I know this is sort of recycling, but I thought I’d share what I wrote for my grandfather’s memorial service, which was yesterday. He died August 14 at 94. He had a very long life. I wonder if he would say it was a good one. I hope so. He certainly did it his way, to borrow a phrase. Anyhow, here’s what I wrote — and struggled to read aloud — for the occasion:

I am Ray’s oldest grandchild. The hospitality industry was never an option for me – I’m not that polite – so I became a journalist, instead. And in journalism school, one of the first things they teach you is, “Show, Don’t Tell”.

I knew what they meant, immediately, because that’s my grandfather. He always spoke through his deeds, rather than his words.

There are some funny family stories about that. My mom remembers waiting years to get up the courage to hug her father in law. Finally, at our cousin Lory’s wedding, she approached him – and dove in for the hug. As she was embracing him, she heard Ray mumble something and thought, “Oh, finally! An expression of emotion! Our big bonding moment!”

Not quite. He was saying, “You are standing on my foot.”

Everyone in the family has a report card story about my grandfather. I knew the drill well, even before I was old enough to get one.

“What?! Ten As and one B plus? What happened?” And then the trademark Grandpa, “tsk tsk”.

I used to try it, just to test him. Always the same.

My second-favorite personal memory of my grandfather took place when I was in third grade. I remember the day all too well. I was wearing my absolutely favorite outfit, a teal-green skirt and top with a Snoopy appliqué.

I threw up all over my desk.

They must have called every number on the emergency list and come up empty, because I will never forget the image of my grandfather nervously walking into the nurse’s office, carrying a stack of white towels, straight from the Paradise Valley Guest Ranch. Even more towels lined the entire inside of his Volvo sedan.

I don’t remember him saying a word, but I’ll never forget that rescue mission.

My all-time favorite memory of my grandfather, though, is one I think I shared at the time Gommy died. I have to tell you about my grandmother, in case you never knew her.

She was the most glamorous person I ever met. She had a bathroom vanity with metallic wallpaper and bottles of makeup and perfume, and she let me stay up late to watch HBO before anyone else had HBO and she always had at least a dozen different kinds of crackers in the pantry – for poker night, of course.

I don’t know that I ever saw my grandparents cuddle, and one of my dad’s favorite stories is about how the phone would ring in the middle of the night – with a problem at the guest ranch – and Gommy would stagger out of bed to run to Grandpa’s nightstand to answer it.

But once, toward the end of Gommy’s life, I saw something I’ll never forget: I watched Grandpa carefully draw on her eyebrows. He did it every day, once she was unable to do it herself.

That is true love.

Grandpa literally stayed by Gommy’s side throughout her long illness. The only time he left her was Saturdays, when he went to Vegas. He loved to shoot dice; he learned as a teenager, in the alley behind his parents’ store in Chicago. When he went to Vegas he never, ever stayed overnight. He always went to the Riviera. I got to go along once. I had a great time. Everyone called him Mr. S., and the casino manager gave me a tour of the surveillance room, where we took a picture of Grandpa. He got a big kick out of that.

I blew through the cash he gave me in about 15 minutes. Good thing I had a book with me, because his strategy was to stand over the craps table for hours at a time, waiting to jump on the two or three hot rolls that typically came along. At least, that’s how he explained it to my dad. I have no idea what that means, or how well he really did, only that when we’d see him on Sundays, sometimes he’d give us grandchildren a little cash, saying it had been a good day in Vegas.

Eventually, Grandpa’s sciatica got so bad he stopped going to Vegas. Good thing the Indian casinos came along.

It will take us all a while to regroup. This year, at Passover, Grandpa was in the hospital, and when it came time to pay out for the Afikomen, my dad hunted me down in the kitchen. “You got any singles?” he whispered loudly.

“What kind of self-respecting grandfather are you?” I whispered back, as I dug in the bottom of my purse. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to go to the bank and get silver dollars like Grandpa did?”

Grandpa probably wasn’t supposed to make it out of the hospital, that time. Or the time before that, or before that. Two years ago, after a particularly long hospital stay, the doctor sent him home with a warning: You will need someone with you 24/7. You will need a walker for the rest of your life. You’ll never drive again.

