Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009); Part III: Dear Eddie

I never called you Eddie in real life, but when you shuffle off this mortal coil, the rules change.

You were quite a character who made an impression on everyone. You were, in my mind, an eternally happy person who was never hesitant to laugh or be silly. When I was 6 or 7, we played two games together when I had sleepovers at your house. In the first game, I played SpiderMan and you were the Hulk. Basically, it was a wrestling game.

Then, as I was going to sleep, you would lay with me in the bed, and we would pretend that the dark room was made of candy. You would say, "That lamp over there, the shade? It's made out of marshmellows." I would say, "Those little lumps on the ceiling are white jelly beans." It would go on for hours. Do you remember?

The only nobility I could ever assign to the game of golf came from you. Until you moved to VA, it was a constant in your life. We met you at the clubhouse after a round for lunch; you drove me around on the cart; we dined at the fancy restaurant for members on special occasions. Everyone always said that, with the way you played, the way you swung the clubs, it did not make sense for you to be very good. But you were. It was like you made up your own rules about how the game worked. Good job.

You and my father and my two uncles were all in the military. I am not. However, I will always understand something unique about the country because of all of your examples. For all my anti-establishment leanings, I will always have respect for soldiers because, in my mind, they could all be you.

You ate, talked, and laughed like someone in love with life, someone for whom it is a joy to be alive. Thank you for that. It was contagious.

It might have been difficult to let your son and daughters take care of you in your final years. You were not someone used to needing things from other people. You did it with grace, but, sometimes it was probably difficult.

Over the last several months, from what I saw and heard, you had a standard chorus. Whenever you felt it well up, or during moments when you could not understand the conversation going on around, you would say "I am happy to be here with everybody. I just want you to know that I love all of you; I am the luckiest guy in the world. God has really blessed me."

You went back to Normandy as an older guy, to retrace your steps liberating France. You traveled to Ireland to stomp on your old ancestral haunts.

Your heavy New York accent, and the lighter one that my aunt and mom still have, are soothing. To this day, running into someone with a New York accent at a store or a restaurant makes me feel a little at home.

You loved music, movies, and culture. You passed it down to all of the grandkids in different ways. When BDP and I stayed up late tonight playing silly clips on the Internet and new tunes to each other, some of that sense of appreciation had its seed in you. I remember fondly going to a two movies in the theater with you: Michael Collins and We Were Soldiers.

As a kid, I thought you were a genius; maybe you were. You were a crossword ace and had an encyclopedic knowledge of history. You always seemed smarter than all of us around you, but humbly so.

You had a charming smile and the most endearing laugh. From low in your belly. You were quick to touch people -- a hand on the shoulder, a hug, or a squeeze of the hand.

Ultimately, strangely, maybe I did not know you. You were probably so much rounder of a character than I could ever imagine as your grandchild, who didn't see you all that often after I became an adult. I am sure you had failings, griefs, regrets. I know that you made dynamic changes in the relationships with your kids as they became adults, becoming more sensitive and expressive. In some ways, I will only know you as the strong and comforting cardboard cut-out that I saw during most of my youth. I wasn't your peer or your confidante. No moment ever came where the generational wall came down and you shared any deeply vulnerable side of yourself.

I am telling you something, though: that super hero version of yourself is best thing you could have given me. If I hit your mark, or even close to it, when I am 60 and beyond, I will be a great success.

While I know that the writing I have done over the several days has been an attempt to navigate through your passing, it has not worked all the way. On one hand, I am at peace with your departure. On the other, I will always, always miss you.

Grandpa, a tout a l'heure. Je t'aime.