When we focus on our past, we may discover someone who should have played a larger role in our life.

It saddens me when I think about my grandfather—my father’s father. I always wondered what my life would have been like . . .

Had I Met Him Earlier

     I might have had a relationship with him had I taken the time to do so. Instead, I let him languish in his room in front of the TV at my aunt’s house, while I mingled with other members of the family.

     He became the mystery man in my life. The dance instructor turned haberdasher and then recluse in his senior years. I thought of him as the tortured man, the man maligned by my grandmother.

     I never took the time to know the real person inside the old, beaten body. My father’s father was an enigma to me. He did not drive. He did not appear to have an opinion. When he came to the family table, he said little of consequence. And after the meal, he drifted back to his room on the second floor of the house.

     I visited my aunt’s home most weekends. Grandpa Jack was always there, but then he never was. He was an afterthought, like an old relic placed in the corner of the room to be viewed, but never really seen. I could excuse my indifference to him as a child, as it seemed to go both ways. But as I got older, I should have taken time to visit with him, but I did not.

     Then I went away to college in upstate New York, and my father’s father became a distant memory. I did not consider how long he might be in my life, because I never considered him as being there in the first place.

     During my sophomore year at the University of Rochester, my father’s company was purchased and he, my mother, and sister moved to California so he could continue working at the job he knew and loved. Later that year, we all received an invitation to my eldest cousin Suzie’s wedding.

     Having just moved 3,000 miles away, my parents did not have the energy or the money to return to New York for the nuptials. Since I still attended school only 400 miles away, they designated me to represent the family.

     Now at the behest of my father, I had made the decision to transfer to UCLA so I could be near him, my mother, and sister. The wedding could be the last time I would see my grandfather. For after the celebration, I would board a plane for the West Coast.

     At the festivities after the service, my grandfather disappeared into a crowd of guests and I hung with the younger set. When I returned to my aunt’s home that evening, I received a call from my father. Since I was leaving for California the next day, he asked me to speak with my grandfather, something I had never done at length before.

     I climbed the steps to his room and stared at him sitting in his chair looking at the television’s empty screen. “Grandpa, may I talk to you?” I muttered. 

     He motioned to me to sit on the bed next to his chair. Not really knowing this man, I felt a bit uncomfortable. And then he began to speak—about my youth, my passion for bowling, my interest in writing and drawing, my graduating as salutatorian of my high school senior class, and my choice of the University of Rochester to continue my education.

     The man I thought had no idea who I was knew me intimately, but I had never met him before. I had no knowledge of his background, interests, desires. He was a stranger to me. I was meeting him for the first time and this brought tears to my eyes.

     I left the next day for my new life in California and would never see my grandfather again. He died two years later. After his death, one thought has plagued me to this day, Had I met him earlier, how might he have changed my life and me his?

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.