Grandpas

I only knew one of my Grandfathers. My Dad’s Dad died when I was two years old, and all of my Great Grandfathers were gone before I was born. So, my Grandpa Stewart was the only Grandfather I ever remember.

He was a study in contrast. I learned a lot of my “bad” words from being around him, but he went to church each Sunday. He was a talented musician and singer, but I do not ever remember him saying I love you to anyone with that deep voice of his. Maybe I was just not around when or if he said it to anyone. If he did, it would have been after he went in the nursing home with dementia, and probably by accident.

He was tight as a drum with his money. Part of his Scottish ancestry not doubt, and partly because “hard” money was so hard to come across when he was a young man. I remember him taking his wallet out of the center pocket of his bib overalls at least a couple of times a day, and counting his money. Even if he hadn’t move an inch of his front porch, he would still count his money. Maybe he thought it was going to increase while it was sitting there in his pocket, or perhaps he just had forgotten how much was there a few hours earlier. I’m not sure.

He only “went to town” once a week to buy groceries, and he only paid for the “staples” such as sugar, flour, meal and salt. He made Grandma pay for everything else out of her money. I think she only drew 67 dollars a month from Social Security, and that was it.

He was 57 years old when I was born in 1950, so he always seemed like “the old man” to me. When I was 10 years old, and my Mother was going through her very difficult mental health problems, he was 67. We lived with them for several months during that time period.

From the stories my Mom told me about him before she passed away, he was not a gentle man when she was a young child. Certainly, not an ideal Father by any means. Still, I idolized him, as small children are wont to do with their grandparents in most cases. He was never so cruel to me as he was to my Mom…at least how she described him to be.

I went to school part of the year there in 1960, in Blue Ridge where they lived, and Grandpa gave me a dime every day with which to buy ice cream. Out of character for him I think, but he did it nonetheless. Maybe it was partially out of regret for the way he had treated my Mother. Maybe if was out of pity for the sickness which his daughter was having to go through. I’m not certain.

I have tried my best to be a different grandfather with all of my grandchildren. I haven’t always been successful. I inherited some of MY grandfather’s quick and severe temper and impatience unfortunately, but I have kept as tight a lid on it as possible.

Now, as I approach 67, I find that I will be a Grandfather to another child this fall. A granddaughter. She will be number nine. I’m really a lucky man, because I have been able to interact with my eight grandchildren more than many grandparents are able to.

I’ve tried to be gentle with them. The last time I gave one of them a little spanking, I liked to not have gotten over it. I don’t do that anymore. Never will ever again.

I’ve tried to be loving.

I hope that their memories of “the old man” will be more in line with a nature of empathy. I hope they remember building block towers and watching birds. I hope they remember singing songs, and taking walks.

I think they will all remember me telling them “I love you” I can guarantee you they have all heard it from me, and always will as long as I have my “senses” about me. I’m not saying this to by any means “toot my own horn” I’m certainly as imperfect in my own way as my Grandfather was in his.  None of us are saints.