I put both hands on the slick wooden bar. Looking across the coffin, I attempted to make eye contact with my brothers and cousin. Danny’s face was down, his shoulders fighting to hold back the coming tears. Stephen put a hand to his shoulder, as neither I nor Mike could reach him. My cousin Chris stood tall and strong, replaying in his head the dignity of the man who had raised him. I stood in observation, taking in what I could, but devoid of the moment’s significance.
In unison, we lifted the casket. I felt the strain of our shared burden as we took to the steps, approaching the church where we would celebrate his life with him for the final time. I thought of the last time I had seen him, how he had gotten to meet my future wife, and the easy and peaceful conversation we had.
I had not shed a single tear.
***
Mornings at Nickerson State Park were always full of mystery. Waking to the filtered light of the family tent’s green roof created an ephemeral glow, that eased you from slumber unlike any house could. There was no need for eyes to adjust to the new light, as it was just bright enough to create a perfect transition to the outside world.
I remember unzipping the tent’s flap, and the smell of canvas at my face as I pulled the zipper up past my head, and the slight tug as the flap grazed my sweatshirt upon exiting. The short walk to the dining tent was punctuated by the accumulation of pine needles on the sides of my feet, despite my blue flip-flops.
Grandma was always waiting alone for us at the covered picnic table. The green, metal Coleman camping stove lit as she prepared toast and Postum for us; the cinnamon and sugar topping waiting next to plastic plates the color of robin’s eggs.
Grampa was rarely with us in those mornings during our early years camping with my grandparents on Cape Cod.
My grandfather would get up before us, take an inflatable raft and a piece of rope, and go swimming across the lake.
The first time my grandmother told us that this was happening, my brother and my cousin were in disbelief. The lake was huge in our young eyes, a vast expanse that no mere mortal could traverse. Only a true giant could complete such a feat.
Later in the week, we walked down with Papa Jack to see him off. I remember the way the fog clung to the small inlets that bordered the lake. The water’s surface was pure and undisturbed obsidian. The permanence of such a place, the knowledge that this scene had unfolded without me for thousands of years, flashed through my young mind.
Grampa removed his olive colored t-shirt, and put it in a pile along with his towel. His hair still had a few strands of black, and his physique was small but wiry and strong. He had a white, rubber inflatable raft at his side, and he attached a rope to his ankle before entering the water. He waded out to his waist, and in a fluid motion, dove, submerging his entire body. Upon breaking the surface again, about ten feet farther from shore, he whipped his head in a way that skewed his hair humorously. He took a few strokes while facing us, smiling, and turned towards the opposite shore.
“Bye boys, be good for your grandmother!” It was both a command and a reminder.
My brother and my cousin sat next to me on the crisp morning sand. I wonder now if they felt the same sense of loss, the fear that he wouldn’t return; the longing to join him on his grown-up adventures.
We stayed and watched until he was no more than a speck on the dark water, no more distinguishable than Orion to Artemis. We got up and trudged back to our campsite, up the hill through the winding path to our grandmother’s tent.
***
The day my grandfather died, I was sitting in the shade under a tent canopy in Central New Jersey. The day was painfully hot, but the refuge and shade offered by the tent allowed for a brief respite.
The phone rang, and my mother calmly explained to me that Grampa was gone. I asked a few mundane questions regarding how it happened, and was rewarded with a beautiful story of my grandfather’s last moments.
I waited for the tears that never came, the deluge that would consume me, and instead waited patiently for the next game to begin. I coached my third game of the brutally hot day, got in my car, and drove home in silence.
***
As the oldest, I was the first to be allowed to make the crossing with my grandfather the following summer. The invitation was such that I couldn’t sleep the night before. When light finally came, I followed Grampa out of the tent in my bathing suit and T-shirt. He grabbed the raft, and began to walk down the path. I followed, respecting the quietude of the pre-dawn morning light. We walked in silence down the hill. The path’s twists and turns were punctuated by the occasional root or pinecone. Pine needles stuck to our feet, but to no avail, as we would soon be swimming across the lake that waited below.
