The void of Abuelo’s magic.

If you are as lucky as me or my kids, to have grown up with a grandparent/great-grandparent, then you’ll understand the unique void left when they are no longer by your side. For us, abuelo, “Lelo” as my daughter nicknamed him, was magical.

Not only was I raised by my grandpa and spent practically every day by his side, but my kids, Shea and Lincoln, his great grandkids, had that privilege as well. To wake up and have him prop them up on his recliner for breakfast or feed them their bottle and rest them on his shoulders to burp them as babies, who else could say that their great grandpa did that. Or just as is the perfect pairing of peanut butter and jelly, so were Tobias and Chivita (me). Oh God how fortunate were we, only to have that all go away -poof- just like that.

My grandpa was simply the best. I can still recall his jovial smile and his face plump up as he witnessed something that was probably incredibly ordinary, but for him was being in the presence of greatness. Like my son building a Lego set in our living room. “Wow papa”, as he would refer to my son,” That’s good-good job”! Or my daughter playing a xylophone and hearing his thunderous claps, encouraging her as if watching her in the audience at a musical theater.

Just like magic evokes a sense of wonder and awe, and prompts us to think, How did they do it? so did my abuelito. How did he make me feel nothing less than loved even when I was being a brat? Who else but grandpa could let us get away with anything even when we knew we probably shouldn’t be doing it? Or at the age of 82, still be the daily caregiver for his wife of 62 years? He had superpowers, nothing short of extraordinary to still be cooking, laundry and find time to make us all laugh. My abuelito’s greatest trick was never giving up on us, and always encouraging us especially when we didn’t think we could.

My abuelito’s magic is eternal. Even though he is gone, he still finds ways to “Wow” us with his memories.

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El vacío de la magia del Abuelo.

Si tienes tanta suerte como yo o mis hijos de haber crecido con un abuelo o bisabuelo, entonces comprenderás el vacío único que queda cuando ya no están a tu lado. Para nosotros, nuestro abuelo, “Lelo”, como lo apodaba mi hija, fue mágico.

No solo fui criado por mi abuelo y pasé prácticamente todos los días a su lado, sino que mis hijos, Shea y Lincoln, sus bisnietos, también tuvieron ese privilegio. Despertarse y hacer que los recostara en su sillón reclinable para el desayuno o que les diera el biberón y los descansara sobre sus hombros para hacerlos eructar cuando eran bebés, ¿quién más podría decir que su bisabuelo hizo eso? O tal como es la combinación perfecta de mantequilla de maní y mermelada, también lo eran Tobías y Chivita (yo). Oh Dios, qué afortunados fuimos, sólo para que todo eso desapareciera -puf- así como así.

Mi abuelo era simplemente el mejor. Todavía puedo recordar su sonrisa jovial y su rostro regordete al presenciar algo que probablemente era increíblemente común, pero para él era estar en presencia de la grandeza. Como mi hijo construyendo un juego de Lego en nuestra sala de estar. “Wow papá”, como se referiría a mi hijo, “¡Buen trabajo!”. O mi hija tocando un xilófono y escuchando sus atronadores aplausos, animándola como si la mirara entre el público de un teatro musical.

Al igual que la magia, evoca una sensación de asombro y nos insta a pensar: ¿Cómo lo hicieron? mi abuelito también. ¿Cómo me hizo sentir nada menos que amado incluso cuando no estaba siendo razonable?¿Quién más que el abuelo podría dejarnos salirnos con la nuestra, incluso cuando sabíamos que probablemente no deberíamos hacerlo? ¿O a la edad de 82 años, seguir siendo el cuidador diario de su esposa durante 62 años? Tenía superpoderes, nada menos que extraordinario para seguir cocinando, lavando ropa y encontrando tiempo para hacernos reír a todos. El mayor truco de mi abuelito fue nunca darse por vencido con nosotros y siempre animarnos, especialmente cuando pensábamos que no podíamos.

La magia de mi abuelito es eterna. A pesar de que ya no está, todavía encuentra maneras de “sorprendernos” con sus recuerdos.

On what would have been her 67th birthday, I gingerly lifted a yellow piece of paper shaped like a bell from the box of my parents’ mementos and looked quizzically at my dad. “Oh, Mom’s bell!” he smiled as he held it gently in his own hands, emotion and memories creasing his face.

Printed on it was “Your 21st – Many Happy Returns … Clint Castor’s Pretzel Bell” and inscriptions and signatures covered it like you might find in a yearbook. All written to my mom. My dad told me how it came to be:On September 12th, 1969, my mom celebrated her 21st birthday. She had already graduated from the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor — she was so intelligent that she entered college having skipped ahead two grades — and was then living in New York, working for IBM as one of precious few female programmers in that day and age.

