Crossing the Bar

Remembering my grandparents

My high school literature teacher was obsessed with Tennyson, and for good reason. I remember explicating “Crossing the Bar,” and thinking about death, though it was too distant from my 14-year-old brain to get far. Years later, death became real to me as I held my grandfather’s hand while he breathed his last breath in June 2008. That was my first experience of loss, and the first of the deaths of four grandparents that have left me a grand-orphan.

I grew up in a small town, surrounded by blue collar, small town people. Four of these people were my grandparents. Both of my parents worked, so three days of the school week, one set of my grandparents would pick me and my siblings up from school and watch us till my dad got home. I spent countless hours at their houses, sometimes visiting and sometimes helping with projects. Mostly, though, I spent that time eating and drinking pop. The way I see it, I didn’t just have one set of parents. I had three.

All of my grandparents were born prior to the stock market crash in 1929. So they lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They were a resilient bunch, hardened by the hard stuff of life, and softened by it, too.

In this month of November, as the Catholic Church remembers and prays for her dead, I want to reflect briefly on each of my grandparents and their impact on my life.

Ralph Kimmet (July 3, 1926 - June 18, 2008)

I’m fairly certain Grandpa Kimmet spent nearly his entire life within about a four square mile plot of flat land in northwest Ohio. He went to school in one of the one-room schoolhouses that still dots the countryside in the area. Drafted into the Navy after high school, he was heading out into the Pacific when WWII ended. So he came back home and started a family. He did sheet metal work and ran the homestead farm. Around age 40, he came in from splitting wood and couldn’t stand. He spent the next few days crawling around the house in agonizing pain. Crippling rheumatoid arthritis set in with a devastating impact. The condition racked his frame. He became a mangled middle age man with six kids. With grandpa in and out of work, my grandmother had to pick up odd jobs to feed everyone. In my entitled brathood as a kid, my mom would trump our pickiness by explaining how her mom would split a fun sized candy bar into six pieces, one for each kid, as a special treat on feast days and holidays.

My grandpa was a master hoarder. If something could prove useful in the future, it was kept. Small items were organized in old Velveeta cheese cartons and bigger items in dusty beer cases. If my grandpa couldn’t use his hands to get something done, he made a tool that could. He made one out of wood for buttoning his shirt when he couldn’t work his fingers to do the job. Getting around was hard for my grandpa, but he did it any way. One time, I remember him coming to one of my grade school plays and he tripped while coming in. Surrounded by gawkers, I remember him crying. His head was split open, but he wasn’t crying about that. He was crying because of his illness and the burden it caused. He was crying because of a shame nobody else could understand. He was crying because he was lonely. As a kid, seeing your crippled and bloodied grandfather weeping because of his condition, that hits you with feelings you don’t understand at the time — and maybe never will.

I spent lots of time with my grandpa. Most of it was spent at his kitchen table. There he sat most days — apart from when he was at Mass or doctor appointments — looking at the birds at the feeder and the crops in the fields. He visited with people. Rather, they came to him. He was a wise, sage-type, so people sought him out. Always smiling and listening, and always encouraging. He was also holy, one of the most joyful people I’ve ever known, probably honed through his long suffering. He was available for others and for me, so, like many others who “stopped by to see Ralph,” I came to him just to talk. I’d walk in, say “hi,” grab a pop from the fridge and some Pringles from the cupboard and shoot the bull for an hour or so. This is my greatest memory of my grandpa. Sitting at his table, just because he was there for me. Always there.

As I finished my time as an undergrad, it was clear that grandpa was dying. Decades of medicine had shredded his stomach and his once-beaten cancer had returned. As if his skeleton hadn’t suffered enough, the bone cancer was finishing the job. He spent his remaining weeks suffering in almost complete silence and in extreme pain. Family members kept vigil for the last couple of months. This gave my grandma a break and allow us the sacred privilege of sitting at his bedside, listening to his labored breath, realizing our complete helplessness, and pondering the mysteries of life and death. I was blessed to spend several nights at his side, nights I will never forget. He died on June 18, 2008, after receiving Last Rites, and surrounded by all of his children and grandchildren. It happened shortly after his wife said, “You can go, Ralph. I will be okay. We will be okay, Ralph.” It was an act of tender love and complete surrender. I had a front row seat as she uttered these words and he seemed to hear them. As I mentioned above, I was holding his hand when he breathed his last.

