He lived a long, happy life. We would all be lucky if we had half the life that he did. It is a life worth celebrating.

These were my mantras when people heard my Grandpa died. And they were true – he lived a good life. 93 years, mostly healthy.  Nearly 70 years of a fulfilling marriage.  12 kids, 38 grandkids (I miscount and say close to 60 all the time, or embellish, nearly lie…but still, 38!!).  38 great grandchildren.  A retired Chief of the Denver Fire Department, a WWII Veteran.  A kind man, with a solid moral compass.  I know my beliefs were vastly different than his; our religions different.  I think he knew this too, but ultimately what mattered most to him was my kindness, my good heart, that I was family.  A persistent sense of humor and an easy laugh.  A full heart and a full home, even once his 12 children grown.  That those are the most superficial stats of his life reflect how easy it was to explain his life was one well lived, worth celebrating. During a thoughtful, beautiful eulogy, my uncle – my Grandpa’s first son-in-law and friend – noted that he held a spot in his heart for every one of his kids, his grandkids, his great-grandkids.  And he did.  I lived away from my Grandpa most of my life, but there was never a time that he didn’t know everything going on in my life; that he wasn’t interested and concerned to know more. The mileage didn’t negate his pride or his love.

I got teary-eyed when my Dad told me he died, I think as much for empathizing with my Dad’s loss as for the loss of my Grandpa. What a hard, layered loss, the loss of your dad, no matter how long or happy his life.  When I arrived in Colorado for his services, the tears came a little more freely.  First, when I saw him in his coffin.  He looked peaceful, but his soul wasn’t there anymore.  His energy elsewhere.  It hit me then, and I missed that energy and that soul.  Then, seeing the faces of his sons and daughters.  Seeing my Dad and uncles and aunts cry, seeing the missing behind their eyes, it breaks pieces of my heart apart.  When I was a kid, I would cry with empathy if not all three participants on Wheel of Fortune walked away with money.  Watching people you love lose someone, and mourn that loss, and have to be brave and courageous and present as you honor that life and recognize the loss, that tears this empathetic heart apart.

My trip was quick, I was only there in Colorado for a little over 24 hours, enough to attend the Rosary, the Funeral, the Burial and the reception after. And I cried throughout, but not until I got on the plane ride home did I really cry.

From the reception, my family (and extended family and extended-extended family and friends) were going to my Grandpa’s house for the Irish Wake and drinks at Hart’s Bar. A bar, in the basement of the modest bungalow where my Dad and his siblings were raised, where we celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day for year after year after year, no matter how big the family got or how small the space seemed relative.  A small bar never without beer or Jameson, next to a living room that could pack in more people than some small neighborhoods.  Where you could walk up the stairs and escape to a much cooler upstairs (though one that was never occupied with more than a couple people), fresh air on the drive way and backyard right out the door (where you usually could find a pickup basketball game going on and someone running and hiding for any plethora of reasons).  A bar where the teasing was served as well as the drinks.  A bar where jokes were told.  A bar where there were no strangers.  A bar where those in the family that were shy started talking.  A bar where those that weren’t shy led the circus.  A bar where many of my cousins had their first drink.  A bar where adults did what they do while kids of all ages ran around and caused havoc with an unspoken permission so long as they kept it just slightly on this side of chaos.  A bar where 12-year old cousins were the ones in charge of the 2- and 3-year olds.  A bar where the 16-year olds were occasionally in charge of the 40-year olds.  A bar that was adjacent to games being played, stories being told, memories being made.

I spent all my holidays in this bar until my family moved to California when I was 12, then I spent them there sporadically. The Hart family grew and evolved over the years, but the spirit of this big family with my Grandpa as its patriarch remained the same.  If there were adequate words to describe the feeling of family as you walk into the side door of bungalow on Depew St, and down the flight of stairs into the basement housing the bar to your left, the living room straight ahead – I would write those words.

Whether it’s 1977 or 1989 or 1995 or 2007 or 2015, it’s warmth. It’s being known.  It’s sharing the same color eyes, the same longing for laughter.  It’s a strong hug, a kind look.  It’s a deep caring down to your core.  It’s pride.  It’s warm cookies, it’s the smell of coffee cake.  It’s turkey sandwiches with potato chips squeezed into the middle.  It’s safe adventure.  It’s an embrace that can bridge time, bridge distance. It’s hearing stories that shape your history and your future.  It’s chaotic energy that builds a safety net for you to be able to do anything.  It’s the first sip of whiskey that takes the edge off without even having to have the whiskey (but, for most of us, having it anyway).  It’s tears shared.  It’s sadness washed away.  It’s life lessons coming alive.  It’s finding yourself through others, finding others in yourself.  It’s so much life right at your fingertips.  It’s visceral.  It’s welcoming.  It’s taking your coat off but still feeling warm and protected from the elements.  It’s all the elements there together.  It’s silence and commotion.  It’s a maze you have never been in but know how to navigate.  It’s safe.  It’s safe.  It’s welcoming.  It’s warm.  It’s lively. It’s alive.  It’s family.  It’s love.

When I got on the plane to come back to my kids in Los Angeles, it hit me. It hit me that they may never know what it feels like to walk into this basement bar.  They may never truly know what it feels like to walk into this family.  My son has memories of it from the Irish Wake and celebration after my Grandma Bevy’s funeral, memories I hope make a lasting imprint with all these feelings.  My daughters may never have that opportunity.  They loved this house – they loved the piano, the backyard, the candy my Grandpa gave to them.  But they never got to be there with everyone.  They never got to experience this safety net woven together by chaos and people and energy and love of this great big huge family.  I realized as I boarded the plane, that while never taking for granted how special this family was, I somehow took for granted how special the experience of it was.  If I had the chance for a do-over, I’d have them miss two days of school, a first football game.  I’d spend the money on the tickets for all three of them to join me to celebrate my Grandpa’s life.  I’d have them walk into the basement with my parents and uncles and aunts and cousins and second cousins and friends of cousins who are like cousins and spouses and girlfriends and boyfriends and warm air and no space and laughter and jokes and teasing and depth and drinks and trust and familiarity. I’d let them weave their way through the people who love them, let them find toys from the 1950s, let them escape to the fresh air under a basketball hoop and the stars.  Let them have too many sodas and cookies and experience freedom and laughter and antics all in the safety of a few hundred square feet.  I’d give them this experience that can’t be put into words, this one with a lasting impact and beautiful imprint.  I’d give them this experience of Love and Family, an experience that can’t be recreated no matter how much love I bring into their life, an experience that my Grandpa helped create with his long and happy life, his life well lived.