Thank You

Six days before my eleventh birthday—the year was 1996—my grandpa died at the age seventy-seven. He had some kind of heart problem, and the dubiously professional rural Chinese hospital he was in failed to save him.

Mommy, Daddy, and I all flew from Los Angeles to China for the funeral, which was scheduled for July 7... my birthday. “Great party this is gonna be...” I thought grimly, joking to myself to avoid any thought that might make me start bawling right in my window seat on the airplane.

We arrived at my mom’s parents’ place soon enough. My other grandma and grandpa greeted us with open arms, and Mom soon began to chatter with her parents. Dad and I trudged silently up the stairs to the third floor of the five-story apartment complex. It was a pretty cramped place, which barely fit its three bedrooms. One was reserved for me, one was for my parents, and the last for my grandparents. I slept surprisingly soundly that night.

The next day, at the funeral ceremony, I couldn’t help beginning to think about Grandpa. People were, one at a time, walking up to a stand and talking in Chinese, so I couldn’t understand them very well. From what I could gather, it was basically eulogy after eulogy about his contributions to the world. I stopped trying to figure out what they were saying partly because I couldn’t understand them and partly because Grandpa’s body was lying face up in a plastic case as if he were an action figure toy. I just let my mind drift.

The last time I saw Grandpa had been about five years previous, when he visited America for the first and last time. He had stayed for about two months, but left an impression that would last forever. He was tall and thin and wrinkly. He had a failing left eye which perpetually looked bloodshot, short, thinning white hair, stubble on his chin, and a funny-looking smile which either revealed his beautiful white dentures, or his one lonely front tooth which he brushed carefully every morning while never failing to remind my six-year-old self of the dangers of candy in combination with not brushing your teeth.

Because I was so young, only a few incidents remain seared in my brain.

Grandpa always liked playing games with me. At times when I would normally be sitting on the floor by myself because my parents were watching TV, if he was around, we’d be in my room playing checkers or some other board game. When I got back from school, before I began my homework, he would make me a bite to eat and we would play some mind games he made up. The one I remember most was when I would write a sentence without him looking and flip it upside down. He would then have to decipher it upside down. Now, I realize the ease of this game now, but back then, I marveled at the way he somehow psychically knew what I wrote. Then, he would write a sentence upside down for me to figure out. We would go on, back and forth, me always losing and him almost always guessing it right (he missed a few on purpose, I bet; that would be so like him). Then, he would write, “DO YOUR HOMEWORK, LAZYBONE!” upside-down and the game would be over.

Grandpa could even make waiting fun. One early Saturday morning, we had both awoken around 6 AM, and knew we couldn’t do anything until seven, because that was just a rule in the house. So he whispered, “David, whoever yawns the most from now until seven o’clock wins, OK?” I smiled and nodded my approval. The hour flew by in about one minute with me winning 23 yawns to 19.

Grandpa was really a great person to be around, especially for a peewee first-grader. My dad tells me that I would’ve liked him even more now, because, unbeknownst to me back then, Grandpa had been an English major, and knew a lot about almost everything. He had actually been a college professor.

Suddenly, I realized the funeral was over. People were crying all over the place, and a lot of people were walking past us shaking our hands and sobbing like there was no tomorrow. There was a line forming. I guessed at the time that shaking the hands of relatives of the deceased was some kind of tradition. I wondered if any of the people that were all red-faced and bawling had any last thing they wanted to say to Grandpa, and had decided that shaking an eleven-year-old kid’s hand would do the trick of sending a message up to Heaven, or wherever people go when their bodily systems cease to function.

I wondered if I had any last messages that I wished I had given to Grandpa. Well, I guess I wished that I could’ve thanked him for all of the fun and laughter he brought into my life. I really appreciated him spending time with me, and playing all those fun games. Right then, I wanted to go up to him and tell him exactly that... but of course, it would have to be then that it finally hit me. It took me a week, but it was right there, when I had something to say to Grandpa, that I realized… he was gone. I couldn’t thank him. He died uncertain about what he had done for his oldest grandson. I was too late. My gratitude didn’t come out quickly enough. I could do absolutely nothing.

I am reminded of a short story I once read by Alex Haley called “Thank You.” In it, Haley got to do what I missed out on. On board the USS Murzim—Thanksgiving 1943—he began to reflect on the meaning of Thanksgiving, and finally came to this conclusion: “There were people to thank, people who had done so much for me that I could never possibly repay them... I’d always just accepted what they’d done... Not one time had I ever bothered to express to any of them so much as a simple, sincere ‘Thank you.’” For me, Grandpa could have certainly fit in that category. However, Haley did something about it with his father, his grandmother, and his grammar school principal. He wrote thank-you letters. To each of them, he briefly recounted actions or events in which he wanted to express gratitude. He got back replies, which, in turn, thanked him back for even considering them for doing such fine deeds. Haley had done what most of us have only thought about. He got to thank the truly significant figures in his life, something that I will never be able to do with Grandpa.

More people need to follow in Alex Haley’s footsteps. Sure, everybody thanks waiters, clerks, and people that hand you the butter knife, but how many have actually thanked the important people in their lives for all that they have done? Gratitude is due (probably over-due) in places not just where some stranger hands you the quarter you dropped. We need to take action, and really thank those people that have made genuine contributions to our lives. The teachers, the moms, the dads... how many times are they thanked for all the lives they put in the right direction?

In the last line of Alex Haley’s essay, he says this: “‘Find the good—and praise it.’” Well, I would like to end this essay with this: Find the good—and praise it quickly! Otherwise, it’ll probably be too late.

So I guess this is my Haley-esque thank-you letter, to my mom, my dad, my teachers, my friends, and everyone else I fail to acknowledge on a daily basis as making my life infinitely better and happier than it would be otherwise. I am always in a constant state of gratitude and indebtedness for everything you do. Thank you.