Three weeks later, he’d fired the caregiver, thrown out the walker and signed a three-year lease on a Cadillac.

That is why you’ll have to forgive me if I keep expecting him to show up here, today. I’ll always imagine that he’s still living in his penthouse, atop his hotel — like Eloise, the girl who lives in the Plaza, in the books my daughter Annabelle loves.

My grandfather was one stubborn guy. Independent. That’s how people try describing my own daughter, Sophie. You might not have met Sophie, but trust me, at first glance, there couldn’t be two more different people than my grandfather and my younger daughter, who just started kindergarten. And yet, she reminds me of him.

I don’t know what my hard-charging, success-driven, straight A’s grandfather thought of having a great granddaughter with Down syndrome. He never said. But he always listened carefully when I detailed her accomplishments, and seemed just as proud of Sophie’s scribbled get well card as he was of her older sister’s carefully penned one.

I like to think that Sophie inherited even a little of her great grandfather’s drive and passion, whatever it was that let him stand on this corner in 1953 and envision what his business – and his family – could become.

In Judaism, I know that you’re technically not supposed to name someone after someone who’s still alive, but hey, there are a lot of Rays in my family, so we cheated.

And today I’m really glad to be able to tell you that my grandfather has a namesake – Sophie Rae.

Before I had kids, I told people I was having kids so I could have a legitimate reason to shop at Baby Gap.

I sort of meant it. I mean, that’s not the only reason, but yeah, it was a reason. I still enjoy a good pass through a BG; just made one the other day. (It helps to have a 7 year old who can wear 5T and a 5 year old whose first-day-of-school outfit was 2T.)

Another important reason to have kids: kid books.

I spent much of my high school career curled up on the couch with a good book — none of the books (except for The Great Gatsby) that were assigned to me, mind you. I tended toward the well-read (okay, memorized) books of my youth. Those, and Donna Parker. (An underappreciated Nancy Drew type, except she wrote for her school newspaper. Seriously. I know. Stop laughing. Check out “Donna Parker Goes to Hollywood” and you’ll understand. You can find it on eBay.)

Anyhow. A zillion years ago, it seems, when Sophie was about 2, I wrote a piece for New Times in which I mentioned that I wasn’t so sure Sophie would ever “get” the book A Wrinkle In Time. I have come to amend that previous statement — I think she might. And not only because the coolest DS parent I have met, a guy named Michael Berube who wrote a book called Life as We Know It, observed I shouldn’t give up hope on that front. (More on him in a later post, I promise. Or check out his web site: www.michaelberube.com)

More and more, Sophie’s “getting” it. And given other factors, I have a feeling she’ll be a big reader someday soon.

A lot of people — people far less dorky than I — say it, but I really mean it: Books were my friends, growing up. Every Judy Blume character (even the boy in Then Again, Maybe I Won’t with the ejaculation problem, even Ralph, for the truly Blume-obsessed), Ramona the Pest, Frances the hedgehog. (Then again, I was the kid who truly thought Mr. Rogers was my personal best friend, so why are you surprised?) I loved them all.

But my favorite was Harriet, Louise Fitzhugh’s girl about NYC, the misfit who took a lot of notes and got herself in trouble that way. (I’ve always favored books set in the city; two other favorites: The Cricket in Times Square and The Genie of Sutton Place. I could read them right now!)

Along with books, I love movies. (Again, painfully obvious and trite. Sorry, that’s me.) But one thing I’m always wary of is movies made out of books. It took me forever to see “The Accidental Tourist” and I still haven’t let myself watch all of “The World According to Garp”. Why slash the reels in my head?

That’s how I felt about Harriet, when the Rosie O’Donnell movie came out. I did see it, and okay, it was fine, but the day this summer when Annabelle came bounding out of summer camp, announcing she’d just seen Harriet the Spy and asking if I knew where her daddy’s binoculars were, I felt like someone had hit me in the stomach. Or at least boxed my ears. (I got that one from Little Princess; loved the book, never saw the movie.)

She was barely 7. I hadn’t thought to present her with the book yet.

As soon as I could, I got myself to Changing Hands, the indie bookstore in Tempe and really, the only place to shop in this town, and bought up all the used copies of Harriet the Spy. I wound up with several versions, and realized the one I had as a child — I saved that version for Annabelle, although the print is impossibly tiny — was the 20th anniversary edition. That’s one old book.

