I saw your house for the first time since and I remembered that you don’t live there anymore. That you will never live there, or anywhere, again.
As soon as the car door shut behind me, it all hit me again and I couldn’t breathe. It feels harder and harder to grasp air these days, like my lungs are always heavy, my heart too full of lost love to pump with any vigour.
It comes in waves, cruel torrents, natural disasters that strike when I think I’m okay now and that the pain is easing. Grief rushes in and fills every space, unwanted and unrelenting until there’s no room for much of anything else.
I miss you more and more, and grief will not stop creeping into every corner of my heart.
“Molti anni fa, quando ero un bambino, la vendemmia era un'autentica festa nel paesello del Monferrato dove nacqui, la mattina presto, dopo aver fatto una robusta colazione, salivamo con i vendemmiatori su un carro tirato da due forti cavalli e andavamo nelle vigne cantando lungo tutta la strada. Io mi mettevo sempre a fianco de mio nonno, che qualche volta mi permetteva di impugnare le redini dei cavalli. Come mi sentivo felice in quei momenti! Le canzoni e le risate risuonavano per tutta la mattinata mentre raccoglievamo i grandi grappoli dorati o neri. I canestri di vimini si riempivano presto e i cestoni del carro anche. Il pasto del mezzogiorno si faceva nella stessa vigna, senza perdere il buon umore. Dopo aver mangiato si continuava a vendemmiare. La sera, tutta l'uva raccolta veniva torchiata e messa nei tini. Quanto mi piaceva bere un bicchierino di quel mosto dal sapore agro-dolce. Ora tutto è cambiato. Si va nelle vigne in automobile, si calcola l'utile, quasi non si canta più, si porta l'uva alla cooperativa e gli specialisti si occupano di tutto il resto. Bisogna adattarsi al progresso dei tempi”.
When I was younger I always hated not being able to give good presents. I either didn’t have the money or the means of getting it (transportation to store, no idea what to get, stuff like that).
But now… I get to do this.
And it makes me feel so warm inside. Now I can spoil my grandmother and friends with gifts whenever I want. It makes me feel complete.
For years, my oldest son and his girl friend said that they would never get married; she was against it. Then, five years ago, she relented and they got married. They are now in their mid-30s and, by all accounts, seem happily married. They are financially secure: they both have steady, well-paying jobs, neither has student debt on their advanced degrees, they own a rental property outright, they have a manageable mortgage on their home in a safe neighborhood, and they drive late-model cars. In short, as Friar Lawrence would say, “a pack of blessings light upon thy back.”
Indeed, my son and his wife have worked hard over the years, but my wife and I (and my daughter-in-law’s parents), have also made much of their current “success” and happiness possible though our ongoing support. But there is a rub: our daughter-in-law steadfastly refuses to consider having children – and our son stands by her decision.
They like children – she is a pediatric physical therapist and he has a teaching degree. So, an aversion children is not part of the decision. Her reason — or the reason that they are standing behind — is climate change. In her opinion, it would be the height of cruelty to bring a child into a world that faces such an apocalyptic and nihilistic future.
I will grant you that climate change does pose challenges. And I will further grant you that our country faces other major problems that will be difficult to solve. But there is an existential question here – what have my and my wife’s life amounted to, if we have not inculcated a basic will to survive to the next generation?
To make matters more complicated, they channel all of their time and energy into biking, hiking, rock-climbing, kayaking, etc. We have two younger children (late 20s) who are not married. We despair that they will make the same life-style choices – especially under the influence of their older sibling.
To many observers, it would seem that our kids have been spoiled by their parents. And on some level, that is true. But the urge to face an uncertain future and procreate in the face of adversity is supposed to be part of the human condition.
Every generation faces some dire threat. My father’s generation was handed a M 1 and told to go shoot Hitler. My generation learned to “duck and cover”; under our school desks to avoid nuclear annilation. How can climate change be justified as being so much worse and insurmountable than that? Any advice?
Dear Any Advice?,
You make a number of excellent points in your letter, but none is as compelling as your closing rationale.
Your father’s generation was handed an M1 and told to go shoot Hitler, therefore your your son and his wife are obligated to use their time, money, and bodies to provide a grandchild for you or else your life and everything you’ve ever said or done is utterly meaningless.
That makes perfect sense! Sounds like you can take this right back to your wonderful son and his asshole wife and they’ll happily accommodate your eminently reasonable demands with no objections whatsoever. Thanks for writing in with an easy one! All best!
I think the reason I have had such a hard time losing people is because I lost my grandmother when I was only 13 and she was the world to me
She saw right through my bullshit
She would tell me that she didn’t like Debbie
She thought Debbie was my devious side and Deborah was my good side
She wasn’t supposed to drive but I went to live with her when I was in the seventh grade and she would get up every morning and drive me to the bus stop so that I didn’t have to walk
For a minute, life was good living there with them
I think i mentioned once or twice here that whenever i have a free day, i call my dad.
I used to have the same convo with him when we lived in the same house:
Him: how are you today?
Me: good, you?
Him: good
This was almost daily. A 5seconds convo.
