Seeking

Not a grandparent story, I dont know much about my familys past at all to be honest.
Although my grandad was a very hard man, he found the dead body of a young boy when he was a teen.
I dont imagine it affected him as much as it would affect todays teens, who would probably require councelling and try to sue the victims family for emotional trauma.

I'm studying mock-documentary and that is my current post-modern subject; Spinal Tap becoming a real band ect. It's really hurting my head, the subject as a whole seems to dissapear up its own ass if you look at it hard enough.

And your blog is far from lame, dont worry about it. Well I like reading it anyway.

RE: Grandparent tales- Thanks for your comments I love the description of pancakes and MTV. What a fantastic memory
-em

Love the topic. I also never knew one set of grandparents. My mom's parents were both around when i was really little, but they both died of cancer before i could remember. I am actually named after my mom's dad, who i never really knew. I even got my family nickname after him. He was named Pedro too. They used to call him Pete around the neigborhood. So when i was born they started calling him Big Pete and naturally i was called little Pete. It took me a long time to get rid of the "little" at the front of my name. My family still calls me Pete. Even though i never really knew my grand father Pete, I always get a good feeling when i think about him or see my picture. He did his best to give his family a good life. I hope that someday i can follow his example.

As for my other grandparents, i cant really say it has been that great with them. I always felt like they put me in the middle of some fight between them and my parents. I didnt really figure this out till i was older and i am still up set about, but i try to deal with it in a respectful manner. I agree with you that the practice of respecting your elders has fallen by the wayside. Anyway, thanks for the topic it brought back some memories.

Our grandparents, more so than any generation before them, has had to digest the greatest amount of change in the name of "progress". They also experienced a watering down of collective morals, standards, commitment and personal relations. A long-term view of the irreversible momentum of convenience overtaking quality.
Our grandparents, more so than any generation before them, has had to digest the greatest amount of change in the name of "progress". They also experienced a watering down of collective morals, standards, commitment and personal relations; witnessing a long-term view of the irreversible momentum of convenience overtaking quality.

My grandmother taught me how to have fun. As an only child she was very playful and resourceful. Being bored was never an option. She politely demanded creativity and an active pursuit of fun. "As long as no one gets hurt, we can do whatever you want". Her greatest joy was her grandchildren; her biggest regret was never going to college. She loved people-watching and engaging in conversation with anyone willing to do the same. Her vivid storytelling led her to join a creative writing workshop in her late seventies.

Family was all that she ever knew, growing up as an only child, living with both her parents and grandparents. She met my grandfather and was engaged a few weeks later. Their marriage lasted 53 years until his suicide in 1995. He chose to control the time and place of his inevitable death. She lived alone for the first time at age 75. She never stopped saying "we" even though she was only referring to herself.

Her stories painted nuanced pictures of war, depression, simplicity, joy, traveling, games, friends, mischief, and family. She let us know that we were not very unique, and that she too had smoked cigarettes at age fourteen. Her knowledge of lineage and genealogy was as complete as possible and continued to expand as she attended a distant family reunion in England in her early 80's.

My grandmother was that rare person who roundly disliked music completely. She was perfectly content to sit alone in silence, with or without a book.

The last time I saw my grandmother, the last of my grandparents, was about a week before her heart surgery. Friends of hers would tell us later, that she calmly believed she would not survive the procedure. We sat on her couch and talked for about three hours. The stories went in many directions, and she frequently stopped to ask, "Why am I talking about this?" I didn't mind why or how, I was continuing to learn about her at age 83, as she told razor sharp stories from nearly a century ago.

My grandmother taught me how to have fun. As an only child she was very playful and resourceful. Being bored was never an option. She politely demanded creativity and an active pursuit of fun. "As long as no one gets hurt, we can do whatever you want". Her greatest joy was her grandchildren, her biggest regret was never going to college. She loved people-watching and engaging in conversation with anyone willing to do the same. Her vivid storytelling, led her to join a creative writing workshop in her late seventies.

Family was all that she ever knew, growing up as an only child, living with both her parents and grandparents. She met my grandfather and was engaged a few weeks later. Their marraige lasted 53 years until his suicide in 1995. He chose to control the time and place of his inevetible death. She lived alone for the first time at age 75. She never stopped saying "we" eventhough she was only reffering to herself.

