First Attempt, Part II

Looking back, my grandfather's death was one of the defining moments of my early childhood, and shaped my views into early adulthood.  I can't quite explain why my grandfather's death had such a profound impact on me. Lots of children loose grandparents early in their lives; I was only eight when he died, and really have few concrete memories of him.  Still, I don't know that I would have been the same person were it not for this one event.  In this post, I will try to articulate what it is that his death affected me so strongly. 

Let me begin with who my grandfather was.  If there ever was a hero of our family, it was my grandfather.  His life was epic, legendary even, and his exploits made wonderful bedtime tales for a six year old.  Roy was an aerospace engineer and inventor who worked on the Apollo 11 mission.  Some of his inventions were in the Smithsonian, some were still on the moon.  He worked in Houston during the week, but flew his private plane home to Minneapolis on the weekend to be with his family.  After leaving NASA, he built and owned several businesses designing motorcycle equipment and even a patented spray gun, for which he received a prestigious engineering award. (The spray gun company, which he owned until the end of his life, still exists under its original name Mattson Spray Equipment.  I got a bit choked up to find it had a website.  I think his motto "Only the finish is breathtaking" exemplifies my Grandfather's belief that hard work was behind every beautiful outcome.)

I found stories of his family life just as enthralling as those of his professional exploits.  I will never forget the story of my grandfather discipline my uncle after he had pushed my mother off her bike, skinning her knees and elbows.  My grandfather was a completely against corporal punishment when it came to children, but he was not without a sense of the dramatic.  He ordered my mother to lower all the shades, and took off his belt.  I will never forget my mother's description of my grandfather: towering over my uncle, slapping his belt into his palm.  The story ended with both my uncle and my mother begging my grandfather not to hit him, and my uncle solemnly swearing to leave my mother alone, upon pain of belting.

I remember my mother telling me all these at a young age, but I don't remember exactly when she told me he was sick.  There was just this general knowledge in the family of why my mother was leaving every weekend to make the five hour drive to the twin cities.  It wasn't until I was older, though, that I learned my grandfather's prostate cancer was diagnosed as terminal fairly soon after he sought treatment for it (the survival rate being quite low in the early 90's).  Hence my mother's drive to spend every last moment she could with him.

The call came early one November morning.  Grandpa had been admitted to the hospital, and the doctors believed he had reached the end.  I remember being bundled into the car in my pajamas before school had even started.  It was right before thanksgiving, and I recall being half awake and wondering if I was going to miss our thanksgiving party at school.  Hours later we visited Grandpa for the last time in his hospital bed.  My mom said later she wished she hadn't taken us to the hospital, that it would have been better for our last memories of him to be smiling and somewhat healthy than sick and sedated. 

I don't remember when my mom told me he was sick, but I do remember when she told me he had died.  The phone woke us all up early thanksgiving morning in our hotel room.  My mom was on it for less than a minute.  I asked her what had happened.  She turned to me and said "Kyra, do you know what 'passed away' means?".  And he was gone.

To this day I ask myself why it should affect me so much.  My personal memories of my grandfather are few and fleeting: his hands, dancing on his shoes, the night he taught me to like milk in my mashed potatoes.  Perhaps it was the hole he left  in the lives of those around him.  The pain I saw my mother go through.  The way our family dissolved without him.  As I grew up, the Mattson family came apart at the seams with bickering and infighting my mother swears my grandfather never would have tolerated.  Our hero, our legend was gone, with nothing to replace him. 

But there was, and is, a silver lining to these events.  From my grandfather's death I learned to wholeheartedly appreciated the transient nature of life.  I know that those I love will only be with me for a short time, and even in the hard times I can love them the better for that knowledge.  And I have seen first hand the pain that's left when someone dies.  And in my darkest moments it has made me swear that I would never, ever take my own life.  I couldn't knowingly leave that kind of pain behind me.

I owe all this to my grandfather, his life and his death.  Both have made me who I am.  Grandpa, I dedicate this post to you. 

Roy D. Mattson

1927-1993

"What He Dreamed, He Invented"