A tribute To Reed "Pinky" Briggs, by Taylor

This is a tribute that my daughter Taylor gave to her Grandfather, my Dad.

Pinky

The loss of someone is always hard, but have you lost that person, feeling like you didn’t know them at all? I’m the youngest of eight, with my older brother being 18 years older, and through this massive difference of age, I missed out on a lot of experiences. Some experiences include relationships with family members. One of the most profound losses was my grandfather. Reed “Pinky” Anderson Briggs was a very stereotypical grandfather. He would make the good old sports games, make visiting him a blast, and would always be willing to cut our hair. He was a barber which made this a real privilege. But by the time I was born, a lot of this changed, like his blazing red hair, which gave him the fitting name, Pinky. Through those first 13 years of my life, I learned a bitter lesson that you should never let go, because their will come a day that he could be gone.
My most recognizable memories of my grandpa would be mostly vague memories. I was really young when I would go, but I would go often. Every Easter we would pack into our car and the “Easter bunny” would visit their house, leaving lots of toys and candy for us to enjoy. The orange aroma would fill the back yard, the sun would warm my skin, and the toys would get my excitement up so high, I’d feel higher then the sky that warmed my skin. We didn’t just go there for those wonderful Easter Sundays, but also just to visit. We would go and I would often venture the very familiar house looking for anything new. One of the most wonderful things I would discover would be this grass, green harmonica. I would go around the house acting like I could play, when it was obvious I couldn’t. Then, my grandpa would say, “Let me see it.” He would play a tune and I would just jump with excitement. My grandpa would love to spoil us. He would always give us a big ice cream cone, and I would often get little toys from him, like this little red bear that became one of my closest friends for the week I had it. But one of the most memorable things was the Flintstone cards that we would play war and other little games with. This would all be exciting, but what was really memorable was the fair we went to. I was so excited to go, but shortly after we arrived, either it was too expensive or there was just not enough to do, but we decided to leave. But before we left, my grandpa decided to play a fair game. It was short, but one of the last times I would be able to enjoy my amazing grandfather. A few weeks later he had a stroke.
My grandfather’s stroke was a major effect on my life. Because I was the youngest, I didn’t get the tangible experiences, but the memories which were so vivid in everyone’s mind. I remember the day, I heard the dreadful news. My parents just came to my brother Bo and me and said that our grandpa had a stroke. I didn’t know what a stroke was at the time, I just thought it was their way of saying he died. Well, in a way he did. We still went to his house with the luscious, green grass and the wonderful weather of nice comfortable heat in Canoga Park. That comfortable weather never seemed as wonderful. When we entered that tiny but familiar home, I was amazed to see my grandpa on the couch. By amazed, I mean scared. He wasn’t the same man I knew for so long. My Grandpa used to talk and laugh so easily, but it seemed as if his words got lost in the tunnels of his mind. He would forget our names, places. He was lost. This persisted throughout the years, but my fear shortly changed to sadness. I quickly realized that when I finally got to do sports and other activities, he wouldn’t be in the stands cheering in his strong, yet loving voice. He wouldn’t be the first person to cut my hair. Actually, he never would. He couldn’t tell me his grand stories about his many adventures in life. I would have to rely on my own father for that information. But to hear it from the lion’s whispers, that would have been an adventure in itself. My grandpa and grandma moved to good old Vegas to be closer to my uncle and aunt. They had a petite condo that was just as small as their old home, but seemed so large and amazing with the enticing atmosphere! In their old home you got the good old country feeling in a city house. Here you got all city. They lived in this home for years, and in those years we saw improvement to my grandpa’s health. Though he still was still plagued with the brain refusing to communicate with the tongue, his words seemed to find their way out but it was easier to solve a jigsaw puzzle than to know what he was saying. We got a portion of his old self back. The sadness I felt for so long changed to joy by the time I was 13. The Christmas after I turned 13, we went to my grandparents. It was just like any visit, but ended in a peculiar way. My grandpa would sit on his soft, welcoming chair, and would have a large laugh leading into tears that would fog the very recognizable black frame glasses. When he finally removed the glasses to dry his eyes, you saw the tears swallowing his face. He was so happy to see us, and I didn’t realize why. We visited, ate and had a happy early Christmas with them. This occurred a few weeks before Christmas. Finally, our grandpa wanted to give us our gifts. My grandmother always gave us the most elaborate, beautiful things. My grandpa gave the simplest. I opened my present and received a gorgeous china “teapot” that was so alluring and small. Then my grandpa said, “Taylor, I saw this and I wanted to give it to you.” I received a small toy flashlight. Stars shined through it with the patriotic colors, red, white and blue. My grandpa whispered to me, “ You don’t have to keep it. I just thought it was amazing that something so small could give off so much light. You could throw it away if you want.” I replied quietly, “Grandpa, I will keep it forever.” The tears glistened in his eyes and I shortly noticed the tears running down mine. I didn’t realize then, but that was my last Christmas, along with the last time with him.