I love the illustrations. When I think of Harriet, Ole Golly and Janie, those are the images that pop up, not the mealymouthed actors who merely played them in the movie. I tried pointing out the illos to Annabelle, but she was disappointed that they didn’t look like the movie characters.

SEE??? I cried silently to the book gods. Look what they’ve done!

But after a few false starts, Annabelle’s deep into Harriet. Deep into the beginning, anyway. At curriculum night last week, her second grade teacher made a shocking announcement. The kids still have to read every night, just like in first grade, but they can read silently to themselves. I folded laundry tonight while Annabelle read, and truth be told, I sulked a little.

Still, it was so cool. When she was 15 minutes past her bedtime, I made an announcement; her hand shot up in protest. “Just let me finish this page!” she begged.

I obliged, of course. And now that she’s asleep and I’m done blogging, I might just snatch her copy (or grab one from my stash) and settle in for a good read.

I saw the mom of the 6-year-old with Down syndrome today. I didn’t say hello, not right away, since she’s been standoffish since I gave her the bag with the books and the Down syndrome information last week. But today she approached me. Turns out, she DID call some of the numbers I gave her. She was confused by some of it — I had to send her back to the Starbucks receipt I gave her originally, where I’d scrawled the number for intake services through the state’s assistance program. My bad, I should have been better organized from the start.

I feel much better. 

And Ms. X called yesterday to report proudly that Sophie did not try to escape from the playground. 

It’s going to be a long year.

If it were up to Ray, I’m quite certain there’d be an X Games version of the Special Olympics.

He’s my daredevil. The guy hikes Camelback Mountain in the dead of the Phoenix summer; tosses himself and his mountain bike down South Mountain; and last week, he insisted on soloing a climbing route that had recently made the news because the kids who tried it required a mountain rescue (complete with firefighters and a helicopter) to get down.

He’s nuts. And that’s part of what makes him such a good dad. My dad is great, but the hilly-est surface he’ll attempt is a golf course, and he didn’t even force us (much) onto one of those, growing up. Ray hasn’t taken our girls on much outdoors (yet) and I do worry about the day he starts, but for now we’re all content to hang out at the Phoenix Rock Gym.

I don’t normally go along for Ray’s rock gym excursions — partly because the place is swamp-cooled,  mostly because I prefer to hear about the girls’ adventures once everyone’s back on the ground. But yesterday we all ventured forth. Annabelle scurried to the top of a couple of routes — she’s amazing — and for the most part, my job was to keep Sophie out of the way of other climbers.

But Ray did put Sophie in a harness and climbing shoes, and coach her up the wall. She did really well, reaching for the holds like a pro and getting herself all the way off the ground several times. Best of all, she was delighted — cracking up and calling for me to watch, which I did.

Ray’s convinced she’ll be at the top of the wall by the time she’s 6. That, I’m not sure I can watch.

All week, my dad’s been quoting Jon Stewart, who recently must have said something to the effect of, “War is God’s way of teaching Americans about geography.”

I love that. And I love that my father is quoting The Daily Show. I don’t know much about geography, myself. I was never a good student when it came to the details, and particularly lately, I just don’t keep up on things the way I should. So I’m not even getting geography lessons from maps on CNN.

I’m not sure Annabelle will be any better, if tonight’s bedtime conversation is any indication. Second grade is a little early to worry about such things, though. Right? Who knows these days; soon they’ll be offering standardized tests at birth.

Annabelle had just finished writing her penpal, Micah, a letter, and I remarked that we’d be meeting Micah soon, on a Fall Break driving trip that will include a pass through Albuquerque.

“Oh, I thought Micah lived in Alabama!”

“No, she lives in Albuquerque. It’s a city in a state called New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?” Long pause. “Does she speak Spanish or English?”

“English. It’s not Mexico. It’s a state called New Mexico.”

“Oh. Where is it?”

“To the east of us.” Long pause. “To the right of us. California’s on one side and New Mexico’s on the other.”

“Oh. Then where is Mexico?”

“South.” Long pause. “Um, below us.”

At which point, Annabelle dipped her head over the side of the couch, and hollered, “Hola down there!”

