Pappy - July 3, 1912 to September 18, 2013
Today we remembered the life of my grandpa, Gerald (aka Pappy). He was a really good boy who became a really good man--and didn't speak a word about it. So today we spoke about it. About how he and Grandma took care of people who had no one else: a young woman who had attempted to take her life and was being institutionalized unless someone could take her in (which they did for four years until she graduated from college and was stable enough to live on her own); a baby boy with Down Syndrome who needed intensive caregiving until he could be placed back with his mother when he was three; a baby girl who was blind, mostly deaf, and developmentally disabled and to whom they gave nearly around-the-clock care until she was an adult and too big for them to manage at their age. (She was transitioned to a group home, but they remained her legal guardians.)
I can't do it all justice here. But here's a quote from my cousin, Bryan, today: "I heard a quote from Gandhi that said, 'I like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.' I try to be good most of the time. Pappy was the only man I've ever known who was good ALL of the time." That's not to say he was perfect. But, as my dad said, it didn't seem to ever occur to Pappy that there was any other option besides living with integrity and orderliness.
A few years ago Grandpa was reminiscing about his childhood and casually mentioned that he could only recall his mother hugging him one time in his whole life. These last few days, I've been wondering how on earth Grandpa went from being a child who received almost no affection to being a grandfather whose natural and instant response to seeing his grandchildren was to light up with joy and hug us with love and affection.When I first heard about the one hug he received from his mother and the circumstances of that hug, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Having had three children of my own and lived through a decade of renunciation and sleep deprivation, I began to feel deep compassion for my great-grandmother, Jennie, just as I felt such deep empathy for my grandpa's childhood self. I wrote a poem about it, which I've posted below. It is my interpretation, so please take it that spirit.
Pappy did a lot of listening in his life and very little talking. I hope he was listening today. And I hope Pappy knows that he was/is part of the platform of love upon which I am ever so blessed to stand.
Today we remembered the life of my grandpa, Gerald (aka Pappy). He was a really good boy who became a really good man--and didn't speak a word about it. So today we spoke about it. About how he and Grandma took care of people who had no one else: a young woman who had attempted to take her life and was being institutionalized unless someone could take her in (which they did for four years until she graduated from college and was stable enough to live on her own); a baby boy with Down Syndrome who needed intensive caregiving until he could be placed back with his mother when he was three; a baby girl who was blind, mostly deaf, and developmentally disabled and to whom they gave nearly around-the-clock care until she was an adult and too big for them to manage at their age. (She was transitioned to a group home, but they remained her legal guardians.)
I can't do it all justice here. But here's a quote from my cousin, Bryan, today: "I heard a quote from Gandhi that said, 'I like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.' I try to be good most of the time. Pappy was the only man I've ever known who was good ALL of the time." That's not to say he was perfect. But, as my dad said, it didn't seem to ever occur to Pappy that there was any other option besides living with integrity and orderliness.
A few years ago Grandpa was reminiscing about his childhood and casually mentioned that he could only recall his mother hugging him one time in his whole life. These last few days, I've been wondering how on earth Grandpa went from being a child who received almost no affection to being a grandfather whose natural and instant response to seeing his grandchildren was to light up with joy and hug us with love and affection.When I first heard about the one hug he received from his mother and the circumstances of that hug, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Having had three children of my own and lived through a decade of renunciation and sleep deprivation, I began to feel deep compassion for my great-grandmother, Jennie, just as I felt such deep empathy for my grandpa's childhood self. I wrote a poem about it, which I've posted below. It is my interpretation, so please take it that spirit.
Pappy did a lot of listening in his life and very little talking. I hope he was listening today. And I hope Pappy knows that he was/is part of the platform of love upon which I am ever so blessed to stand.
~ Jennie
He only remembers her hugging him the one
time—
"he" being Grandpa Gerald,
"her" being his mother,
"the one time" being as she boarded a train
going West
for quiet reasons
for an uncertain amount of time.
"he" being Grandpa Gerald,
"her" being his mother,
"the one time" being as she boarded a train
going West
for quiet reasons
for an uncertain amount of time.
This is a poem about forgiveness.
Her husband worked in a creamery
moving fifty-pound blocks of butter
12 hours a day except every second Sunday
when he rested.
Jennie had worked, too, in a milliner’s shop,
had made and worn elegant hats,
had begun to nurture a natural flair
before the children began arriving.
moving fifty-pound blocks of butter
12 hours a day except every second Sunday
when he rested.
Jennie had worked, too, in a milliner’s shop,
had made and worn elegant hats,
had begun to nurture a natural flair
before the children began arriving.
This is a poem about forgiveness.
Baby number four was a devil to
discipline
by the time the Lean Years came.
Not like Gerald.
Gerald the Good.
Gerald the Careful.
She was bone-weary, all the same,
desert behind her, beside her, before her,
even above her,
parched.
by the time the Lean Years came.
Not like Gerald.
Gerald the Good.
Gerald the Careful.
She was bone-weary, all the same,
desert behind her, beside her, before her,
even above her,
parched.
This is a poem about forgiveness.
She was going to stay with her sister
for as long as it took
to tie the apron back on
and put her body on a return train.
These weren’t the days of Prozac and talk therapy.
These were the days of eating or not eating.
These were the days of soldiering on.
She could not have left unless
it was leave or do harm,
leave or die.
for as long as it took
to tie the apron back on
and put her body on a return train.
These weren’t the days of Prozac and talk therapy.
These were the days of eating or not eating.
These were the days of soldiering on.
She could not have left unless
it was leave or do harm,
leave or die.
This is a poem about forgiveness.
Gerald was ten on the train platform,
standing with his brother, sisters, father,
not knowing what to expect.
The whistle blew, and suddenly
she could hug them,
submissive or defiant, needy or sullen.
Maybe, with a steam engine in shining armor
ready to carry away what was left of Jennie,
if anything . . .
maybe she could see them, suddenly.
Maybe they were just children, suddenly.
Maybe she could love them,
suddenly.
standing with his brother, sisters, father,
not knowing what to expect.
The whistle blew, and suddenly
she could hug them,
submissive or defiant, needy or sullen.
Maybe, with a steam engine in shining armor
ready to carry away what was left of Jennie,
if anything . . .
maybe she could see them, suddenly.
Maybe they were just children, suddenly.
Maybe she could love them,
suddenly.
Maybe all of them were just doing their
best.
Maybe everyone on that platform was innocent.
Maybe everyone on that platform was innocent.
Maybe this isn’t a poem about
forgiveness.
Maybe this is a poem about how there is nothing to forgive.
Maybe this is a poem about how there is nothing to forgive.
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