May 19th

I hate May 19th.

I know it's not possible to hate a date, but I do.

May 19th took two of the most influential men in my life away from me.

May 19, 1970, my grandfather Henry Harrington died. He was a quiet man, family man. Although I was only shy of 9 when he died, I remember him clearly.

He kept me involved in my father's family, when my father walked away. When I was 8, he piled me and my aunt (two days younger) in the back of the family wagon, and we Griswolded our way across the USA in the back of a Chevrolet station wagon. He took me to Disneyland for the first time. He took me to the beach on vacation every year. He loved my grandmother and she loved him. He allowed his very influential family to cut him off when he married someone beneath his station. Gram was only 52 when he died, but no other man could ever take his place. She died 26 years later, never remarrying, never dating, still loving him.

On May 19, 2003, my grandfather Michael Lepore died. He was a quiet man, family man.

He was the Italian version of Henry. Except he hated to travel.

His mother died when he was 6. The same day as his sister Carmella. He was raised by his older sister after his father showed an inablity to be a widower with 5 children - 12 and under.

He and my grandmother eloped because my grandmother was marrying beneath her by loving an Italian. He loved her for 62 years, and at his funeral we realized that in every single picture of the two of them, he is looking at her with a love in his eyes that most women only dream about.

When my mother and father realized that they were to young to raise a child, he and my grandmother took me in. He taught me to love both the Mets and the Yankees, to love football, and to like only college basketball. Hockey was a Canadian sport, and therefore, something foreign, and not to be liked. I was the son his own son never was. He made me listen to Country music. He made me not snap my gum. He made me never feed the dog off of a people dish. He let me taste his wine, got me drunk and laughed when I closed my hair in my bedroom window and couldn't get it open.

He walked me down the aisle, and placed my hand into that of another quiet, family man.

The night he died, I sat by his side and held his hand. He had been in intensive care for about a week, and wasn't getting any better. Everyone else left about 8 PM, and I insisted I had to stay to watch something on TV. Truth is, I couldn't leave him. At 9 PM, I kissed him on the head, told him that everything would be OK, and that I would see that the "tough old bird" would be taken care of. I drove the 20 minute drive home, and as I walked in the door, received the call that he was gone.

I hate May 19th. But I love it too.

May 19th makes me remember the two men who showed me that that love is not something you do, love is something you are.