Cornflake Ice Cream

My grandpa ate cornflakes for breakfast every day. He put milk first, then cornflakes, and finally, a scoop of sugar.

I was lucky enough to eat breakfast with him most days during the summer of my freshman year of college. I got a job working at the local Staples in a small beach town where my grandparents have a cottage. In my red polo before work, me, my grandpa, and my grandma would all sit down in the screened-in porch to enjoy a bowl of cereal.

Sun warmed the room. The gravel streets were still. A breeze filled the room with sea air. My brother slept in another room.

We mostly ate in silence - my grandparents read the New York Times and I read my paperback. Brewing coffee wafted in from the kitchen. A Cornflakes box sat on the table. The green and red rooster stared at me while I turned the pages of my book.

My grandpa died this year.

In a flurry of tears, phone calls, rental cars, and flights, I made it back to the United States in time for shiva.

An inner compass has always pointed my life in the direction that I thought would make my grandpa proud. Make it into the university orchestra, get my Master’s degree, become a teacher, earn a prestigious award, travel the world, read everything, find someone who respects and loves me. It was always for him, from him, because of him. I knew his approval drove many of my life decisions, but I could not have predicted the hole it’d leave until I found myself without it.

My hands are shaking as I write this. My eyes rimmed with tears in a coffee shop filled with strangers. I am still grieving this loss. His death hit me hard and fast. The wind was knocked out of me. My motivation for achievement and forward progress gone.

I hugged my Aunt Susie as I arrived at the service with my parents, brother, and Jon. She whispered in my ear that grandpa was so proud of me. We both shook with tears.

Rainbows

I didn’t think I believed in signs from the universe, but since my grandpa died there have been so many moments that make me feel his presence.

One of the first days when I arrived back in Connecticut, my parents and I went to visit my grandma. The house was full of somber visitors, so we decided to go on a walk until some people left. We walked around the reservoir, a path we’d taken with my grandpa countless times.

We were all sad, a bit in shock, and tired from jetlag. My mom chatted about her memories while my dad and I mostly stayed silent. A quick rain shower surprised us soaking our clothes and hair. A full, bright rainbow appeared. We all smiled and continued on our way.

A few weeks later, I saw another rainbow. I was on my way home from picking up my German passport in Helsinki. If you can prove your connection to an ancestor who was persecuted under the Nazis, you can apply for German citizenship.

I just got back to Finland from my grandpa’s funeral when my passport arrived for pick up at the German consulate. I cried the whole bus ride there. I felt conflicted about becoming a citizen because my grandpa had a complicated relationship with Germany. He was 12 when he had to flee due to religious persecution. As I left the consulate to walk back to the bus stop, a rainbow poked through the clouds. It must have rained while I was inside.

Since my grandpa died, I’ve seen four full, bright rainbows. It’s been a month. I’ve never seen that many rainbows in such a short amount of time. I don’t know what I’m trying to say or how it connects. He never shared that he had an affinity for rainbows or anything like that, but in those moments I always think of my grandpa.

A German-Guatemalan Mother

Jon, his friend Alex, and I stumbled upon an international bookstore in Helsinki. We went in to browse the English books, happy to understand the shelf labels and book spines. The bookstore owner greeted us with a British accent and a jolly smile.

We got to chatting with him and found out that he lived in Middletown, Connecticut while working at Wesleyan College. After finding a few other connections that made the world feel very small, we wandered around the bookstore.

Of course, I found a book and went to buy it from the bookstore owner. I asked him where he was from and he explained his mother was of German-Guatemalan descent. Chills ran down my spine. His mother fled Germany and migrated to Guatemala: the same as my grandfather. Tears welled in my eyes as I explained my connection.

“It was meant to be that you walked into my shop today,” he said, “I bet my mother and your grandfather knew each other.”

Cornflake Ice Cream

On one of our last nights in Helsinki, Jon and I went out to dinner. It was a fancy place we had a gift card for, one of those places with a set menu. We were feeling so grateful to have lived in Europe, reflecting on the amazing experiences we had, and felt content - ready to close this chapter of our lives. We got to the dessert and Jon asked about the ice cream flavor.

“It’s cornflake ice cream tonight.”

He looked at us expectantly, searching for surprise in our faces. Instead, tears welled in my eyes.

“It’s actually quite good,” the waiter offered.

“Let’s get that,” Jon said, but I didn’t respond. I thought of my grandfather and all those breakfasts we spent together.

To describe my grandpa, I’d have to borrow the words of my Uncle Ben, “my hero”. My grandpa was many things. A holocaust survivor. A father, a grandfather, and a great-grandfather. A husband and sailor. An artist and engineer. A storyteller. A fixer of all things with duct tape. He was also so many people’s heroes.

His loss is truly devasting for me and for the Stargardter family. As I work through the grief, I appreciate all of you who have reached out, given me space, and held me in an embrace.

I know my grandpa-decision-making-compass will align me for the rest of my life. He will continue to be a great motivator in my life. I hope these cornflake ice cream moments continue to find their way to me. For anyone out there grieving, look for your person, you’ll find them.