Then totally cracked up.

I’ll have to make sure Ray brings his GPS on the trip.

The 6-year-old’s mom avoided me yesterday, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Maybe she was having a bad day. Or maybe I came on too strong. (MOI????)

I arrived at school today laden with backpacks and lunch boxes and kids, and one extra bag.

In it, I had placed several books Sophie’s (finally) outgrown: one with signs for animals, another “touch and feel” and two musical books that she’d still play with if I let her. (I just had to retire the Wiggles book that plays excerpts of their songs. That part of this deed, I must admit, was not an act of kindness.)

I also tucked a piece of paper inside, with the following:

My name, phone number and email address; the name and number of Sophie’s support coordinator at the state’s developmental disabilities department; information about the touchy-feelier of the two local Down syndrome support groups in town; and the direct number for the principal at Sophie’s pre-school.

I found the mom and handed her the bag, amidst apologies. (As it turns out, I’d already given the “Signing Time” videos I promised her to someone else.)

We’ll see what happens.

Sophie was her finest ballbuster self this morning — running away, talking back, insisting she was going to attend second grade today – and all I could think was that the other mom must be thinking, “Well, if that’s where all that school and therapy got that kid, why bother!”

I may be self-conscious, but I do know why I bother. As soon as Sophie saw Ms. X, she calmed right down, took her backpack and lunch box, and marched into the classroom and the day ahead.

Today was a darn good day.

With one exception (a big one, she left the playground at recess) Sophie did well in kindergarten. Annabelle continued on her merry second grade way. We had gelato with Ms. X to celebrate Sophie’s Week One successes, and dinner after that (yes, we had dessert first, shoot me!) with Papa.

Papa’s my dad; my mom is in Denver with my sister and her family, so the girls and I kept him company — and I have to say, the dinner table was a much more enjoyable place tonight than it was last night. (The topic of my previous post.) The highlight was when Annabelle told him the “smell mop” knock knock joke — and he fell for it. Really, if you’ve never heard my father say “Smell my poop” — loudly and in public — you haven’t lived.

I was loving life for a number of reasons, today. I just finished back to back cover stories at work. That’s the petty reason. I’m considering how short life is, vis a vis my grandfather’s slow, (hopefully not) painful, sad demise. That’s the more heady reason.

Then there’s a reason I can’t really label, but I can tell you it’s caused me to throw my pity party aside, momentarily at least.

I didn’t spend (much) time today, dwelling on Sophie’s snarly hair or Annabelle’s lack of piano practicing or even worrying about the whole DS/kindergarten thing: Should I insist Sophie wear a name tag every day? (Maybe those safetytats weren’t such a bad idea.) Should I fight for an aide in the classroom, or at least on the playground? Should we quit music therapy because it’s too much on top of Sophie’s busy schedule? Should we start swimming lessons?

In the grand scheme of things, really, that’s fine tuning. Sophie’s set in so many ways. I didn’t realize that til I met another mom today. She has a 6-year-old son with Down syndrome, and for the past four years, he’s had no services at all.

None. No physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, music therapy. No early intervention pre-school. No adaptive PE or special ed resources or respite or habilitation or government-paid health insurance. Nothing.

Here let me say that that’s all I’ll say about this mom and her kid, in the way of identifiers, because I don’t want to invade their privacy. But I have to tell you about them. Since 2004, this mom and boy and their family have lived in Arizona. And in that time, he’s gotten nothing — not through the schools, not through the state’s Department of Economic Services. The mom told me she tried, when they moved here. She called and got a caseworker who never called her back.

I held back the tears til she’d walked away, and while it’s not really my style, I wanted to run after her and give her a hug. For all my eschewing of support groups and instruction manuals and the first season of “Life Goes On,” I’ve still insisted on services for Sophie, services I contend have gotten her where she is today. (The “system” agrees. Well, why wouldn’t they? But they do deserve a whole lot of credit.)

No one makes these services easy to find, believe me. Somehow, when Sophie was born, Ray made his way to a government office and got her signed up. Every new step has been a battle. I don’t blame anyone who can’t find their way — or loses it.

I think the only thing that motivates me to keep trying to get help is the fear of being alone, and ill-equipped to help Sophie without a team of professionals.

