This post was originally written in October 1967, a few days after my grandfather died.  It appeared in the Notre Dame student newspaper, The Observer.

The only word for the old man was “amazing.”  A product of the fish markets of Baltimore, he had voted for Al Smith in ’28, Roosevelt in ’32, and supported Joe McCarthy in ’54.  He had taken his wife and six kids through the Depression in good style and yet was unable to figure out his income tax.  He loved the Orioles, despaired with the Senators, and carried on a love affair with Lord Calvert whiskey for the last 30 years.  We had always called him Pop.

Pop finished third grade and then his education started.  When asked what he did, Pop would say he was a “nipulator” – his fractured version of “manipulator” – meaning that he did whatever he had to do to make a living. 

There is often a tryst that develops between grandfather and eldest grandson.  Sometimes they share the same cigarettes and the same liquor by the time that grandson reaches the age of 17.  That’s the way it was between Pop and me.  For the last three years we had always puffed and sipped in the bedroom discreetly out of sight of all relatives.  Off and on at every Christmas and Easter we had been secret companions.  Pop had brought the Lord Calvert and I contributed the forbidden Winstons. 

I suppose that the head of every dynasty is toasted and feted for his wisdom and love.  Pop was like this too but there was something different.  I think everyone believed that there was something a bit satanic about the old guy and perhaps that’s what made him so human and so good.

Pop had loved the good Catholic from New York in ’28 and had probably voted for him five times.  But Smith lost and forgot to take Pop with him.  Pop lived in Washington and Mr. Hoover was now in the Capital City and Mr. Hoover’s friends were coming to see his inauguration.  Come March and the old man was in the taxi service for the grand swear in.  Mr. Hoover’s friends streamed into Union Station and Pop was ready and willing.  “To the Willard, you despicable cur” and to the Willard they went, sort of.  The grand old hotel of the cosmopolitans sat on one side of Pennsylvania Avenue.  Pop would let one of his charges out on the other side, bid them a fond farewell, take their Republican money, and utter a salutation to the President elect.  All that they had to do was pick up their valises and trot across the street.

That act is a virtual impossibility when the new man comes to town; to cross Penn Ave. takes the guts of a Kamikaze, the strength of a work horse, and the daring of a Tennessee rum runner.  The old man would look at them with a twinkle in his eye and wish them a hasty death as he sped back to Union Station.

After Mother died less than a year ago Pop had gone downhill.  He had to be put in a home and everyone was about to give up his spirit.  But Pop still had a lot of fight in him.  He demanded release.  My own father, worried after a 3 a.m. phone call, had gone to rescue him.  He found the wily old codger at the front door with his suitcase, attired in his pin stripe suit with that impeccable diamond stick pin.  As he walked toward him the old man had fainted into his arms, frantically murmuring that he had to leave.  Halfway home Pop had sat up, lit a Winston, and inquired whether he was a good actor.  That’s just the way he was.

A couple of days ago Pop was rushed to the hospital.  They thought he was dead in the afternoon but by 6 p.m. he was up and at them.  He was ready to leave.  At 9:25 the next morning Pop was dead, victim of a massive coronary attack.  Over the weekend the old man was laid out and buried from his parish church in the Southwest section of the city that he had known, loved and “nipulated.”  Pop had gone to other people and other places.