Her stories painted nuanced pictures of war, depression, simplicity, joy, traveling, games, friends, mischief, and family. She let us know that we were not very unique, and that she too had smoked cigarettes at age fourteen. Her knowledge of lineage and geneology was as complete as possible and continued to expand as she attended a distant family reunion in England in her early 80's.

My grandmother was that rare person who roundly disliked music completely. She was perfectly content to sit alone in silence, with or without a book.

The last time I saw my grandmother, the last of my grandparents, was about a week before her heart surgery. Friends of hers would tell us later, that she calmy believed she would not survive the procedure. We sat on her couch and talked for about three hours. The stories went in many directions, and she frequently stopped to ask "why am I talking about this?" I didn't mind why or how, I was continuing to learn about her at age 83, as she told razor sharp stories from nearly a century ago.

As the grandmother in Em's blog, I am very touched by her comments and fascinated by other's tales as well. I have never done this before, answering a blog. It is an interesting experience. It is an honor to be part of Em's. Gran

Gran has the first word, but I back up what she says. I've always said that becoming grandparents is an experience worth waiting for.

Em -
Great great topic. Thank you for introducing it. I'll add what I can.


My Grandfather, Mom's side:I never met my grandparents on my mom's side. They lived in Germany, and my mom's mother died of cancer in 1954 or '55, before I was born. Mom's father, Ernst, was a wool merchant who had served as an infantryman in WW1. (In his later years, when viewing a WW1 documentary on TV, he'd scoff, "Why are they playing music? There was no music in the trenches!" And my mom would have to explain that the people making the documentary had added the music.)

At some point after WW1, my grandfather acquired tetanus, resulting in the amputation of his trigger finger on his right hand.

When WW2 came around, the Brits bombed my mom's family out of their house and they became refugees, my mom later working in the south of Germany on a farm. As the German army fell, the Nazis tried to recruit boys and old men to defend the Reich. When my grandfather explained about the lack of a trigger finger, they 'suggested' he use the other hand. He surrendered to the first American troops he saw.

My mom's parents had been vehemently anti-Nazi during the war, refusing to say "Heil Hitler" in the street (the official national greeting). They often instructed my mom never to mention to anyone what was discussed inside their home. After the war, my grandfather's brother, Peter (a former Nazi), learned that Ernst and his family had been anti-Nazi and said that, had he known at the time, he would have called the Gestapo and had them all (my mom included) thrown into a concentration camp. Needless to say, Ernst and Peter were not close after that.

My grandfather lived a long life in Germany after the war. He visited America once during my lifetime (there are some very awkward photos of him with me; he was uncomfortable around children, especially babies). He died in 1970 after battling stomach cancer.

My Grandfather, Dad's side:My father's parents (Jim and Ann) met in Easton PA in the early 1930s. Jim was 20 and Ann 19 when my father was conceived (outside of wedlock), followed shortly thereafter by a shotgun wedding. My grandfather was a drunk and not a pleasant one. He was jealous and often accused my grandmother of infidelities she did not commit. When he drank, he beat her, and sometimes disappeared for days or weeks.

Often he'd move to a new town, get a job there, stay long enough to learn where they kept the cash box, steal it, then come home and say: "Annie, get the kid, we gotta move." My dad lived in about 15 or 20 towns in the PA and NJ areas while growing up.

Another Jim story (I called him Jim Beam) involved the Relief Office. Before welfare, there was "relief," and you could just tell them how many kids you had and they'd give you money, coupons, food or whatever. So Jim would take as many of the neighbors' kids as he could round up, then head down to the Relief Office and claim he had seven or eight kids to feed. I think he paid each kid a nickel for the acting job.

Another time, Jim he was cheating on my grandmother with a woman named Theda Bara Schoop (no lie), my grandmother spotted his car outside her apartment. When she went upstairs to confront him, he leapt out a back window onto the trash cans in the alley below. When she came back outside, he was sitting in the car, pretending he'd just driven up.

And my favorite Jim Beam story... when I was born, my father invited Jim and his common law wife Bonnie to the hospital to see me (provided, of course, that they were sober). Jim showed up drunk and went straight to the nursery. When he spotted me thru the glass, he began shouting, "That's him! That's my grandson! You know how I can tell? Because all those other babies look like MONKEYS!" The other parents, needless to say, were less than pleased, and my grandfather was escorted out of the hospital.

Jim died in January 1981. I never met him.

