Joseph Michael Coskey, Sr.
October 31, 1893 - January 8, 1976
(Grandpop)
(husband of Margaret Mary Ryan Coskey)
~Written
by Marianne Libertella Massi
When I reflect upon my childhood, memories of my grandfather wash over me, filling my heart with warmth and love. And I smile.
I enter a time capsule, and find myself running in his backyard with all of my sisters and cousins, squealing with delight. It is Easter Sunday, and the Easter egg hunt has begun. I frantically search the bushes and trees, the garage and the patio, gathering up the pastel colored eggs. As I do this, I pray that God will help me find the best of all-----the golden egg. "Oh, God, " I plead, "please help me find the golden egg. Pleeeeeeeez? Just this once? I'll do anything...anything at all!" (You see, the one who finds this gold sequined treasure is awarded a silver dollar.)
My thoughts then shift to the Fourth of July. My grandfather strikes a pose by
the brick
barbecue, spatula in hand, donning a floppy white chef's hat, while hamburgers and hotdogs
sizzle on the grill. The grown-ups take charge of the rest of the food, carrying out
bowls of Cole slaw, potato salad, macaroni salad, and my grandmother's famous pineapple
cheesecake. While waiting to be called for supper, groups of us crowd onto the
glider or pile into the hammock, swinging merrily under the clear blue sky.
Wide-eyed and anxious, we take an unsuspecting stroll past the hiding place that houses the many cases of soda and boxes of candy, hoping to catch a glimpse of what is yet to come. It's only a matter of time before my grandfather steals each of us away from the rest of the crowd, whispering, "Sssshhhh, now don't tell anyone I gave you this", while filling our pockets with goodies from his private stash.
Saturday night sleepovers were a favorite of mine. My cousin Linda and I, a constant duo, would open the daybed in the living room with our snacks in tow. We'd then huddle under the covers and watch "The Twilight Zone", peering through slightly separated fingers pressed across our eyes. Without warning, the sandman would pay us a visit, and we'd find ourselves slowly awakened by the Sunday morning sound of my grandfather humming in the kitchen and the smell of homemade pancakes and sausage on the griddle. With his back to our bed, he'd pretend he didn't hear us while we snuck up behind him, and with a scream, threw our arms around his waist. Naturally, he'd muster up a startled yell, and we'd fall over giggling because we had scared Grandpop!
Here was a man whose voice never conveyed anger...a man who always found the good and chose not to dwell on the bad; a very simple man, with a very simple life. He wasn't wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, yet he was the richest man I ever knew. One could never place a price tag on the genuine humility exuded by him.
Even entering adulthood, I'd sit on his lap, my arms wrapped around his protruding belly, basking in his comfort and love. His very presence recaptured the child in me. With him I felt nurtured...I felt safe...I felt special. I can still visualize him dancing around the living room, singing the lyrics to one of his "silly songs" made up of sounds and words unknown to all but him.
Shortly after Christmas one year, my grandfather suddenly took ill. I went to the hospital to visit and, when everyone else had gone, climbed onto the bed, nestled my head against his shoulder, and watched TV with him. He called my attention to a potato chip commercial which always made him laugh, and somehow I knew it would be the last laugh we'd share.
I still miss him. My life was much fuller because he lived. And even though he's gone, the impression of his touch remains forever in my heart.
