My maternal grandfather died in 1956
when I was 9-years old. I have this photo
of him sitting sternly in an Adirondack
chair taken sometime during WWII in
St. Louis.
From what I’ve been told, he was a
quiet man of few words, a wealthy
man of means who had fathered
seven children and had more than
twenty grandchildren at the time
of his death.
I do recall my mom and dad taking
my brothers and me to visit him on
his sick bed every other Sunday or
so. My brothers and I were allowed
to say hello to him, and were each
given a quarter then shooed away
to go outside and play.
We went to a little corner store
and bought candy, then went to
a neighborhood park and played
on a merry-go-round.
I never sat on my grandpa’s knee,
and don’t recall him ever calling
out my name or speaking to me
personally.
And when he died I don’t remember
crying. Probably because I never really
knew the man who never said my
name to my face.
At the time, I could name just about
all of my twenty-some cousins. I some-
times forgot the babies names. I figured
that was okay, for they never did speak
to me directly either.
-30-
Chris Hanch 12-14-2020
No comments:
Post a Comment