Ah... warms the heart, don't it.

Hi Em-

This is a super-late response, because the whole topic of grandparents makes me insanely sad. I miss mine so much.

My dad's mom was T. She was half-Cuban, half-English. Beautiful. Her parents died when she was 2 and she was adopted by her father's medical partner. She grew up with tons of money but lost her inheritance ($2 mil) and was excommunicated from the Catholic church when she married my grandfather, who was divroced.

They lived in NYC (the house where my father was born was torn down to build the NYU library, where I used to study while at the New School. I felt like I owned the place), then moved to Newburgh, up on the Hudson. My grandfather died when my dad was sixteen, super suddenly. Super sad. She briefly owned a swank dress shop in Newburgh called Natalita's (her actual name).

T was single until her fifties, when she met Bill, my step grandfather. They lived together in the mountains in upstate NY, a magical place called Cragsmoor, where we spent many holidays and long weekends.

T was a bit of a snob and cranky. Kind of judgemental? I recoiled from her by the time I was a teen and I always regretted it. I wish I'd gotten to know her better.

She had a massive stroke in the mid 1990's and hung on, pretty much vegetative, for 12 years. Very hard on my dad.

On my mom's side were Granny and Jack. Working class, lived in a huge house in a small town in southern Indiana, which is essentially the south.

Granny- big, loving, Catholic- cooked mountains of friend chicken and mashed potatoes and cakes and jello with carrots and celery in it. Soul food.

Jack- a tiny Burgess Meredith/Jack Keroac in work pants, cordoroy shirts. Charlie would have liked him. He drove a train for the Pennsylvania Railroad, had worked for the WPA in the Depression. Scrappy, pugnacious, amazing gardener, adored Granny, indugled the hell out of us, his grandkids. Alcoholic who didn't drink for 20 years until one night at a party at my aunt's he just quietly picked up a drink and stayed drunk until he died.

Jack drunk on his porch, a baseball bat by his side- his little town was getting rough by then. He drank Wild Irish Rose and went around salting slugs and muttering the Latin mass. Or else drank out back in the alley with scary men from the neighborhood around a fire in a trashcan. Hobo style.

God, I miss him and Granny so much.

Thanks E,

Hi Em-

This is a super-late response, because the whole topic of grandparents makes me insanely sad. I miss mine so much.

My dad's mom was T. She was half-Cuban, half-English. Beautiful. Her parents died when she was 2 and she was adopted by her father's medical partner. She grew up with tons of money but lost her inheritance ($2 mil) and was excommunicated from the Catholic church when she married my grandfather, who was divroced.

They lived in NYC (the house where my father was born was torn down to build the NYU library, where I used to study while at the New School. I felt like I owned the place), then moved to Newburgh, up on the Hudson. My grandfather died when my dad was sixteen, super suddenly. Super sad. She briefly owned a swank dress shop in Newburgh called Natalita's (her actual name).

T was single until her fifties, when she met Bill, my step grandfather. They lived together in the mountains in upstate NY, a magical place called Cragsmoor, where we spent many holidays and long weekends.

T was a bit of a snob and cranky. Kind of judgemental? I recoiled from her by the time I was a teen and I always regretted it. I wish I'd gotten to know her better.

She had a massive stroke in the mid 1990's and hung on, pretty much vegetative, for 12 years. Very hard on my dad.

On my mom's side were Granny and Jack. Working class, lived in a huge house in a small town in southern Indiana, which is essentially the south.

Granny- big, loving, Catholic- cooked mountains of friend chicken and mashed potatoes and cakes and jello with carrots and celery in it. Soul food.

Jack- a tiny Burgess Meredith/Jack Keroac in work pants, cordoroy shirts. Charlie would have liked him. He drove a train for the Pennsylvania Railroad, had worked for the WPA in the Depression. Scrappy, pugnacious, amazing gardener, adored Granny, indugled the hell out of us, his grandkids. Alcoholic who didn't drink for 20 years until one night at a party at my aunt's he just quietly picked up a drink and stayed drunk until he died.

Jack drunk on his porch, a baseball bat by his side- his little town was getting rough by then. He drank Wild Irish Rose and went around salting slugs and muttering the Latin mass. Or else drank out back in the alley with scary men from the neighborhood around a fire in a trashcan. Hobo style.

God, I miss him and Granny so much.

Thanks E,