I first observed the Day of the Dead on November 3, 2015, when my grandfather died at 91 years of age. I heard about his death as we celebrated my daughter's birthday, which is only fitting as death is as much a part of life as birth. There was no offrenda, no marigolds, no sugar skulls, but that night I began to tell them his stories.
Papi is in the middle.
My papi, George Ernest Shoberg, was the son of Delia Carrisoza and Victor Shoberg. He lied about his age in order to enlist during World War II, and fought in Germany. Once his platoon found a warehouse full of women's clothes in a town freshly liberated from the Nazis. This was a big deal, since clothes were scarce in the war-torn countryside. My grandfather tried to tell a local woman, but he didn't speak German very well and she didn't speak English. Finally, terrified of the Americans, she tentatively followed him to the warehouse. When she saw the mountains of clothes, my grandfather said she screamed and suddenly German women popped out of nowhere, putting on four or five bras each and layers and layers of socks. Another story he liked to tell was how, near the end of the war, a German soldier crossed into their camp and he had to take him prisoner. Papi would always shake his head at this point in the story and say, "He didn't want trouble. He just wanted to go home." The soldier was put under guard while they decided what to do with him. Papi learned his name, and that he lived in the next town. Papi went to his home, where the German's mother and sisters were waiting, and let them know that their brother was safe, and asked for a blanket for him. The man was released the next day, and Papi was part of the detail that made sure he went home.
These are the types of stories Papi told about the war. He told us about dancing with French girls in the canteens, or fishing by throwing grenades in a lake. The other stories, the darker stories, he kept to himself, or shared with fellow soldiers. Even without them, though, I have so many stories to share with my girls--like how he once helped carry John Wayne out of a bar, or how he would take us down to a cheap local carnival when we'd visit. I remember how he would buy old gingerbread cookies to feed the skunks in the backyard, and we'd watch them snuffle and eat through the sliding glass door. He was a plumber and all around handy-man. He raised three children, two of which weren't his own. He walked every day. Instead of swearing, he would call people "dirty birds." His home is fixed in my mind, with the bandoliers and sombreros on the brick wall, the shelves of black and white westerns, the pot of beans on the stove and the musky-leather of his cologne. Papi always told me to "keep [my] honor bright." I've tried my best to do so.
A year later, the unexpected passing of my mother-in-law in November of 2016 gave us another set of stories to tell. While some of my girls will have their own memories of their grandmother, others will only know her through the stories that we pass on. They will know that Grandma Kathy was a gymnast, and taught all of her kids how to do cartwheels. She loved cooking and was an intuitive, uncanny baker. She mothered everyone. She was whip-smart, with an irreverent, often naughty sense of humor. I remember how, when Rick and I had just started dating, my family was out of town and I was alone for Thanksgiving; Kathy found out, and promptly decreed that there would be neither turkey nor pie until I was at the table. Nobody dared thwart her, and I had my first Bushman Thanksgiving. She delighted over her children, welcomed their spouses, and celebrated every grandbaby.
We also share stories about Uncle Gregg. My brother in law died shortly after his mother, and his passing was perhaps the hardest. Unlike Papi or Kathy, most of whose stories are secondhand or my own time-blurred half-memories, I knew Gregg from the time he was 11 years old with a bowl-cut and a K.I.S.S. shirt. I remember going to his football games, and playing psychotic D&D campaigns on Saturday nights. He was also a soldier, and fought in Afghanistan. We were stationed together in Ft. Bragg, and Leah, only about 18 months old, adored him. He always told her she was his favorite, and he was definitely her favorite uncle. He had a knack for making things happen. The first time he got out of the military, he decided that he wanted to be an actor. Rick and I were dubious, but Gregg and his ever-patient wife sold almost everything they owned and moved to New York City in a matter of weeks. The day after they arrived he walked into a modeling and acting agency and was signed. Even though he never became crazy famous, he did make it onto IMDB. Gregg was larger than life.
Sometimes I get angry that stories are all I have to share about these people who were so influential in my life. Not so much for my grandfather as for Kathy and Gregg. I get angry that most of my girls won't remember snuggling their grandmother, or hearing her call them "bunny," or her sneaking them popsicles when I wasn't looking. I'm sad that they won't get to listen to Uncle Gregg riffing with their dad, and that Gregg's sons will have only other people's memories of their father. The stories seem inadequate, pale reflections of the vibrant people I knew. But the stories are what I have. The stories are what I can give. And so I will.
"We are all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?"
--The 11th Doctor
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