.

Right, he said.

I love you and can’t wait to see you and Grandmy again.

Me too, he said, making eye contact. Get better soon.

You too, I echoed.

Ha ha, he laughed.

We both knew I wasn’t sick and that he wasn’t going to get better, but I kissed his cheek and stepped out of the room, as if this wasn’t the last time we’d see each other on Earth.

Those moments of his lucidity carried me to the airport and back to the City, where I woke to the news that he died last night.

And, as they say on the show “Archer”: I have something for this.

The three legal-sized envelopes my Grandpa gave me in September, when I visited for his birthday. Three envelopes containing every letter, postcard and press clipping I’ve sent my grandparents since childhood. My Grandma meticulously filed all correspondence from her kids and grandkids, and after her death, Gramp decided to re-read the contents of these envelopes…and graciously present them to each of us.

Other than writing Gram’s obit, I delayed my journey down memory lane until today because my grandparents are inextricably entwined. After retirement, they rarely went anywhere without the other. If Gramp ate spicy food, Grandmy would get the indigestion. When Grandma read a book, its plot would settle in Gramp’s brain. I didn’t know how to approach grief for just one of them…so I didn’t. Until today.

The envelopes’ contents are now spread across my living-room floor, and so is my grief. It has pressed buttons on Pandora to flood my ears with Benny Goodman and Sinatra. It’s opened up photo albums to shake pictures loose. And it’s reached into the liquor cabinet to bring out the Angel’s Envy whiskey, over which I write these words shamelessly…because it’s 5 o’clock somewhere, right Grandpa?

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Published on January 20, 2016 12:47