I got in the car and picked up the phone, made some calls and sent some emails and will get that mom some contact information. Her son is not potty trained, she told me. He does not speak. He doesn’t know any sign language. One of the parents is always home with him.

I tried to explain to her what’s out there, in the way of help, but she looked at me like she didn’t quite believe what I was saying.

I want to meet the little boy, and yet selfishly, I’m terrified. I know you can’t compare kids with Down syndrome and that that’s not what this about, not at all. And yet of course, if I’m going to be honest, I will tell you that yeah, it is, a little.

There’s no telling what this boy would have been like with early intervention services or what Sophie would be like without them. Early intervention is not a cure-all. But it’s all I’ve got, and I can’t imagine not having had it, the last five years.

I can’t help it. I need to see what might have been.

And more important, I need to help this family, the way my family has been helped, if only to in some small way pay it forward. Or at least try.

My grandpa is dying. He has been, off and on, all summer, but this week, i fear, it’s for real.

My husband Ray (it’s confusing – my grandfather and my husband and his father AND grandfather are all Raymond) wants to know why I’m not more upset. He keeps nagging me about it.

It’s true, I haven’t said much. And normally I would. I get that (the emotive thing) from my mother. But on my father’s side, this particular grandfather’s side, it’s all about emotional stone walls. Not stonewalling — I’m not sure it’s even that evolved, the emotional thing, to be something that’s actively trying to get out. Stone walls.

I AM sad about my grandfather. Of course I am. But he’s 94 years old and he’s had a good, full life (unlike several other people I’ve run across this summer, who are sick before their time) and more to the point, just the life he’s wanted to have, as far as I can tell.

And he’s been sick for a long time. He’s always bounced back — I’ve taken to joking that he’s going to outlive us all. “Be careful,” warned a dear friend who recently lost her own dad after a prolonged illness. “We were so convinced Dad couldn’t ever die that when he did, it was that much worse.”

Point taken, and that may well be that while I have seen my grandpa and I know he’s not coming back from the place he’s at today (or was last night, when I left the hospital) I still can’t work on the obituary some of the family asked that I work on.

Talk about writer’s block.

So I’ll write this, instead. Maybe then I can trick myself, quickly, to switching over to the obit and get it done before I realize what I’m doing. (And before the kids wake up.)

Anyhow, last night I found myself in the hospital cafeteria, eating dinner with my grandfather’s three kids — my dad, aunt and uncle. I can’t remember the last time (if ever) it was just the four of us, no siblings, no tiny children.

There was a crying toddler and my dad made sure to sit on the other side of the room. Which I worried would be uncomfortable, because with these three, you could easily eat a whole meal in dead silence. Some of us might prefer the distraction of a wailing baby; these are just not chatty people. But tonight everyone was making an effort, probably because of the dire circumstances. Plus, it’s political season, and my family does love to talk about politics.

“Boy, Amy, that was a really great story on John McCain,” my Uncle Tom said. (Yes, really, I have an Uncle Tom.)

(Here’s the story: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2008-08-07/news/postmodern-mccain-the-john-mccain-some-arizonans-know-and-loathe/%20/2)

I beamed. You write a story and put it out there for 100,000-plus readers (not including that whole silly Internet thing) and really, you can never get enough validation, even after all the years I’ve written for Phoenix New Times (day job) and other places. Particularly validation from certain critical quarters.

My uncle’s a big conservative, so it really meant a lot.

Before the words were all of the way out of his mouth, my dad jumped in. “You want to read a really great story about John McCain? Check out yesterday’s New York Times.”

And he proceeded to go on (and on and on) about a story he’d already mentioned to me at least once that day, about how McCain’s campaign is falling apart.

Really and truly, I do not consider myself in competition with the New York Times. Nor do I fault them for a great story (I’m sure it was; I don’t need to read it, now that my dad’s quoted practically the whole thing to me) or fault my dad for liking it.

But the timing did suck just a teeny, tiny bit, considering he stepped on that compliment from Tom, and considering he’s my freaking DAD. He’s supposed to be the proud one. I looked around the table, hoping neither my aunt or uncle had noticed.

I don’t think they did. Why would they? The incident was Vintage Silverman.

