A young Autumn Aubrey dances with her grandfather, Bill Awbrey ’58. Photo courtesy of Autumn Aubrey.
Throwing junk into my half-broken bag to leave for my second semester of college, I rushed out to see my beloved Pop-Pop for what I did not realize would be the last time.
Over Christmas break my grandfather, Bill Awbrey, a 1958 Cal graduate and Navy officer, became very ill. I felt hollow seeing his lively skin fade to pale and his powerful voice disintegrate into silence, but losing him has been a journey I will not take for granted.
I miss him when I lose focus in class, as the professor’s voice drowns out and my notes stop making sense. His face lit up as he gasped with happiness every single time he saw me, and I felt like a little girl again. I once made him a lumpy Play-Doh birthday cake with a candle on top. I was so nervous he would not like it, but he kept that homemade creation on the center of his desk for 10 years. Seeing the love I pounded into the small, contorted cake, Pop-Pop showed me what feeling special and valued is. It sparked a confidence within me that I needed then — and still carry with me now.
Being on campus where his footsteps once were helps me process my loss. I walk the same paths to class he took, overwhelmed with pride to stand where he stood. When I look through his copies of the California Pelican, a former humor magazine, I see how both of us are a part of UC Berkeley’s history.
I find precious reminders of Pop-Pop’s presence written all over this town. My grandparents lived in a small apartment on Piedmont and Parker when they were married. My grandma’s favorite memory is when Pop-Pop came home from class and broke down a door to save a screaming old woman, only to have the police called on him for making loud noises. As I walk home from class, I laugh imagining his typical after-class routine. In these moments, I realize he is still here with me.
But wherever I am, the most powerful way to bring back his memory is through song. On January 19, after I finished packing to return for the semester, my father and I drove to Pop-Pop’s home for the last time. I brought his favorite ukulele and whispered to him that I was here to sing. Even though he was verbally unresponsive, I knew he was listening. I sang to show my gratitude for him. I conveyed my loss through my voice, strumming strings to connect and relive the good ole times of us goofing around. I sang “Ain’t She Sweet” and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” — the songs he once sang to me — while choking on tears, as he would soon be in a place “where trouble melts like lemon drops.” I cried out of joy and pain, knowing he’d be far away from me but in a better place: “high above the chimney top… that’s where you’ll find me.” I felt he was singing these words to me, reassuring me he would always be there, waiting for me.
Looking at him for the last time, I saw his foot tapping along to the beat, which made my heart so happy. Kissing his forehead, I told him how much I loved him and thanked him for passing his love of music to me. A few hours after we left, he took his last breath. Though my heart was aching, I knew I had offered the best gift I could muster. By singing for both of us, I conveyed, “I’ll be OK, Grandpa. You can go.”
Though my last goodbye to Pop-Pop on this Earth is only temporary, I will always be able to find him — through my footsteps on campus, in my memories, and within the rhythms and lyrics of the songs I will keep singing.
Autumn Awbrey, a first-year student planning to study astrophysics, is on the Daily Cal’s multimedia team. This column first appeared on Feb. 7, 2019. dailycal.org
