"Top of the World Ma"

It's hard for me to think about how crazy and devastating the last month of my life has been. My Aunt passed on June 17th, after succumbing to her 8 year battle with cancer. She was in so much pain, and truly wasn't living a life. I'll miss her terribly, but I have some consolation in knowing that she is no longer in pain and finally at peace.

Then last week Pop died.

I've written about my paternal grandfather quite a bit--he's the subject of my first book as well. And his death was a complete shock. Yes, he was 91 but up until a month ago he was perfectly healthy. He was hospitalized for about a week--because he had stopped eating and fell while at my aunt's. But he seemed ok. He was even combative in the hospital--he punched out a nurse, and had to be sedated so he wouldn't pull out his IV's. Now I know that sounds extreme, but if you knew Pop you wouldn't be surprised. He is not the type of person who liked being told what to do and what he couldn't do.

They brought him home last Monday, and he finally seemed at ease. He settled down and slept--and never really came out of it. Almost like he knew this was his time, that this is how he wanted to go out--at home, with his family around him, no prolonged suffering or life in a wheelchair. And that's what happened. He slipped away on July 2nd.

The loss was tremendous. I got the call while in work, and I don't know how I was able to drive home. The next few days passed in a blur. People came and went, and we prepared for the funeral.

My grandmother asked me to give the Eulogy. I was honored she asked.
Here is the speech I gave on Monday:

 

On November 4^th 1922, a baby boy was born to Joseph and Mary Steinmetz of North Philadelphia. He would be their fourth boy and last baby. He was big, had bright blue eyes and the beginnings of a mischievous grin. He completed their family in every way. With three older brothers, he was always the butt of every joke, the tag-along play-mate, and the punching-bag. He constantly tried to win his brothers attention and respect. He was a show-off and excelled in almost everything he did. He played baseball in the spring, football in the fall, and boxed with his father every Saturday morning. He was a happy kid and his future seemed bright.

But life changed, as it did for many young boys, on December 7^th 1941.

Pearl Harbor. He was 19.

For five years, I’ve had the privilege of being the official autobiographer of Robert J. Steinmetz Sr. But for 28 years, I’ve had the bigger honor of being his granddaughter.

I’ve been asked a lot over the years about the beginnings of Pop’s book; what my process was, and how I was able to get him to tell me his stories. My answer has always been the same—I don’t really know, but it was always the same. I’d show up at my grandparents house in North Wales by late morning, I’d setup my tape recorder and writing materials, Pop would promptly offer me a shot of whiskey—which I never accepted but he always took for me—we’d sit down and Pop would start to talk. Usually for hours at a time, Pop would tell me story after story—going in chronological order according to a list he had from the War Department of everywhere he was in the Pacific. Usually by the end, he was hoarse and my fingers were numb from writing. It was truly astounding that he remembered so much. 70 years had gone by, but for him it could have been yesterday. He remembered everything. Names of his shipmates, and ships he saw, exact dates and events, what he was doing, specifics on what he welded and how bad the damage was, the emotions of the moment. Everything. He teared up quite a few times, recalling the deaths of friends or how hopeless the situation seemed to be. Other times he’d start a story by saying “Now I know I can tell you this because you’re older”—which I loved. I don’t think either of us wanted our “Book Dates” to end and he was always anxious and excited to set our next meeting. I got to know him in a way that every grandchild should.

I will remember those moments for the rest of my life.

Steiny was one of the youngest on his ship but he ran it like he was a seasoned veteran. He fought through 7 major invasions, saw the worst parts of humanity and war, but he never gave up. He never gave up on life and worked hard every day to get home. He was proud of all he did for his country. I asked him once if he had any regrets, he smiled and said “Regrets? Nah. I was born to beat the Japanese. That’s what these hands were made for.”