At the base of the hill, Flax Pond stretched out before us. The scene was almost exactly the same as the year before. The water’s reflective quality, mixed with its wisps of gray fogged corners, existed as if a painting had been placed before my eyes each day, with only subtle changes as time moved forward. I turned my head to the smaller side pond a few minutes away, and remembered the hours I had spent there catching frogs, as they gave themselves away with their incessant croaking. Now, there was nothing to hear, only the quiet and calming lapping sound made by the lake’s miniscule waves.
“Let’s go.” Grampa said softly, as he removed his shirt and moved toward the shoreline.
I was to be attached to the raft on this trip, and was told that I should take frequent breaks I felt even the slightest bit tired. I agreed, and we began to enter the water.
The first few steps into the water were and awakening in themselves. The slightly cool temperature at first sent a shudder through my body, but was quickly replaced with a reminder of my own warmth. After reaching my waist, I followed Grampa’s lead, and dove in.
If I wasn’t fully awake already, I was then. My hair flew back from my face, and I felt the water moving across my entire body. I broke the surface, and began swimming.
I had joined the swim team earlier that summer, and realized at that moment exactly why I made that decision. It was almost as if the previous two months had been training, a preparation for this one perfect morning.
I remember flashes from that first swim, but most clearly I recall the look of my grandfather’s head, as it moved through the dark water towards the waiting shore. He led, and I followed willingly.
***
Sitting with my brothers and cousin in the pew, the priest spoke to the congregation and remembered John Adrian Collins. He recalled the devotion to the Church that he showed, and the devotion to his family that he personified. The priest spoke, and we sat, before the wooden box, a colored cross-covered shroud covering the casket.
Our grandfather lay before us; we waited for further directions.
***
Halfway across the lake, I drew the rope toward my eager hands and grabbed hold of the raft. I called out to my grandfather to wait, and he turned back to me.
“Take your time, Matthew,” he reassured, “we’re in no rush.”
I took a minute, kicking while holding on to the raft, and then let go, allowing my arms to reclaim my own weight in the water.
After a few hundred yards more, the shore approached. I redoubled my efforts, trying to catch up to the seemingly effortless and graceful swimming of Grampa.
Soon, I felt the shifting sands under my searching toes. A few more strokes and I was standing. I slowly waded towards the beach, the water warmer at this shallow depth, and stepped out of the lake.
I felt good. My grandfather told me what a good job I had done, but to get ready for the trip back.
The pride I felt at getting just this far was overwhelming.
My grandfather began sauntering back to the waiting water, and I followed, ready to get back to camp and tell my brothers and cousin how amazing it was. This was mine now, this thing that only my Grampa and I shared.
***
When we got to the cemetery, the mood had lightened. The weight of my grandfather’s coffin was taken by strangers, and placed over a hole up the hill. We walked together; five young men united by a common man, and joined my family by the plot. My grandmother sat, quiet and serene, by the suspended casket. My mother and her siblings stood behind her, their heads down.
The priest began the rites.
***
In a few years, a sort of rite of passage had formed. One by one, my brothers and cousin joined me and my grandfather on the trek across Flax Pond.
A bird, flying over our heads during our morning swims would have seen a group of heads moving slowly across the reflective dark sheen of the water. One head, with light gray hair, would be leading the rest.
We would return after our swim together, and sit down to breakfast and Postum at our campsite. Our grandmother would talk about how much we were growing, and our grandfather would agree. We would eat to sate our ravenous hunger, and imagine the continued permanence of such a place.
***
The priest finishes his prayers, and we each lay a single flower on the box that carries my grandfather.
I turn to my future wife, and she gives me a hug. I hold it a bit longer than usual; take her hand and turn to watch as he is lowered into the ground.
My gaze is clinical; I’m not sure how to react.
I turn to my brother Danny, and watch as he begins to break down into tears. At the sight of him I realize a truth. He is only eighteen. As the youngest boy, he has had the least amount of time to learn from my grandfather. No longer will his warm hugs, and stubble scratching cheek be a part of our lives. He will not be there to see my children. He will never swim with them across a perfect lake, or teach them how to throw a knife into a tree. The loss takes shape for me, and as I embrace my brother, my own tears flowing strongly now, I hold him and we share in the loss that we are suffering. One by one the rest of Papa Jack’s oldest grandsons join the huddle. We stand together and remember, and at once we are five young boys, watching in awe as our grandfather begins a journey across a lake that we cannot begin to comprehend. He is a giant in our eyes, and he will be missed.