However, once i moved out, he complained once that i call him only once a week so now i call him 3-4 times a week, when i don’t work.
As a result, i got to know my dad quite well. I was taught to be afraid of him (isn’t my mother amazing?*sarcastic*). The man never raised his voice at me and i called him at bad times several times. (At work, waking him up after he didn’t sleep more than 4-5 hours in 2 days, while he was driving etc) He always asks how i am and if something happened when i call. I expected him to lose it at least once for how often i call but i think he enjoys being called.
I was thinking why this change but i think it’s because we start to get to know each other as people rather than relatives. I have to tell him what I’m doing and what i bought for myself recently because he isn’t around to see or notice what i do. He has to do the same.
NGL, my dad is quite the chill dude. Occasionally he asks me if there’s any dude i fancy and by the next time he asks me this question, he forgets the name of the same dude i mentioned 3-4 times before.
I think this is also why many grandkid-grandparent relationships are great. You get to know those people as something else than a guardian.
Vacations are going on and I was sipping my coffee in the evening, thinking about how time has evolved. When we were small kids vacations used to be the best part and much awaited thing. Going to granny’s house was like a dream come true and preparations for us have started from the last time we visited her. She is the most serine beauty with pious love. Her love is like pixie dust sprinkled on me that always rejuvenate me. Visiting her was like no tension of the holiday’s homework, waking up late, tasty food served to you on silver platter and you are the crown bearers who are just ordering. Late night fairy tales were the best part, that time they used to be just stories but now the realization came they were filled with beautiful life lessons which had always guided us. I miss my Granny a lot. She was a mixture of a good parent, an efficient teacher and a true friend. The last word she uttered before resting in peace was my name. I used to have a great fight with her and we used to fight like cats and dogs. My mother was one who always came as a rescue force to help us be friends again when we both stop talking to each other. She was the one to rescue me from Dad’s scolding and always has a tantrum to play to help me convince my parents. Those hand knitted sweaters in the cozy winters remind me of her love and dedication which she poured in every strand she knitted. Few months before she got ill I was sitting by her side gazing her. The realization of the thought that she will be leaving me made my eyes weepy. Her wrinkled cheeks, loose skin, grey hair and stooping body made me nostalgic but the beauty with which she embraced this waning phase of life made me elated. Time is a great teacher and no one is able to escape from it so as my granny. Grandparents play a crucial role in the development of their grandchildren. They hold our hands for a while but our hearts, forever.They teach some valuable lessons which remain with us for the lifetime. They are the best guardians who know all the tricks and hacks to make us happy.They are the only ones who always have time for us and listen to our endless talks. They help in building a good character and ensure where ever we go, love and humbleness should be within us. They always make it sure that we grow up with good etiquette and moral values. Forgot to mention, they also become superman sometimes, as they are ready to fight with anyone who threatens us. Their love, motivation and dedication towards us ultimately make us a good citizen. In the nutshell, If nothing is going well, call your Granny.
Don’t commission me to draw real people, kids. The results are a hot mess.
Christmas gift for my grandparents in the Philippines, who I’m finally spending time with in their home for the first time in over a decade. It feels good to be back with the family in their element … I only wish I was better at drawing portraits!
My Grandpa Gary is a rebel, that’s what he says. He is loud and crass; he will say exactly what he thinks at any given moment, without hesitation. If you ask him something, he answers honestly with no thought of subtlety or fear of consequence.
Oddly enough, the rebel I know is part of one of the most reserved families I have ever seen. While he was off doing whatever was considered inappropriate to them in the early sixties, his mother, Katie; step-father; and brother probably continued to eat breakfast and dinner at their proper place settings, they may have prayed, and they certainly didn’t speak about what Grandpa Gary might be up to. Somehow, I can’t imagine them really communicating much; least of all when it came to Grandpa’s biological father, Herman, and why he, apparently, didn’t exist anymore.
It never occurred to me that some rogue part of my parentage had seemingly disappeared into the great vat of rice that is the world’s population. I didn’t realize that the great-grandfather I had always known was only a that by of marriage. No one ever spoke about it. I suppose I did wonder how Grandpa Gary could fit into their family portrait. Between his quick lips and his avid nature to roam, there was a distinct contrast. His home was any city, town, or campground; a truck and trailer, and the open road. He had three companions. Two dogs: one large, shaggy and black named Bear, the other a protective part wolf named Shoshona. The last was a short, thin woman with dark hair and an amazing knack for entertaining his grandchildren with “This piggy went to the market…” - well, it entertained me. They only made an appearance in our lives every once in a while, but to see them was the most amazing treat. I don’t remember a time before this group, so if Grandpa Gary had ever been clean cut and unspoken, I have trouble picturing it.
As I got older I started to see the differences between my Grandpa and his family. Around the same time, my mom became very interested in our ancestry. Being more exposed to Gary than to his family had fostered in my mom and me, a proclivity toward curiosity and the idea that something might be a secret made it more important to uncover. With unrivaled tenacity, she found Grandpa’s real father, Herman Moon, in Texas but she found him too late.