Dominic Bursa (June 16, 1925 - April 21, 2014)

Born of Czechoslovakian immigrant parents, Grandpa Bursa grew up in Tiffin, Ohio, my hometown. In Tiffin, his family was one of exactly two Czechoslovakian families. So, they lived near all the Italians, the other minority group in the small — predominantly German and Irish — town. Grandpa was drafted into the Army shortly after graduating from high school and fought with the 82nd Airborne in WWII. During the War, he parachuted into Holland and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. When they came home on The Queen Mary, the 82nd Airborne paraded ten miles down Fifth Avenue in New York City in celebration of being the most decorated outfit of the United States Army.

I never heard much about the war. He kept that bottled up pretty good. All I knew about it was that “we won,” and “they had to dig shrapnel out of my ass.” I suspect he wrestled his entire life with having witnessed the worst of our broken humanity and trying to fit those busted pieces back together again. He might have survived the war, but I think something inside of him died during the process. He worked for General Electric and spent much of his time in bowling leagues and sitting at the bar at the American Legion, where he was known as “the cat.” I realize now that my dad and his four siblings’ life must have looked a lot like the 1960s life depicted in The Wonder Years. Dad was distant — locked inside himself somewhere.

My grandpa came to most all of my sports games, I think. In my mind, he was always in the stands, whether or not that was actually true. I liked that. And he always had something good to say, even if he just witnessed a miserable affair.

As I got old enough to mow, my dad brought me in tow to learn how to take care of their yard. This I did for many years through junior high and high school. Each week, I’d ride my bike across town, down their long driveway, and around the backside of the house. Without fail, I’d be greeted by my grandma’s butt sticking straight up in the air as she fought with an aggressive patch of mint that wanted to surround their entire house. After passing her, I’d roll up by the garage where grandpa was always sitting in an old lawn chair waiting for me. There he’d sit the whole time I mowed the lawn so we could enjoy a cold Cherry Coke once I finished. I spent a lot of hours in that garage talking to him about sports and stuff.

After I finished school and moved away from home, my grandpa had surgery in a Toledo, Ohio hospital and never recovered. Stuck in the hospital, the husband of 67 years, the father of five children, this man was losing hope. Embittered and tired, and probably scared, he knew the end was near. His life, filled with so much silent suffering, likely stemming from his experience in the war as an 18-year-old, was ending in still more suffering.

On April 20, 2014, Easter Sunday, my parents visited him in the hospital. My mom recounts the story:

When we went to leave, he asked “So, who will be here with me in the morning?” I told him that the nurses are always there, and that Jill [his daughter, my aunt] and Grandma would probably be there like they always did in the late morning or early afternoon. He repeated again, “No, but who will be here with me in the morning?” I repeated all of what I’d just said back to him, and he looked at me so intently and said, “I’ll call out each one of your names and nobody will be here with me.” I assured him that the nurses are always there with and for him, and he just said again, “Nobody will be here with me.”

He died the next morning, April 21. None of us were there with him.

Josephine Kimmet (April 24, 1929 — February 10, 2018)

Josie grew up on a farm. She was one of twelve kids. One of the boys ran away from home by night and became a Benedictine monk at St. Meinrad Archabbey against his father’s wishes. All of her sisters look the exact same and they talk the exact same, too. Consequently, I could never tell the difference between them.

Grandma was the hard-working farm-woman type. An anxious Martha figure if ever there was one. From the moment you’d arrive at your house, she wouldn’t stop flying around the kitchen and putting more and more home-cooked food in front of you. She could fix most anything, from country-fried steak to a hole in the crotch of your pants. She canned most anything and cleaned everything about 20 times a day. She worried. And when she wasn’t worrying, she worried about that, too. She spent the last 40 years of her life, or so, caring for my grandpa and picking up after her kids and grandkids.

Grandma’s devotional life was a tour de force. I think she prayed a thousand rosaries a day. Usually EWTN was on the TV in the house or some rosary CD in the player in the car. If I recall, my mom said that after my grandma died and they were going through her stuff, they found rosaries in almost every pocket of every jacket, along with miraculous medals sown into her clothing. She was hardened by the hard stuff of life, including a mental breakdown and a time in “the asylum” as a young mom trying to raise six kids, work a job, and care for a crippling husband. But her devotion to Jesus and the Blessed Mother softened her heart.

Grandma was a simple lady who couldn’t make sense of our rapidly changing society. To her, it seemed the world was losing its mind. She was right, of course. So, in her later years, I think she didn’t try. It’s impossible to reason with insanity. She was a woman of common sense and deep wisdom.