In unison, we lifted the casket. I felt the strain of our shared burden as we took to the steps, approaching the church where we would celebrate his life with him for the final time. I thought of the last time I had seen him, how he had gotten to meet my future wife, and the easy and peaceful conversation we had.
I had not shed a single tear.
***
Mornings at Nickerson State Park were always full of mystery. Waking to the filtered light of the family tent’s green roof created an ephemeral glow, that eased you from slumber unlike any house could. There was no need for eyes to adjust to the new light, as it was just bright enough to create a perfect transition to the outside world.
I remember unzipping the tent’s flap, and the smell of canvas at my face as I pulled the zipper up past my head, and the slight tug as the flap grazed my sweatshirt upon exiting. The short walk to the dining tent was punctuated by the accumulation of pine needles on the sides of my feet, despite my blue flip-flops.
Grandma was always waiting alone for us at the covered picnic table. The green, metal Coleman camping stove lit as she prepared toast and Postum for us; the cinnamon and sugar topping waiting next to plastic plates the color of robin’s eggs.
Grampa was rarely with us in those mornings during our early years camping with my grandparents on Cape Cod.
My grandfather would get up before us, take an inflatable raft and a piece of rope, and go swimming across the lake.
The first time my grandmother told us that this was happening, my brother and my cousin were in disbelief. The lake was huge in our young eyes, a vast expanse that no mere mortal could traverse. Only a true giant could complete such a feat.
Later in the week, we walked down with Papa Jack to see him off. I remember the way the fog clung to the small inlets that bordered the lake. The water’s surface was pure and undisturbed obsidian. The permanence of such a place, the knowledge that this scene had unfolded without me for thousands of years, flashed through my young mind.
Grampa removed his olive colored t-shirt, and put it in a pile along with his towel. His hair still had a few strands of black, and his physique was small but wiry and strong. He had a white, rubber inflatable raft at his side, and he attached a rope to his ankle before entering the water. He waded out to his waist, and in a fluid motion, dove, submerging his entire body. Upon breaking the surface again, about ten feet farther from shore, he whipped his head in a way that skewed his hair humorously. He took a few strokes while facing us, smiling, and turned towards the opposite shore.
“Bye boys, be good for your grandmother!” It was both a command and a reminder.
My brother and my cousin sat next to me on the crisp morning sand. I wonder now if they felt the same sense of loss, the fear that he wouldn’t return; the longing to join him on his grown-up adventures.
We stayed and watched until he was no more than a speck on the dark water, no more distinguishable than Orion to Artemis. We got up and trudged back to our campsite, up the hill through the winding path to our grandmother’s tent.
***
The day my grandfather died, I was sitting in the shade under a tent canopy in Central New Jersey. The day was painfully hot, but the refuge and shade offered by the tent allowed for a brief respite.
The phone rang, and my mother calmly explained to me that Grampa was gone. I asked a few mundane questions regarding how it happened, and was rewarded with a beautiful story of my grandfather’s last moments.
I waited for the tears that never came, the deluge that would consume me, and instead waited patiently for the next game to begin. I coached my third game of the brutally hot day, got in my car, and drove home in silence.
***
As the oldest, I was the first to be allowed to make the crossing with my grandfather the following summer. The invitation was such that I couldn’t sleep the night before. When light finally came, I followed Grampa out of the tent in my bathing suit and T-shirt. He grabbed the raft, and began to walk down the path. I followed, respecting the quietude of the pre-dawn morning light. We walked in silence down the hill. The path’s twists and turns were punctuated by the occasional root or pinecone. Pine needles stuck to our feet, but to no avail, as we would soon be swimming across the lake that waited below.
At the base of the hill, Flax Pond stretched out before us. The scene was almost exactly the same as the year before. The water’s reflective quality, mixed with its wisps of gray fogged corners, existed as if a painting had been placed before my eyes each day, with only subtle changes as time moved forward. I turned my head to the smaller side pond a few minutes away, and remembered the hours I had spent there catching frogs, as they gave themselves away with their incessant croaking. Now, there was nothing to hear, only the quiet and calming lapping sound made by the lake’s miniscule waves.