January 2, 2008, the morning was the same as any other morning. The bright sun shone through the living room window. The Christmas tree that held amazing memories in its hands, stood glistening. The house was as cold as a beautiful snowfall, even though the ground outside was as brown and grainy as desert could be. It seemed like that morning held no surprise. I couldn’t be anymore wrong. I sat in front of the T.V. my mind as blank as a new sheet of paper. My mom walks in with a troubled look and I couldn’t tell why. The stress of the past holiday, maybe? I quickly figured out that wasn’t the case. She looked at me with her weary eyes, which weren’t just tired, but red. I thought of what could have possibly been troubling her, but I couldn’t think of anything. Then, in a soft, almost whisper voice, she said, “Taylor, your grandpa Briggs passed away in his sleep last night.” I couldn’t believe it, it couldn’t be true. I saw him just weeks before, and he seemed fine. Why then, why that second, did it have to happen? Why did it have to happen to him? He never did anything but the most wonderful acts. Why did it have to be him who’s health would have to suffer so much, that it finally led to his last slumber? I couldn’t say I was sad, I was furious. My anger came out as tears. The tears were boiling anger that stung my face as it slid down. This anger was constant for the next week, though I got very good at hiding it. I’d put a smile and everything would seem fine, while on the inside, I questioned whether it would ever be okay. The funeral came fast. The day that it was to be held, it was rainy and windy. The sun seemed to hide, and the warmth was not their like it usually was in Las Vegas. We stood in the building where the service was to be held, and either we were silent, or in tears. My young niece starting crying the second she heard grandpa’s casket was coming. I saw her and told myself I wasn’t going to cry. The hundreds of people their slowly started to lose control of their emotions, so I made sure I was around the young kids who didn’t have a clue what was going on. Then, he came. The second I saw the casket, I lost all feeling. My body grew numb, my emotions took control. I lost it. I cried and cried, feeling anger. Anger about his death, about my loss of control and about how I never would truly get to know that amazing, mystical man, who left only his body behind. My dad walked over and hugged me. His face was close to mine and I could tell that his face was moist from tears. “You’re sad, aren’t you Dad?” I whispered to him. His answer surprised me. “Taylor, I’m sad, but also happy. Grandpa had to suffer for so long. He’s probably up there, talking away. Of course I’m going to miss him, but I’m happy that he’s free.” I didn’t understand it at first. If my dad died, I’d probably not be able to function. How can he be able to be happy that he died? We went to this room where we could view the body. I saw my grandpa lying, so peaceful. I looked at his face closely. I realized he didn’t have his glasses on. The only time I saw him without his glasses was when he was drying his eyes. It was strange. But what really hit me, he wasn’t smiling. That was almost impossible to see him without a smile. I quickly went to sit down, and while I sat, I just hoped that this would be a dream and I would wake up and see my grandpa alive and well. Clearly, I never woke up. I listened to all the conversations, the majority having to do with memories about my grandpa. I heard so many bright, joyful stories, and realized that I never knew that man. I saw my dad, his eyes soaked and I thought about what he said. I realized that it wasn’t that he was happy that grandpa died, it was that he was happy that my grandpa could be the amazing man he was so long ago again. That would be the man people would remember, not the man that was confused and lost. When I finally understood what my dad said, the weight that came from my anger left. I was finally able to laugh, to cry and to feel without anger again. I enjoyed the stories shared instead of feeling envy. We went through the rest of the day, and just felt like, together, we were finally able to have that amazing man back. My family and I had to return that night to our home in Lake L.A., so when the ceremony and dinner was done, we were ready to go. We exited the building and to my surprise, we had a cloudless sky. I guess the Briggs were in control of the weather that day.
I never really looked at death the same way afterwards, neither the way I saw grandpa. Before his death, I felt like he never would die, and that I would always have my grandfather. Right afterwards, I never thought I would recover from the shock and pain. The message I’m left with now is that, even though my time with him was short, he’ll always live long, as long as I allow him too. I know more then I ever did now about the man. I know he was brave, strong, hardworking, selfless, and most of all, he loved me and my family. That will never change.