She and my dad had been dating for a year and so she flew to Ann Arbor for a birthday weekend celebration — which included a gathering at The Pretzel Bell — a tradition my dad explained to me. A maize & blue paper bell was signed for you by everyone who shared the party with you. A time-honored U of M tradition. The Pretzel Bell eventually closed (after being open from 1934-1985) and my dad and I lamented this when we were looking at boxes of memories (including her paper bell that I alighted on) on my mom’s first birthday after her death, September 12th, 2015.

But that wasn’t where the story ended! The Pretzel Bell reopened in a new location also near campus in 2016. I learned this when the new Instagram account for The Pretzel Bell interacted with the photo of my mom’s bell from her 21st celebration. My dad was overjoyed and we agreed we had to visit on our next Ann Arbor trip.

That trip took place in October 2017, and that much anticipated visit to #meetmeunderthebell happened on a gorgeous Michigan fall Friday afternoon. It’s hard to find the words to describe how it felt seeing all of the memorabilia from a place where my mom and dad clinked glasses and laughed and celebrated with friends. Where love was stoked, where memories were made. Where they existed together before I ever existed.

We relished the terrific food, the Michigan local beverages, a stellar dessert, and simply lovely surroundings. My daughter, Amelia, made herself at home and the restaurant staff who cared for us could not have been warmer or more receptive and kind after hearing our story. Caring hearts. We were even treated to something special reserved for birthday celebrations: our own little bell, which Amelia rang repeatedly with a joy only a toddler knows.

Fast forward to 2024. The story was renewed again. Incomprehensibly it is nine years since my mama was alive, and three since my daddy was alive. That memento bell from our 2017 visit? I unpacked it from a box labeled “SPECIAL! Open ASAP!” moving into our new home and set it out on my dresser with a handful of other treasures relating to my parents.

Remembering how my daddy’s immense heart was constantly beating for honoring people and places and moments which made us. Realizing that purpose has melded with my own. Making plans for our upcoming Michigan trip to take Amelia and Luka to the Pretzel Bell to lift a glass to Grampy and Grammy and the love which paved the way to today.

If you’re ever in Ann Arbor, go. Lift a glass for my mom and my dad. And remember that places with history stay with us — even in life’s twists and turns.

On Good Friday, just a couple of days ago, I decided to watch “The Passion of the Christ,” a movie I’ve watched a couple of times but had not watched in a few years. I didn’t know I was going to get triggered by it at the end of the movie. As I sat watching this movie that tells the heartbreaking story of how Jesus gave up his own life, to take away our sins, I cried as I saw the torture that he endured. It’s such a hard movie to watch. Then there was the scene when Jesus is crucified and says, “I love you, love one another.” I sat there sobbing silently.

My brother became ill April 7, 2020. It was Easter week. That day was the last day we got a text from him. Part of his text was, “I love you, love each other.” Reading the subtitle in the movie was like reading my brother’s last text and it hit hard. It was his goodbye. He passed on April 15, 2020. Our lives were never the same.

I have such fond memories using Easter egg decorating kits with my brother Johnny the day before Easter. We both loved coloring the hard boiled eggs our mother made. We made an absolute mess of our kitchen covered with many newspapers. We had so many plastic cups everywhere holding the dye tablets. It was so much fun adding the water and vinegar and then coloring all the eggs while spilling the dye water all over the table. We colored the eggs in every color possible and then later further decorated them with a wax pencil and many stickers. We were so proud of our accomplishment and placed them in an Easter basket and this went on for years.

My brother was receiving rehab following surgery in the very beginning of the Pandemic in 2020. I recall him telling me when he gets discharged , he hoped to color eggs with his grandniece Amanda, my granddaughter. Tragically, he died of Covid the day before Easter. Tomorrow is Easter and I want to remember and honor Johnny and all the beloved souls who passed from Covid. You will never be forgotten.

It has been almost four years since the Cuomo administration’s March 25th directive prevented nursing homes from refusing patients admission just because they had Covid. More than 9,000 active Covid patients were moved from NY hospitals into NY nursing homes early in the Pandemic. Tragically my brother Johnny was in short-term rehab in one of those nursing homes and several days later contracted Covid.

There were so many options other than sending them into nursing homes. I have no question that placing Covid-19 patients into facilities which were understaffed, unprepared, with poor infection control caused a greater number of deaths. I believe my dear brother was one of them. Johnny should still be here.