As an 88-year-old woman, she was out shoveling snow so she could get to a parishioner’s funeral when she suffered a massive brain aneurysm. She died a few days later in a hospice facility.

When I think about my grandma, a line Ratzinger wrote after the death of his mother runs through my head: “I know of no more convincing proof for the faith than precisely the pure and unalloyed humanity that the faith allowed to mature in my parents and in so many other persons I have had the privilege to encounter.”¹

Rita Bursa (May 22, 1925 ~ June 1, 2019)

Grandma Bursa’s family had lots of Scots-Irish, Appalachian blood. So, she was a feisty fighting type — and a pot-stirrer. Supposedly she was a table dancer for the soldiers during the war. I am still not quite certain what that means and I’m happy to remain ignorant.

As noted above, I remember my grandmother’s rump greeting me while she weeded and I remember her constantly watching soaps on TV while either gossiping on the phone or cat-napping. She was, quite frankly, hilarious. Always witty and you never could quite tell when she was being serious and when she was just messing with you. She loved Christmas and heaping on her grandchildren loads of used crap she picked up from garage sales and flea markets all year long. I’d end up with a half-broken toy car or a bag of random action figures and stuff like that. The real problem was that she was going blind, so most of the time she couldn’t tell what she was buying. She’d write things in cards like, “I have no idea what I’m writing. I can’t see.” Where I’m from, when someone dies, everyone brings a casserole to the luncheon after the funeral. For my Grandma Kimmet’s funeral, Grandma Bursa showed up with a red jello casserole (yes, this is a thing), with green beans suspended inside of it. She thought it was a can of pineapple, but she couldn’t see. So, she laughed and we ate heaping plates of red-jello-and-green-bean casserole.

My grandmother died in her sleep. At her graveside service, my cousin marched to the casket with a boombox. I didn’t know such an antique still existed — the battery-operated, CD-playing machine. Yet here it was.

Apparently my grandmother had requested that “their song” be played before she was buried. “Their song,” the song that had accompanied them for 67 years of marriage, was Johnny Mathis’ “The Twelfth of Never.” My aunt made this announcement and everyone stopped to listen to the song. Somehow, during all of this, I ended up right next to the casket. There, I read my grandfather’s tombstone (he had already been dead for five years) and I could peer down the shaft next to my grandmother’s casket and stare into the pitch blackness of her tomb.

“Until the twelfth of never, I’ll still be loving you…” Johnny’s voice sang out. It was a cry for some sort of eternal love, a never ending love. And this cry captured the longing of the hearts of my grandparents. Yet here I was staring at a tombstone and a terrible finality. I was staring at death mocking our desire.

The words from Song of Songs went through my head: “For Love is strong as Death, longing is fierce as Sheol” (8:6). Strong as death, but not stronger than death.

“Hold me close. Never let me go,” Johnny’s voice rang out.

I felt almost like I was being torn in half. Looking into my grandmother’s grave, I saw and heard the disparity between human longing and the dead end of death. I could feel it. It was anguish, in its purest form. The human heart longs for a love that is stronger than death, one that can conquer the loneliness of Sheol. Then, something snapped inside of me. In complete silence, I screamed. Confronted with the harshness of human love’s insufficiency before the power of death, let out a deep plea in the silence of my heart.

Conclusion

My grandparents were real people who made a real impact on my life. They did this by sharing their real lives with me. They were down to earth. They were faithful in their own ways. They were deeply dedicated to their families. A day doesn’t go by without thinking about at least one of them. And I pray for them, too. In Jesus’ Resurrection, I can hope for theirs (and my own). In Jesus’ Resurrection, I believe they are still alive and that they are close to me. I believe my Grandpa Kimmet is still available, listening, and smiling on me. I believe that my Grandpa Bursa was not alone when he died and that, in fact, he was never alone. Jesus was always with him and Jesus was there that frightful Easter Monday morning. I believe Grandma Kimmet is finally able to rest, though she, if and when she gets to Heaven, will probably be like St. Thérèse and busy herself by spending her Heaven doing good on earth. And I believe Jesus’ death and resurrection has had the final word in death’s apparent mockery of human love, and I hope my Grandma Bursa is now enjoying the twelfth of never with all her loved ones who went before her.

May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in Christ’s peace — Christ, our only hope. Amen.

1. Ratzinger, Milestones, 131.