“Let’s go.” Grampa said softly, as he removed his shirt and moved toward the shoreline.
I was to be attached to the raft on this trip, and was told that I should take frequent breaks I felt even the slightest bit tired. I agreed, and we began to enter the water.
The first few steps into the water were and awakening in themselves. The slightly cool temperature at first sent a shudder through my body, but was quickly replaced with a reminder of my own warmth. After reaching my waist, I followed Grampa’s lead, and dove in.
If I wasn’t fully awake already, I was then. My hair flew back from my face, and I felt the water moving across my entire body. I broke the surface, and began swimming.
I had joined the swim team earlier that summer, and realized at that moment exactly why I made that decision. It was almost as if the previous two months had been training, a preparation for this one perfect morning.
I remember flashes from that first swim, but most clearly I recall the look of my grandfather’s head, as it moved through the dark water towards the waiting shore. He led, and I followed willingly.
***
Sitting with my brothers and cousin in the pew, the priest spoke to the congregation and remembered John Adrian Collins. He recalled the devotion to the Church that he showed, and the devotion to his family that he personified. The priest spoke, and we sat, before the wooden box, a colored cross-covered shroud covering the casket.
Our grandfather lay before us; we waited for further directions.
***
Halfway across the lake, I drew the rope toward my eager hands and grabbed hold of the raft. I called out to my grandfather to wait, and he turned back to me.
“Take your time, Matthew,” he reassured, “we’re in no rush.”
I took a minute, kicking while holding on to the raft, and then let go, allowing my arms to reclaim my own weight in the water.
After a few hundred yards more, the shore approached. I redoubled my efforts, trying to catch up to the seemingly effortless and graceful swimming of Grampa.
Soon, I felt the shifting sands under my searching toes. A few more strokes and I was standing. I slowly waded towards the beach, the water warmer at this shallow depth, and stepped out of the lake.
I felt good. My grandfather told me what a good job I had done, but to get ready for the trip back.
The pride I felt at getting just this far was overwhelming.
My grandfather began sauntering back to the waiting water, and I followed, ready to get back to camp and tell my brothers and cousin how amazing it was. This was mine now, this thing that only my Grampa and I shared.
***
When we got to the cemetery, the mood had lightened. The weight of my grandfather’s coffin was taken by strangers, and placed over a hole up the hill. We walked together; five young men united by a common man, and joined my family by the plot. My grandmother sat, quiet and serene, by the suspended casket. My mother and her siblings stood behind her, their heads down.
The priest began the rites.
***
In a few years, a sort of rite of passage had formed. One by one, my brothers and cousin joined me and my grandfather on the trek across Flax Pond.
A bird, flying over our heads during our morning swims would have seen a group of heads moving slowly across the reflective dark sheen of the water. One head, with light gray hair, would be leading the rest.
We would return after our swim together, and sit down to breakfast and Postum at our campsite. Our grandmother would talk about how much we were growing, and our grandfather would agree. We would eat to sate our ravenous hunger, and imagine the continued permanence of such a place.
***
The priest finishes his prayers, and we each lay a single flower on the box that carries my grandfather.
I turn to my future wife, and she gives me a hug. I hold it a bit longer than usual; take her hand and turn to watch as he is lowered into the ground.
My gaze is clinical; I’m not sure how to react.
I turn to my brother Danny, and watch as he begins to break down into tears. At the sight of him I realize a truth. He is only eighteen. As the youngest boy, he has had the least amount of time to learn from my grandfather. No longer will his warm hugs, and stubble scratching cheek be a part of our lives. He will not be there to see my children. He will never swim with them across a perfect lake, or teach them how to throw a knife into a tree. The loss takes shape for me, and as I embrace my brother, my own tears flowing strongly now, I hold him and we share in the loss that we are suffering. One by one the rest of Papa Jack’s oldest grandsons join the huddle. We stand together and remember, and at once we are five young boys, watching in awe as our grandfather begins a journey across a lake that we cannot begin to comprehend. He is a giant in our eyes, and he will be missed.
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