My Zaide

  
   He was a classic. Classic in the sense that he was old-fashioned. The house he lived in (for as long as I can remember) was probably older than him; so seemed to be everything in it.

   After a six hour drive with my siblings, we'd pull up to the large, square house with the slanted roof. As we happily (and me - nervously) climbed the stairs, we could already feel the other-worldliness of Zaides' house. The tall staircase and the carpets lining it soon gave way to an unused Singer sewing machine, a messy dining room, small kitchen, and living room.

   But what made the visits special for me was the sense of history. Visiting Zaide was like seeing life through my mothers eyes; seeing things the way they were when she was little. I can hear my mother chuckling aloud: "That's my old room", "That was my bed". That feeling was everywhere; the air itself was musty and smelled of antiquity. For a child like I was, this was a breeding ground for curiosity and good memories.

   I didn't visit Zaide once, though. Every so often we'd visit again. But as I grew older, my perception of him changed. Zaide for me was no longer a 'classic'; he was more human, more real. He was now someone who lived a life, I realized. He got up early, davened early, and actually did things with his time.

   But this change in my perception had a negative side effect; my Zaide had now become estranged from me. Of course I knew we were still related, but I felt uncomfortable visiting him; almost intrusive. The difference between us was too vast.

   Yet that phase passed too. I'd still feel uneasy talking to my Zaide or asking him to do me a favor, but I had begun to appreciate his age, his wisdom, his humor. On several occasions I was brave enough to "squeeze" Zaide for an anecdote of years gone by. And he was always compliant. Storytelling was always his forte. All I needed to do was prod.

   Thus the last few years passed for me.

   But then he was gone. Just like that. From right beneath me; from right beyond my grasp. I didn't have a say in the matter, neither a chance to say goodbye. His passing started me to thinking: Did I ever love this man? Did I know him? Will I ever be able to stroke my beard one day and recount a story from my Zaide? I don't know. And the thought makes me angry with myself.

   Of course I shouldn't feel so. But with the suddenness of the whole thing I can't help but feel like I did something wrong. Could I have enabled him to live one more day? Maybe if I would have written another letter or called him again he would have smiled one more time?

.   .   .

   Life goes on. But though it does, I can still take with me its lessons. I learned about my Zaide that he was a human. Like me. With faults and all. But that didn't stop him from acting to us as he acted to himself. A good man.

   Retrospectively I realize that his humanity and smile were not the result of being a Zaide; that's who he was. As a boy growing up all the way to seeing us off in the van for our journey home, he was just being himself.

    But curiously, this leaves me with a sweet taste in my mouth. Why, before I know it, I'll be a Zaide too. Will I be able to impart similar memories to my grandchildren?
     
   Becoming a classic starts now.