My grandfather, Dr. Edward L Rhodes, has died. I’ve been thinking over how to present this, because the written word is my comfort during stress. But I have two problems as I look into this:
1: The history of this man is phenomenal and constantly surprises me.
2: No matter how old I’ve become, Papa Ed is always that gentle giant to me.
Dr. Edward Rhodes (1929-2022) was a WWII veteran, an unsung hero of medical research, an inheritor of a Texan city, the descendant of a signer of the US Constitution, and most of all, an extremely interesting and funny man to his collection of grandchildren.
The more I’ve dug into this man’s life, the more startled I’ve become. The above paragraph is just what I have in my memories, and I’m all but certain I haven’t explored everything this man has done in his 93 years of life. I can’t write this essay the way I normally would, as a storyteller of his deeds. I still haven’t learned what all he has done.
But I can write it as a grandson remembering the man as I have.
Papa Ed was a blindingly intelligent man and enjoyed testing us grandkids with this intellect. I remember him asking if I knew anything about a given subject. If I told him no, I was about to learn everything he knew about it. I learned more about World War II from this man than I ever did in a school classroom, and I learned the emotions that went with those experiences. He would ask if I had heard about a given subject, event, or person. If I didn’t, he’d launch into an explanation.
Papa Ed taught me how to be a storyteller. He taught me how to keep track of anecdotes and how to set them up, so I’d keep my listeners riveted. He taught me to keep facts tucked away in my mind in order to draw them out during conversations and suddenly have an audience.
I remember this man as an actual gentle giant. He was always a big man to me, even after I became an adult and was technically taller than him. Wherever he walked, his shadow would fall over me. I remember the bad jokes he’d teach me as a child, most often landing me in trouble with the teachers (he loved, loved, limericks) and then he’d be scolded for teaching child-me those lines.
As I’ve reflected on the kind of man I’ve grown up to be, I keep seeing this giant in my childhood memories. Influencing and advising me on the subjects of story-telling.
I was very lucky to have seen him today. We knew that the end was coming and were prepared for it. I went to the elderly hospital he was checked into and was given a few minutes to sit with him. I regaled my grandfather, who was unresponsive and had not recognized my face in years, with stories he told me about his time during the War. I thanked him for everything he taught me, for laying the groundwork for the kind of man I’d become, and for simply being my grandfather.
My last memory of seeing him alive is of me leaning my head down to touch his shoulder and saying “thank you for everything, grand-dad” and his head twitching ever so slightly toward me.
I like to think he was saying his gruff ‘welcome’ and readying another limerick.
Goodbye, Papa-Ed. I’ll remember and retell your stories. It’s what you taught me to do, even if you didn’t know how important being a storyteller would be for me. Your shadow is no longer cast, but I will always remember the comfort your presence brought to us.
Swift's Corner 