My Grandpa

When I was a young lad I lived with my mom and dad down the block from Prospect Park in Brooklyn. It was always a perk for a child if he or she lived close to any park, but to have lived near Prospect park was a dream irregardless of your age.  I could not find the proper words that truly described that park with all its storied landmarks, crystalline lakes, and lush meadows but my Grandpa could and did.  He only used one single word to describe that park. But it was his favorite word.

Lafayette Memorial entrance to
to Prospect Park

Lake at Prospect Park

"Jimmy, me lad" he would say in his thick and melodious Irish brogue, "let's you and I go to the park.  Yes,  dear child, let's go to Prospect park . . . it's a grand place."

Grandpa's favorite word described a magical land of swings and slides and sandboxes.  Grand painted an image of a field laden with  mint green hills, opulent valleys and cerulean blue waters-- a masterpiece of nature that was always on display. So certainly, as most everyone agreed, Prospect Park was a grand place.

Grandpa
 Paddy Spaight

The years that followed brought a wider smile to grandpa's rosy Celtic appearance with the birth of another grandchild, my brother Jack. Regrettably, I saw less of grandpa's smiles as I moved much further away. Grandpa remained in Brooklyn, still living down the block from the park he introduced me to when I was a mere toddler.

As Jack and I became older, Grandpa visited us to be a part of our birthdays and holidays. If memory serves me correctly, we travelled back to Brooklyn at least twice a month to see grandpa and the rest of our family.

I wish I could see him once more. Grandpa died when I was only ten years old and I wish we had done so many more things together. I wish we had talked even more than we did--there are so many things I want to know now. But I can't-- all I have left are wonderful, teary-eyed memories of me as a little child and my white haired Irish grandfather.

I can still feel your big and rough hand lovingly clasp my little-boy fingers. Oh, grandpa . . . I just want to hold your hand once more . . .