One Negative Thing

 The only negative . . .

thing I can say about Pop: he was a bigot. I remember some terrible stories he told and comments about other peoples that made us laugh and wince at the same time. Grandpa had been in the Second World War, and there was a family rumor that he had even been a member of a very well known subversive group. All his names for Italians, Germans, Black People, Japanese, and more, were new to us. (Interesting fact: Grandpa's family had roots in Creole country.) Even at our young age, we found his comments embarrassing though in the privacy of our own home. Mother is the only reason I can give that none of Pop's theories influenced us. She never saw any differences in human beings. We just accepted it as how Pop was; that was not us. We all make excuses for those we love.

 

I never knew him to go to church but for one of my weddings and his funeral. I never knew him to read the Bible or heard him say a prayer. To his credit, he never spoke against Christianity, though he had his own definite opinion of other religious sects. I can attest to him as a believer. I remember an occasional mention of God, or heaven when he talked to us. It was always matter-of-fact as though that is just the way it is; God is God and He is. 

 

> > > > > You do not have to be a saint for God to use you. < < < < <

 

Let me interject right here that I do not remember grace being said at our daily meal. A short blessing was given at large family gatherings on holidays. My husband and I do not begin a meal without thanks for and blessing on our food, at home or in public.

 

I adored my grandfather. Every time he left the house, I needed to go with him. I was his shadow, taking three steps to every single stride of his long gait. I hung on his every word and believed every story he ever told. He never took anything for himself and gave everything he had to Mother. His undershirts were riddled with holes and he went barefoot all summer. He wore white painters' pants that were spotted with a rainbow of color blotches. In just a couple years, he would save my sister and I from the greatest terror of our young lives.

 

Jerry and Pop were never as close as either would have liked but Jerry respected him. I remember comments my brother made as an adult; always with great respect and admiration for Pop.

 

 

 

What all of us learned and received from this man cannot be priced in any way. The wisdom he taught and the laughter he injected cannot be measured. I could tell stories for days from memories I would not give up for any prize. He lives on in our memories and through our lives. It broke my heart, years later, when he had to be admitted to a veteran's nursing home and this old man cried for me to take him home with me. (I find myself in tears just at this writing.) He died there from his third stroke - or giving up. I am so sorry, Pop.

 

There is no death, only a change of worlds. . . 

Chief Seattle, Duwamish Indian.

 

* This continuing story begins with the post on Dec. 30, 2024

See "Entertaining Angels Unaware"