Brendan Stern

A French writer named Guy de Maupassant was known for taking hallucinogens to fuel his bleak screeds about the futility of life, which is quite something, considering today we just drink coffee and log onto Facebook to achieve the same effect.

But, anyway.

That Guy once wrote something that’s been sticking in my head: “Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.”

Because memory is sacred and fleeting, I thought I’d put on paper some of my favorite memories of James Maurice Stern, who passed away recently but will always be “Opa” in my heart. Whether I witnessed these moments firsthand or heard them retold countless times, here’s what I remember today, in hopes of giving undying life to his essence and the virtues he embodied:

Opa being pessimistic about leaders, current events, and especially himself — becoming visibly disappointed every time he missed a left-handed hook shot in our Fremont backyard, declaring it unbearable and insisting he needed more practice, even though he was right-handed and well into his 70s. He also shook his head in disgust just last week after hearing the latest tweets from the POTUS. And yet, he was always the eternal optimist when it came to his loved ones, seeing the best in us even — and especially — when we didn’t deserve it.

Opa smiling the sweetest smile, despite being in pain and terribly weak, when his great-granddaughter climbed into his hospice bed last week, raising his hand to sign “ILY” even with limited strength.

Opa walking that fine line between sweet, generous, and well-mannered, yet also determined, stubborn, and competitive enough to bang on the locker room door and burst in at halftime to yell at my 24-year-old father for not switching onto his man quickly enough during the AAAD championship game in 1976.

Opa ignoring Oma’s well-meaning scolding that he was crazy for wanting to hike nearly a mile under the Yucatán sun at age 90 — then trekking all the way to that remote cenote, climbing down the steep limestone, and floating blissfully alongside fish, kids, water lilies, and adults half his age, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Opa drinking whiskey and smoking cigars with my brother-in-law and me at my wedding.

Opa smiling contentedly in the front seat last month, heading home from the hospital with sunlight warming his well-tanned face, remarking how happy he was to still be here.

Opa reminding us he was a sun worshipper, strolling to the pool with a towel slung over his shoulder and slide sandals exposing the gorgeous feet he was supposedly famous for.

Opa asking his hospice doctors if he’d still be able to drink wine and travel to Argentina for his grandson’s wedding, and holding onto his bike and skis until the very end because he was sure he’d, somehow, bike, ski, and live the Good Life once more.

Opa volunteering to start a Jr. NAD chapter in New York City, serving actively in several organizations, helping organize the Winter Deaflympics in Lake Placid in 1975, and crafting crossword puzzles by hand (then eventually on a computer) every month for over 40 years for Silent News.

Opa thanking the nurses and doctors every single time during countless hospital stays over the past two months, always insisting he was OK, even though he loathed hospitals more than anything and was enduring the inevitable decline of congestive heart failure.

Opa searching desperately for a urinal in a Turkish bath in Istanbul in 1993 — finally peeing in a bowl he decided must be one — only to return with his face white as a sheet after seeing a masseur use that same bowl to pour water over a client’s back.

Opa watching and cheering for the Yankees and Knicks at every opportunity for over 70 years, whether they were great, awful, or somewhere in between.

Opa taking pride in how he dressed and in his accomplishments, yet never overly concerned with his appearance or his triumphs.

Opa lighting up when told Gleyber Torres had racked up five RBIs against the Astros and that the Yankees took game one of the ALCS handily — even though he’d just awoken after an entire day of silence and stillness in hospice — then mustering all his strength to kiss the love of his life, Oma, by his side.

Opa understanding, like Sylvia Plath, that there may be some stuff a hot bath won’t cure, but not knowing many of them, and passing along this valuable insight to his family.

Opa making a friendly bet just days before entering hospice that Walt Frazier had once played for Cleveland. When I discovered he did indeed spend two seasons with the Cavaliers and asked Opa what I owed him, he smiled that gracious smile only he could pull off and fingerspelled, “P-L-E-N-T-Y.”

Opa, thank you for teaching us that a life lived with kindness, fullness, and goodness is never an exercise in futility — not through your words, but by your example, for which we owe you P-L-E-N-T-Y. If we can emulate your decency, your joy for life, your will to live, and your love for friends and family, we’ll be the luckiest people on Earth.

You’ll be sorely missed but never forgotten.

Rest in peace, Opa.