I just got a call from my husband, that Grandpa Milt has just entered the hospital for the last time. We've known this day would come. He was diagnosed with lung cancer around the same time Jesse relapsed with leukemia. But the last time I saw Milt was at his 90th birthday a couple of weeks ago. He was still getting around on his own, no oxygen tank yet, no cane: we danced together to Beyond the Sea, then the belly dancer cut in and did something with a sword balanced on her head. Women were always one-upping each other around him.

Milt's not our blood relative; he was my late ex-husband's stepfather. So when people ask us how we're related, it can be difficult to explain. We usually settled on ex-step-in-laws, with a laugh. He was the only grandpa my kids really knew: he took them fishing, and taught them how to build wooden toys and paint them. He smoked cigars from Ya Mother's Cigar Store. He had a summer place that he'd renovated and maintained himself, on a lake, with a paddle ball court and a dock and a row boat, and a little tool shop out back. His other hobby, besides being an unrepentant flirt, was restoring antique clocks. So you'd be napping in the summer place, a fire crackling softly in the iron stove and suddenly you're jerked awake by every possible clock sound known to man. That is, if you forgot to stop the pendulums of the two dozen or so active antiques he had on the walls. And the grandfather clock. And the cuckoos in the dining room. And the mantel clock with the nekkid Ceres on top.

He's a real Jewish farm boy: brought up near Liberty New York on a sprawling few hundred acres, back when folks still traveled by horse and cart up there. He joined the Navy to see the world, and ended up in Indianapolis during WWII, right when my dad was busy growing up just 40 miles SW of town. They could easily have crossed paths more than once.

He once asked my youngest sister to run away with him to Spain. Another time, he asked out an entire table of Southern ladies moored at our friends' Turkish place on the Upper West Side. They each gave him a kiss. We used to take him to dinner about once a month, for the pure joy of seeing a man in his eighties who lived harder than most men half his age.

He's a Commie even now. If you were sitting with him, over at the hospital right now, and brought it up, I guarantee you he'd enjoy nothing more than arguing with you about it. His wife was the daughter of one of the office holders of the CWP.

I'm glad he gets to check out with all his faculties intact. It feels more like we're losing him, this way, but at least he gets to wring these last moments out of life. I'm going to head up there in a few hours to send him off with the rest of his family. My ex-step-in-laws. I'm glad they understand how much he means to us.

Milt. Tell him 'Thanks.'

He went to visit Jesse in the hospital, and didn't want to tell him about the lung cancer, so he wouldn't worry. I was running a little late, but Jesse already had a visitor when Milt arrived. When I showed up, Milt was already gone. So was the girl. Jesse gave me a sour look and said, "I think Milt just picked up my girlfriend."

Milt sounds awesome. I hope he managed to smoke a few Cubans in his day. I love the New Yorkers (of various political persuasions) who feel they are fighting the good fight.

(er, I posted disparaging comments about family reunions in Ender's game thread before seeing this. My foot is deeply implanted in mouth.)

I'm sorry for your loss.

you've never been to any of mine, so how could you know?! I was just telling Mr. Nomist I need to get in some pistol practice before the next one. In our family, if you can't load a gun without putting down your beer, it's not a reunion.

Or so my Dad tells me all of the time—he too has about 50 antique clocks scattered about the house and I long ago learned not to start or wake through the midnight recitation of the chimes and ticks.

Clocks are company and like old friends make the best company because they remind us of what is fleeting and important.

Like Milt.

Don’t stop the pendulums honey; they all wind down and they’re meant to. Besides you’ll never get to cherish the chimes if you do. Just make sure that we all remember how important what they’re ticking away is—things like flirting, and workshops and a good cigar.

Perhaps your sister would run off to Spain with me?

I've wanted a loaded pistol at a number of family gatherings...

with you here and with posts like this; and it sounds like the world will be a lot poorer without your grandpa Milt. You're in my thoughts.

that's for sure.

I'll ask her, but her husband the Baron might object, in which case you may have to joust for her during the Pennsic Wars. Good luck with that.

ditto. and if you knew some of my more ornery relatives, you'd want two. A lovely exchange, thanks for letting us read it.

That was a really beautiful tribute. I feel better for the glimpse into such a life.

Thoughts and prayers with you and yours.

(We also have a lot of step 'n exes and my stepdaughter once said to my stricken mother - " don't worry, we've got steps all the way to heaven." Sounds like you do too)

Iso:

I would be a commie also with some of my stances and ideas on how things should be. Just wait until my next post.

My step-granddaughter(?) is coming up for a stay for a few days while my daughter and hubby go checkout a new airline (Virgin air). She stayed with us in Chicago at a penthouse on State overlooking the Hancock and Merchandise Mart. She was fun as I showed her different parts of the city and the buildings I worked upon. Kids are fun at the age.

Sorry, I did not meet him in time. I am sure the stories to be told will be missed and his presence even more so.

All I can think to write is "Ugh, more death".

Life gets easier. No, wait - it don't always.

I'd send you a little hug if I could