My Grandpa Nathan passed away on Saturday.  He was 97 years old.  I’m sorry that he had to go but I’m relieved for him — 97 years is a long time and he was pooped. He had been ready to move on for the past few years at least.  

I couldn’t be at the funeral, which was today in Los Angeles, but I’m thinking about him.  Here are some things I will always remember about my Grandpa Nathan:

His devotion to his wife.  In the years that I knew them, nothing mattered more to Nathan than Irene and her well-being.  Their love was deep, lasting and romantic, and I don’t say that just because I once walked in on them sleeping naked in Palm Springs.  Whether buying her jewelry or taking her to the doctor, Nathan was always there for Irene.   They were the ultimate team.  And for two who people who could really appreciate a well-phrased complaint, I never heard either one of them complain about the other.

My grandpa Nathan made the best matzo brie and the best potato pancakes.  Simply the best.

My Grandpa Nathan fixed things well enough so that you could keep using them.  Sometimes more than once.

On most occasions, Nathan Lipton let other people do the talking.  On Passover, he made up for it.  With joy in his heart.

My grandpa Nathan could lighten the mood.  He could drive 12 hours without stopping.  When he spoke, he sounded like Chicago, Lithuania and the desert all rolled into one.  When he said something heartfelt, he might squint or throw his hands in the air, and you got the sense that it hurt him a little to say it.

My grandpa loved Judaism.  It gave him something to do, a way to see the world, and a way to grow. His study of Judaism later in life became Nathan’s college.  It allowed him to become an educated man years after the opportunity to do so had seemingly passed him by.

My grandpa didn’t drink.  He didn’t lie.  He didn’t steal anything more than a packet of Sambo’s jelly, and that was probably for Irene.  He was as moral a person as I’ve ever known, and his morality came not from God or family, but from somewhere within.

My grandpa raised two wonderful sons who dutifully and lovingly spent years of their lives trying to do for him what he had done for them and Irene.  There is no greater tribute to his decency than that.

As much as anything, what I will remember about my Grandpa Nathan is that he liked to start at end of the story and work his way back.  To him, context was everything.  The climax was only a way to frame the story.  What really excited him was the little details, the surprising turns, the minor victories that one experienced along the way. 

We all talk like that too, Grandpa.  And we can’t help it either. 

We love you, and we will miss you. Thank you for the latkes and for the sincerity of your example.