There are all kinds of stories lurking out there about how my grandfather never praised my father. (Or, for that matter, any of his kids.) I believe it. On the few occasions I’d bring a report card over to show Grandpa, he’d stare at it, screw up his face and say, “Why’dya get that B plus?” No mention of the 5 A’s. (Not that THAT happened very often on my report cards! Probably not after third grade or so.)

In what may well be my last real conversation with my grandfather, a couple weeks ago, I joked that he belongs to a lot of synagogues. He held up three fingers, and chuckled. (He’s not particularly religious, but that’s a whole other story.) We talked about my father’s bar mitzvah, in Cedar Rapids. My grandfather went on and on about what a great job my father did.

But he’d never told my father.

We’re bound to repeat history — unless we have Susie Sealove Silverman for a mother. The woman emotes from every orifice, 24/7, in a very, very good way, and she’s my role model. Sometimes, like with my grandpa, I do feel my dad’s side come out — and stick. But I’m working on it.

So forgive me if I tend to tell my children they’re the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen, the best smelling, the smartest, the kindest — all before 9 in the morning. Hey, anyhow, it’s true.

I do need to remember — and share with you — the reason I do know my dad loves me (well, there are a lot of reasons, but there’s one that will go down in history, sort of). It’s the part of the McCain story I had to promise my mother I wouldn’t put in a local newspaper, this time around, this time when the f-er might actually get elected president:

http://archive.salon.com/mwt/feature/2000/06/13/secret_hero/index.html

Growing up, I always heard the adage, “Never put anything in your ear that’s smaller than your elbow.”

(Good advice, though be honest: Who among us doesn’t enjoy a good session with a few Q-tips?)

No one ever said anything about noses. Except not to pick, of course. Which is why I was annoyed the other day, when I noticed Sophie digging for gold.

“No pickin’!” I admonished gently.

“I have a bee in my nose!” she told me.

Okay, first, I had to stop and celebrate the use of a beautiful sentence. But I did worry about articulation, because why would Sophie have a bee up her nose? Since she repeated it several times, I assumed she was not only using a good sentence, but a lovely, well-placed metaphor — after all, it might feel like a bee had flown up your nose, if it was itchy. Right?

Wrong. It was Saturday, and Sophie and I were out for a quick shopping trip, hooking up with our friends Cindy, Deborah and Anna. Cindy runs the amazing shop MADE, in downtown Phoenix (www.madephx.com), and Deborah (among her many talents) is mother to Anna, age 10. We gathered in the store. The grown ups chatted, and so, apparently, did the kids.

“Uh, Amy, Sophie just told me she has a popcorn kernel up her nose,” Anna announced, only moments after our arrival.

How the hell did she figure that out? She didn’t even know that Sophie had, in fact, been eating popcorn on the drive over.

“Sophie, did you put a popcorn kernel up your nose?” I asked, having a deja vu moment, since Annabelle and I just finished reading “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” by Judy Blume the other night. (Out of Sophie’s earshot, I swear, though the resemblance to the scene involving Dribble the Turtle and Fudge the Toddler — no more, I don’t want to be a spoiler — was a little uncanny.)

“Yes!” Sophie said.

But you know, you can never be sure with Sophie. She also insisted she had not shoved a popcorn kernel up her nose, particularly after I’d tried blowing in her mouth to dislodge it. (Not pleasant for either of us, let me assure you.)

This all happened, naturally, just a few minutes after noon. So the pediatrician’s office was closed. Among the three of us, Deborah, Cindy and I called close to a dozen friends and family members, most of whom advised that a trip to urgent care was likely in the future, and all of whom had their own great stories of Things Up Noses. (I liked the one about how the woman knew her kid had shoved a coffee bean up there, because of the aroma of hazelnut; the rotting Nerf one was disgusting; but my favorite, which just came in this morning, involved the kid who said, “I have an eye up my nose” — and sure enough, his father later pulled out a renegade googly eye from a school craft project.)

We had exhausted the possibilities offered on the phone and by WebMD.com, as well as the supply of temporary tattoos Cindy had graciously offered up to distract Sophie from the blowing thing, when from across the room, we heard:

“AHCHOO!”

I looked over, and there was a somewhat startled looking Sophie. And a popcorn kernel.

She had told the truth. The metaphors will come later — I’m certain of it.