Grandpa Gary’s mother, Katie, would not talk about Herman, not in detail, and she was the only one we knew with any knowledge of him. Why Herman left and why he never came back, why he never called or wrote, why he never cared was lost. Any questions would be brushed off and deeper inquiries were met with rigid silence.
Years later, Mom got in touch with a woman named Dorothy. Dorothy was Herman’s niece from a second marriage and Dorothy knew a lot. A lot by our standards, anyway, and she had no problem talking. I’ve always heard that cliché phrase about a woman scorned and thought it trite and silly. I’d never seen a woman in such a rage she would thoroughly ruin the offenders life in some form or another. I couldn’t quite capture the image in my head of Katie having a wrath, let alone executing it. Yet, when Grandpa Gary was around two years old, Katie was admitted into a hospital where she stayed for treatment of what is assumed to have been a venereal disease. I’ll never know for sure, but the belief is that Herman had been having an affair. When Katie was released she took Grandpa and went to her parents’ without Herman. She didn’t go back.
They divorced and Herman moved to San Francisco. He married a woman named Mildred but he never forgot his son. Katie had never told us that Herman had decided to try for custody or visitation of Grandpa Gary. When he and Mildred showed up at her house they were greeted with shotgun and told not to come back. They went home to California, but Herman didn’t give up. He handed a lawyer five thousand dollars and asked him to help. Nothing ever happened and Dorothy never heard him speak about the lawyer again. We’d never heard of the lawyer at all.
Herman never stopped talking about his son, though. Dorothy said he kept a picture he’d had taken of Grandpa in focal points of his house without fail. He was so proud of whatever his son could have been; it probably never really mattered to him what, exactly, it was. This is the part of the story where I imagine Herman’s side of the family. I can picture his sisters so clearly, standing in their kitchens, talking to Herman over the phone. I picture them asking after a particularly awkward silence “So, have you heard from Katie? Anything about Gary Lee?” And when I think of his response I think of a silent head shake and a very clipped “No.” That is the end of the conversation, in my head. They say quick goodbyes and hang up. Then maybe Herman spends a drawn out moment looking at that picture of his son, frozen in his mind at two years old.
Herman and Mildred divorced, but they stayed in touch and Dorothy remained a big part of his life. He worked in finishing carpentry in Hollywood. He married a third and final time. He must have messed around on this woman as well, because when she left, she took everything.
Dorothy found him his own place where he lived until he died, with Grandpa’s picture in the forefront. As his days dwindled, he began to ask her if she’d found or heard anything about Gary Lee. Only a few months after Herman died, mom found him, or rather his obituary, online. When she did, she cried. She had just missed him.
When I got home the day she spoke to Dorothy, Mom was restless. She didn’t look me in the eye, and I could see a million images passing behind her own. After she rambled off the entire story, she exhaled any confidence she may have had and told me she had no idea how she was going to tell Grandpa Gary. She had no idea how she was going to let him know after all those years of stolid silence, how loved he was. How wanted.
When Mom did talk to Grandpa, all she could do was give him Dorothy’s phone number and tell him to call. Dorothy sent him the watch that Herman had been wearing when he’d died and a few of the pictures that she had.
Neither of these things can rewrite time. Herman would never know his rebel son who roamed around the country, the granddaughter that tracked him down, or the great-granddaughter that is writing about him now. My Grandpa Gary will never know his father, only that the man had never stopped looking for him, never stopped wanting him. Only that, if he had been able too, Herman would have been and done anything for Gary. My mom will never know her grandfather, she’ll only ever have photos to pour over and memorize and second hand stories to think about before she falls asleep. I will never sit next to him, close my eyes, and listen to the tone and pacing of his voice as he talks about the people he’s known and the places he’s been. Now it isn’t the whys that we will never know, it is the hundreds of stories lost between us all. The stories, I think, we would have gladly shared, good or bad.
Grandma Katie passed in 2009, taking her justification with her, locked tight away. I can’t say if she ever knew that we’d found Herman and what was left of his family. I can’t say that she knew he’d died. More than anything, I can’t say she ever forgave him or if her scorn went away. I’ll never understand why an affair may have caused her to separate her son from his father. Perhaps there was more to it that we’ll never know. Katie was a private woman who held her head high and stuck to her decisions like she’d made them with crazy glue. The last time I saw her, she was in a nursing home in Tennessee. She had been injured getting out of bed and as a result, hadn’t walked in weeks. But on that day, as we were leaving the home, we watched as she scurried down the hall with her walker and yelled at the physical therapist to hurry up.
I don’t remember her as the woman who kept her son from his father or who kept her tongue like using it would create a crack in the Earth that the sky would crumble into. I remember her as the woman who did what she thought was right to protect herself and her son, though I find myself wishing she hadn’t have been so stubborn about Herman. Whether he was a great or terrible, sometimes it’s better to cope with disappointment instead of uncertainty. Sometimes, some decisions are not yours alone. Sometimes they have the ability to vastly alter someone else’s world. But when you’re caught up in the moment, sometimes you just have to decide to speak or remain silent. The art in it is to know when you might have decided incorrectly and when to concede.
