Take the Trip Before it’s Too Late

For years I’ve wanted to escape New York and move south to be with my father’s parents. My grandmother’s hugs have never been matched. My grandfather’s stories are some of the first that ever mattered to me. Whenever life would feel unbearable I’d remind myself of him—orphaned in Iran as a little boy, the things he witnessed. The luck he made for himself and carried forward, relentlessly optimistic, for decades. When I was old enough I traveled to Florida with a voice recorder and sat with him for hours. I didn’t care about the beach or playing with my younger cousins or the amazing garden he tended so carefully. I craved my history and his. I promised Grandpa I’d write his biography one day. He told me everything.

Born into poverty, Hassan lost his mother early, then witnessed the murder of his father, was abused beyond mention, beaten with bricks, left for days in a well to die, and worst of all, separated from his siblings. But he escaped. Over and over he survived. He wandered alone, made pinwheels out of colored paper and sold them to prisoners through chain link fences. A nickel here and there. He saved enough to save his sister and they ran.

My grandfather was an orphan but he chose a family of wild dogs, slept in graves, learned to turn everyday objects into beautiful things—radios, bicycles, things that made a young boy feel hope. Later, he was taken in by The Shah of Iran. That chapter of his life has always been the most magical to me. Someone with power seeing someone so vulnerable, and doing something decent. I sometimes wonder if I’d even exist were it not for this act of kindness. Hassan lived with the Shah and his family until, by miracle, he met my grandmother Sicilia, a beautiful Iranian woman whose long black hair and red lipstick and bold singing voice were all taboo at that time. He was Muslim, she a Christian. Naturally they fell in love, and my father Fred and his sister Frieda were born within a few years. From nothing they built a life. Built a business. Bought property. Finally dreamed of a happy ending. But life in Iran became dangerous for them and during the revolution they fled. Grandpa told me they grabbed as much art, as many postcards and photos and small treasures as they could carry, bundled up their two small children, and left everything else behind for New York. He started from scratch again.

For some years Hassan and Sicilia lived in an apartment just north of New York City, and my three older sisters had the privilege of growing up just downstairs. They called him Grandpa Sam, and her Grandma Cilia. They’d bound up the stairs whenever they wanted a hug or a snack. What bliss. But I was 6 months old when my parents moved further upstate and my grandparents and Frieda moved to Florida. We saw them a handful of times during my childhood, but never enough.

In second grade I wrote an essay about missing them, and the guilt that came with it. I always hoped adulthood would allow me the financial and physical freedom to spend as many hours and days as I wanted in their beautiful house, surrounded by mango trees and the biggest flowers and my grandmother’s cooking that always smelled like saffron, cardamom and rose. It was always clear they were my people. I spent so many holidays promising them I’d see them soon. “Hopefully this summer I’ll have some time off.” “I’m saving money to come hug you”… I always had plans. And Grandpa would say, “I’m on the roof, looking for you!” or “I’m polishing every blade of grass for when you get here!” How like him to make jokes to keep the sadness from seeping in.

A few years ago two of my sisters and I drove down to see them and I spent days in the warm dining room just talking to Grandpa. Grandma said it meant a lot for someone to ask him about his life. He took out all the old boxes stashed away in drawers and closets—art and photos and small sculptures, poems, dishes, letters. Small blue beads crafted by artisan hands, to protect from evil. The half of me I could never get to was all there in tiny flowers and the words of Rumi. I wished more than anything that I could stay. As soon as I could, I planned another trip. My partner Paul and I rented a car and drove down and I spent another few days absorbing my family history, watching Grandpa tinker in his endless garage of makeshift inventions. He never stopped working.

Grandma taught me to make perfect Turkish coffee, and squeezed me every night before bed. When the rest of the family was around, Grandpa would sit silently, smile to himself, make a funny face whenever we made eye contact. But alone, he was eager to talk. I could have spent weeks more, listening and recording and asking endless questions about his past. Our heritage was all around us—in frames on the walls, in the elaborate handwoven carpets, in Grandpa’s thick accent and glittering eyes.

The last night we stayed over I hugged Grandpa for a long time. I knew he’d be gone by morning—off to the flea market where he spent every morning selling his collection of assorted goods. Even as he grew old and got smaller, weaker, he never missed a day of work.

But the next morning Paul and I emerged to find Grandpa home. He had skipped work to spend one more day with us. He never said a word about it, but I’ll never forget his smile when I saw him that morning. He was always doing silent deeds like this, his best expression of love. It’s where my Dad gets his quiet commitment from. His unmatchable work ethic. His refusal to ever surrender to a hard life. The Persian eyes we all share, that try to speak what we cannot.

I always feared the day one of my dad’s parents passed. I knew the guilt and regret would overwhelm me. I didn’t get there enough. I didn’t tell them how much I loved and needed them. I didn’t learn Farsi, or how to make a radio out of a shoebox, or what mysterious force helped my grandfather endure brutality after brutality and then become one of the funniest, silliest men I ever knew. But I have all the VHS tapes he sent my sisters and me growing up. Grandpa’s Magic Tricks—they always came in a box with Grandma’s homemade baklava, big bags of walnuts and raisins from relatives in California. Other Iranian links we never met. We all did what we could to stay connected. We did our best with the lives we were given.

Grandpa never got to meet his great-grandchildren Scarlet and Oscar. Or see how any of his 7 grandchildren carried his name and our shared history forward. I didn’t get to show him the finished book about his life, and the dedication I will surely write, when I can stand to face the meaning of this loss: For Grandpa Sam, the best man I’ve ever known.