Secondhand Plaid: Gompy

Naneen, Gompy, my dad, me (on the left), my sister and brother. Mid 1990s, if my shortalls weren't enough of a hint.

Dad, Gompy, my aunt. Mid 1960s.

There's a certain look my father gets when he's mentally composing the delivery of unwelcome news. I noticed this look after dinner on Christmas Day and ran through a list of all the possible (and some impossible) bad things that could have happened. I didn't expect my father to say that Gompy's health was failing. Two days later, he came into the living room to tell us that Gompy had died.

Gompy, my dad's grandfather, was born in 1914. He was 97 (and a half!) when he died. My dad has been scanning shoeboxes full of old slides; it seems Gompy was an avid photographer.

Whether he was behind the camera or in front of it, his energy and personality come through. He loved telling stories, he loved playing music, he loved talking to young people and just having a good time. He was famous for making a mean martini. Sometime in the '30s he composed a song for Naneen and it was published.

After my younger brother became interested in music, all our visits to Naneen and Gompy's had to include some time for the two of them to play around on the piano together.

I wrote my great-aunt a note of condolence and while I was writing I realized how fully Naneen and Gompy have shaped how I view aging. Maybe if I hadn't had such great examples I would think getting older was something to fear, that somehow my personality would vanish and I would end up a generic cranky old lady. I know that's just not true (I'll be the cranky old lady who knits and wears three kinds of plaid at once).

It's still really hard for me to believe that Gompy didn't live forever...if anyone could do it, it'd be him. I could never write a fitting tribute to a life so well-lived or a person so loved. What can you say about 97 years of laughter and love and music?