 

He found his manhood at sea, but his proudest moments he created in Philadelphia. These people sitting in front of me were his biggest achievement. To his children—Bee Bop Bobby and Jane, Lynny-Pie and Rick, Ween, Bake and Lisa—he was Daddy. No matter how tired he was from working long hours at PGW, he always made time to play with his children. He taught his sons the important things in life—that hardwork is paramount, and the only way to do something is to do it right the first time—and showered his daughters with affection and love. To his grandchildren—Carolina Moon, Wabe, Fire Engine Megan and Bob, Tweetybird, Crackers, Kitty-Cat Katie, AC Moore Lizzy, PeeWee, Cole Cole, Freihofer and his Prize Maggie Jane—he was Pop Pop. He had a special relationship with each and every one of us. He played games, pulled practical jokes, and gave us memories to last a lifetime. He sat us on his lap at 3 and let us drive his car, popped a cigars in my mouth at 5 and told me to take a puff, and gave me my first drink of beer at 8.

And to his wife Marion. His Mag. The love of his life. His anchor. The air he breathed. He told me he fell in love with her the moment he saw her—at the PGW Christmas Party. He chased her for weeks until she finally went on a date with him. Within 3 months, he had bought a ring. He spent the next 61 years at her side, and I’m pretty sure he fell more in love with her every day. The way he looked at her when she walked in a room always gave me chills. He loved you Mom-Mom. He spent his life loving you and still does.

What else can I say about Bob Steinmetz? He liked his whiskey straight and his beer cold. He put butter on everything and loved his sweets. He loved Casablanca and Yankee Doodle Dandy. He had movie star good-looks. He had a wicked sense of humor and a hearty laugh that I can still hear in my head. He was known to take 2 hour long baths because he loved it so much. He worked hard, but played harder—his antics are that of legend. He was a die-hard Philadelphia sports fan—especially the Phillies and Eagles, even when they were awful. He played baseball until he was 75. He loved going to the VFW. There was nothing he didn’t know how to fix. He loved when we all got together for holidays and never wanted the party to end—“Hey what you leavin’ for! We just started” he’d say. He was stubborn and could be pig-headed, but what German isn’t? He loved life and lived every second to its fullest. A moment was never wasted.

He was everything to us.

Thank you for the memories Pop. Thank you for your love and being here for 91 wonderful years. We love you.

“Top of the World Ma!”

My heart grieves for both Aunt Ann and Pop. I'm not sure I will ever be the same. But I think I'm stronger having gone through this back to back. It's made me a different person. It's made me appreciate my family more and try and live my life to the fullest--as they both had done.

Trying

I've been trying to write this post for a week now. Have started, stopped, deleted everything, thought really hard, broke down and cried, screamed, and tried to write again. I guess I'm a little afraid to put the words out there quite yet. That writing them down will make it more real and that this all just isn't some awful dream. And maybe I've fooled myself into thinking that, because it still doesn't seem real.

That she's not gone.

But I know I have to get it out. I have to write about her, even if its hard.

On Tuesday, June 17th heaven gained another angel. My aunt Ann succumbed to her 8 year battle with cancer. She fought hard--the doctors gave her a year after her first diagnosis--and she beat it for so long. We all believed and had high hopes--she always got better, always. But this time her body could take no more. She's finally at peace and feels no more pain. My uncle called us in time to say goodbye and I was able to kiss her and smooth her hair across her face, take one last smell of her to remember her perfume, hold her hand, and whisper in her ear to wait for me. She looked beautiful.

It was one of the most painful yet beautiful moments of my life. One I will never forget.

I think of her everyday. Wish I could talk to her everyday. I'm  worried she's lonely without us,  and wonder if she's still hovering around. Sometimes, I pray that she is. It gives me a little comfort that I'm not alone.

I just loved her so much. And I don't think this hole in my heart will ever be filled.

I'm uncomfortable with one word, that my mother uttered the other night and I felt the pain all over again. I literally told my mom "Please don't use that word." The word is the reality, but I refuse to use it. Say anything else. Say "Passed on." Or "Gone to a better place." Anything but that one ugly word that sends my heart spiraling. Again, words have power to me. Saying it makes it more real.

I hate it.

And I miss her.

Please pray for me and my family.
Especially Ann Ford.