Robert Gans--My Poppa

There's a lot of stuff I wanted to write and reflect on related to Yom Kippur, and thinking about atonement/at-one-ment. But given what's up for me now, I think I will postpone that and instead, I want to say some things about my Poppa.

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Dr. Robert Gans. My Poppa. I can't possibly sum up what kind of a man he was, because my perspective on him was limited by being a granddaughter who only knew him in his elder years, for the last 35 years of his 93 on this planet. I feel like anything I can say about him is just a collection of snapshots, a few puzzle pieces that only sort of fit together in one corner of a much larger picture. But I can start to take a stab at what I remember most, and what he meant to me, what he will always mean to me. It will inevitably be incomplete. But something is better than nothing--and I feel a strong urge to memorialize, to testify.

These are the traits that come to mind when I think about my Poppa: dignified, humorous, warm, intelligent, cultured, artistic, gentle, wise, understanding, sympathetic, open-minded, playful, involved, curious, compassionate, active. He was well-read, well-traveled, and cared deeply enough about certain things to put his money where his mouth was--but he also put his own time and energy into causes he believed in. He gardened, he took a creative writing class, he volunteered as a docent for Filoli gardens, he and my Grandma Natalie volunteered to do clinic defense against Operation Rescue, and they helped lead senior tours to interesting places. And that's just from the latter part of his life, the part I remember the clearest.

Here's what else I remember: he was always open to and pleased with his grandchildren. I always felt like he was attentive and understanding to me and my brother, both when we were little and when we were older. I remember him playing ball and running around with us during our annual Father's Day picnics at Golden Gate Park, and I remember him having long talks with me about what I was learning in my college classes. We talked about writing (he took a creative writing class and let me read his stories--I took them to transcribe and I still have them), and then later he was delighted when I decided to switch over to Psychology and could talk to him about different theorists and famous studies. I remember that he actually read my Women's Studies senior thesis (and gave me pages of written comments, and discussed it with me afterwards). I vividly remember spending weekends at their house when I was in high school--just me, not my brother or parents--sitting around their small round kitchen table, having dinner and watching the news and talking about all kinds of things with him and my Grandma Natalie. I remember the ritual of always going to Max's Diner for early bird dinner with them when I visited, and how I felt both absurdly young and responsibly old walking with them into the restaurant.

I remember their castle-like house, with its always fascinating collection of artwork, books, music, and souvenirs from the exotic places they'd been. I remember swimming in their pool as a kid, and being fascinated by their player piano. And I remember all those special family ritual times we spent together--so many holidays, they all blur together in my mind: Christmas (that exotic holiday first introduced to me by Grandma Natalie) dinner at their house in Redwood City, Thanksgiving and Break Fast and Passover (who can forget his hilarious falsetto rendition of "Let My People Go"?) at my parents' house, Father's Day picnics in Golden Gate Park, and all kinds of special events (graduations, confirmations, birthdays, concerts, plays, Marin Open Studios...). What I really remember is that he and my Grandma were there for all the important family times.

I remember the smell of Poppa's pipe (even after he stopped smoking, that mysterious and old-fashioned pipe tobacco smell still lingered in certain places in their house). I remember his playful not-quite-bickering banter with my grandma Natalie, and his fondness for chocolate, which I shared. I remember how he would always write me (and each of us) a poem for birthdays and other special events--what witty, evocative little gems they were. I remember dancing with him at my wedding--he was beginning to be unsteady on his feet at this point and had to use a cane, but when we danced I held him up, and the moment was sweet.

What I really remember overall is that my Poppa was a regular and familiar (in the sense of familial) presence in my life. And he loved me--I always felt that. And I really loved him back. I know he's been effectively "gone" now for a good number of years, as his mind and body slowly deteriorated, but nonetheless it feels so final now that he's really gone. He was important to me. I loved him. I'll really miss him, and I'll always remember him. I don't know as there's much more to say than that.