Our Last Few Years with Opa

This morning, as I sat down to put together my daily posting and ramble through the topics that would be apropos, there were a myriad of thoughts which ran through my mind, but as I started each one, it seemed to be a difficult task to put the pen to paper so to speak (I am not computer savvy enough to know what it is called on a computer screen--something like HTML to monitor, but that is hardly important). I started a series of postings--first a fascinating study in Fantasy Football, a topic which no doubt, would have each of you riveted and been fodder for the water coolers across this great landscape of ours. But the words didn't come. After I deleted the two rambling paragraphs about my Fantasy league championship this weekend (by the way if you are interested, this one is for all the marbles, there is no tomorrow, add cliche here), and on Tuesday morning, I will know if I am another also-ran or Princess League Champion 2005. We'll have to wait to find out, because quite frankly, the posting just wasn't there.
I then tried to write an article about the membership here--generally a great fallback position for me, as there are 514 to choose from and each of them is a great story all to themselves. There almost always exists enough stored up venom to write a scathing attack on one of these poor unsuspecting bastards, but today, the venom just wasn't very potent. I wrote a couple of paragraphs about them as well, and deleted just as quickly. It was going nowhere in a hurry.
I called Kim in a panic, "Quick, honey, what can I write about? I got nothin'."
"Well, why don't you write about Poppy Joe? About the impending excitement of him coming to town--I'm sure that will be a good one." Of course! Poppy Joe, the true fallback position. I could pound out 5000 words on that guy with my eyes closed. He is a characature (that absolutely has to be spelled wrong) of himself just walking around. I can't even make the stuff up about him--it will write itself, and believe you me, when I do get around to writing that one, it will be a beauty, but that day is not today. There is something in my mind that I can't shake this morning, and I am compelled to write about my Grandfather, Eugene Goodkind or more fondly and recognizably, Opa.
Today marks the two year anniversary of his passing, and with that comes the memories of one of the most important people whose life I have had the good fortune of being a part. Opa was a first generation Jewish immigrant from Berlin. He was forced to move to this country when he was just beginning his adult life, before it was impossible to get out of Europe in Nazi Germany. He was stubborn as a mule, and never forgave the Germans to the extent that none of our family would dare purchase a Passat or a Mercedes out of respect to his feelings. He was a good man, but was not without his faults and foibles. He was generous to a fault with us, but he was one of the worst tippers I had ever seen. I always made sure to slip a little extra cash to the waitress out of his sight (he was legally blind for the last 20 years of his life, but he could see what he needed to see, especially an attractive woman).
He was a gambler. He loved to go to Vegas and Atlantic City. In case anybody was wondering, there is little doubt where I acquired my love of the wager. When Kim and I got married in Las Vegas in 2001, aside from the obvious excitement of our wedding, my fondest memory of that weekend, was sitting down at a blackjack table with him for the first (and sadly last) time for about three hours of absolute perfection. The man couldn't see the cards in front of him, but I would call out what was showing on the table (he had to know everybody's cards--not just their total--he wanted to know if it was a 10 or a queen showing) and I watched him clean up. He was very deliberate and though you wouldn't know it at 88 years, he was still as sharp as a tack. I don't even know who else came by our table to watch, and I don't remember how much money we won that day, but I remember thinking to myself how great it was to share something with him on a level that nobody else understood. I always knew that he played, and he always knew that I played, but there was nothing like sitting at that table together the day before I got married.
In fact, he was a large reason that we got married that weekend at all. Kim and I were in the midst of planning our wedding for Florida on Memorial Day weekend in 2002, but when we found out that Opa was going to be in Las Vegas with my parents and Shari for a convention that Dad had to go to, we decided that we would meet them there and get married the next weekend. Had he not been there, I doubt very seriously that either one of us would have had the initiative to get a wedding planned in a week. The thought of him not making it to see our wedding six months later was a powerful motivator.
He would have made it though, and a year later, he was out in Arizona to meet his first Great-Granddaughter, Lauren Elizabeth over Thanksgiving in 2002. To say that Lauren was a challenging baby would be unfair--she was the antichrist of babies, and the challenging ones would be a little bit offended if they were grouped in the same characterization as our demon child. She would not sit still for anybody--she was an inconsolable child, who had colic and would scream to the point that the person fortunate enough to have the opportunity to hold her for two minutes would be brought to tears themselves due to their feeling of inadequacy and incompetence--another topic for my therapist. Kim was the only one who could hold her for more than a 30 second period (and not because she wasn't screaming then, but just because Kim could just take it better than the rest of us). This pattern went on for the better part of a year, but that Thanksgiving weekend, with a two bedroom apartment overflowing with family members, it was overwhelming for Lauren (and especially Kim), and it was probably the worst it ever got.
Except when Opa held her. If anybody else touched her, turned in her direction, dared to make eye contact or thought about entering a 10 foot radius without express written permission, the next 45 minutes of our lives would be filled with screams the likes of which no human should have to endure. But when Opa sat down on the chair in the living room and Lauren sat in his arms, she was silent, content (and dare I say, happy?). There was a connection with the two of them, where she understood what a gentle, comapassionate man he was. As soon as somebody else tried to move her away, the screaming began again. I don't remember seeing Opa happier than he was holding his great-granddaughter that weekend (and I don't remember seeing Kim happier in those days than when we actually found somebody who could go near our child for more than a 5 minute respite--unfortunately it didn't last and we endured 11 more months of torturous hell).
At Opa's 90th Birthday party in July of '03, he was in rare form. He loved being the center of attention and he still was as sharp as ever and still a terror to the ladies. I don't think he met an attractive woman from the time my grandmother passed away who he didn't insist on flirting with. There were generations of family there and there were friends who came out of the woodwork to help celebrate his life, but there was only one lady there who captured his full attention. He sat in his chair with his cane within reach and flirted with a high-maintenence eight-month-old for hours on end. Lauren was motoring around by now and would come up to him and grab the end of the cane and wrestle with him as she found her way to her feet with his assistance. I just remember her giving it her all to try to wrestle that cane away, and his absolute delight in taking part in the game. There is a picture somewhere that captures the moment--her intently staring at him with all the determination she could muster and him just smiling from ear to ear in his glory with his Lauren.
Unfortunately, that was the last time that we saw Opa alive. I believe that he was ready to go, and had done and seen everything that he felt he needed to see. I know that he was sorry that he never got the chance to meet Leynie, his second granddaughter who was born two 1/2 months before he passed away, but his health wouldn't allow it. There are lots of stories that I can share about my grandfather, about his business, about his class, about his integrity and honesty, about his struggles, about his successes, about his charm, about his wit. He was truly the most decent man I have ever known--a true gentleman in every sense of the word, and on the anniversary of his death, my thoughts again find themselves with him, even when I am not riding in the Opamobile. Take care of Wilson, Opa--we love you.