Dear Granddaddy,
I am glad I knew you – what I knew of you during your life, what I’ve learned of you since your death. Are there more stories I’m yet to learn?
You were not of your time as so few in our family are. From a farm in Autauga County, Alabama, you went to college and on to law school. You ran as an independent [not a member of a Greek fraternity] against Lister Hill, the Machine’s candidate, and you almost won so the story goes. You lettered in football at The University of Alabama. I’ve seen the picture of you with the team. 1914 is the year, I think. Then, the Irish lass from Dundalk sashayed into your life. From Mexico where she’d been a governess and, on her way home, she stopped off in Tuscaloosa to visit a distant cousin whose family had immigrated in 1859. Nan met you, her, Jim and y’all were wed for life [more or less, as it turns out]. When the twins were born, your benefactor who’d funded your law school studies cut you off. Was it really the twins or some other undercurrent, I’m wondering for the first time.
You taught and then served as principal at schools across west central Alabama. You had to move every couple of years because – again how the story goes – you would invite young men with great potential to live with your family and continue high school rather than stay with their families and, at 16, quit school to do the field work. Not surprising that rural Alabama families did not cotton to their labor-ready sons being hijacked into a life of education. Lawyers and doctors across the southeast, the family said, came from those boys to whom you gave opportunity.
In ten years, you and Nan had nine children, those first twins the only multiples. Two of the babies died—one at two years old and one shortly after birth. Then, into the family came your niece, daughter of Nan’s sister, a widow who—after having her baby girl in Alabama—returned to Ireland to bring her two older girls back to make a family with the new baby and the baby’s father. That much is true. The reason she never came back has a variety of versions. All we know is that Nan’s sister never came back, the baby was raised by you and Nan, and no one in Ireland ever knew of the baby girl who’d been fathered by a Protestant who might as well have been the devil incarnate.
Of you and Nan’s babies only two were girls. Mama said you had her go to college saying that the boys will always have good jobs whether or not they have college degrees but to have good paying jobs women needed a college education. Mama finished and eventually got her Master’s. Her baby sister, however, went to college two semesters and both times was successful in finding a husband. After the war, the niece went to nursing school and then into the Air Force.
During World War II, though, all five of your sons were in service. No wonder you started drinking. We were told that part coming up but the seriousness of the drinking we did not know until after you’d died. The serious drinking and the womanizing. Grandmother left you for a time but rathered have you so imperfect than to live without you.
You were the one who noticed that at a year old I would not put my right leg down as I tried to cruise around the coffee table. That became the beginning of my right hip’s life long story.
The really amazing tale came years after you’d died. Susan, a great-granddaughter, worked at a bank in Tuscaloosa. Another clerk, when she realized that Susan’s great granddad was Jim G___, said, “I didn’t care what anybody said I always thought he was a good man.” This called for a sit-down with Janie, Susan’s maternal grandmother, who told the story of your having embezzled from a federal agency. Now, it’s not clear whether you were even tried. Janie’s father reimbursed all the money you’d taken so maybe you avoided prosecution and jail time.
Here's the bottom line, Granddaddy. I always loved you. Your gravelly voice rendered bedtime stories – like Babe the Blue Ox – as though they came from a deep mountain forest. And “give me back my golden arm” … thinking of it even now gives me chills. You taught me the word “placid” and laughed when I stubbed my toe saying “and you didn’t even say one cuss word.” Of course, you didn’t know that I didn’t know any curse words.
Just about every family of descendants has a James as we all have Roberts and Michaels and Annes (Nan’s original name). We remember you with love and gladness for the heritage of your boldness in service of others.
Your granddaughter,
Egghead
— Marmar
I am glad I knew you – what I knew of you during your life, what I’ve learned of you since your death. Are there more stories I’m yet to learn?
You were not of your time as so few in our family are. From a farm in Autauga County, Alabama, you went to college and on to law school. You ran as an independent [not a member of a Greek fraternity] against Lister Hill, the Machine’s candidate, and you almost won so the story goes. You lettered in football at The University of Alabama. I’ve seen the picture of you with the team. 1914 is the year, I think. Then, the Irish lass from Dundalk sashayed into your life. From Mexico where she’d been a governess and, on her way home, she stopped off in Tuscaloosa to visit a distant cousin whose family had immigrated in 1859. Nan met you, her, Jim and y’all were wed for life [more or less, as it turns out]. When the twins were born, your benefactor who’d funded your law school studies cut you off. Was it really the twins or some other undercurrent, I’m wondering for the first time.
You taught and then served as principal at schools across west central Alabama. You had to move every couple of years because – again how the story goes – you would invite young men with great potential to live with your family and continue high school rather than stay with their families and, at 16, quit school to do the field work. Not surprising that rural Alabama families did not cotton to their labor-ready sons being hijacked into a life of education. Lawyers and doctors across the southeast, the family said, came from those boys to whom you gave opportunity.
In ten years, you and Nan had nine children, those first twins the only multiples. Two of the babies died—one at two years old and one shortly after birth. Then, into the family came your niece, daughter of Nan’s sister, a widow who—after having her baby girl in Alabama—returned to Ireland to bring her two older girls back to make a family with the new baby and the baby’s father. That much is true. The reason she never came back has a variety of versions. All we know is that Nan’s sister never came back, the baby was raised by you and Nan, and no one in Ireland ever knew of the baby girl who’d been fathered by a Protestant who might as well have been the devil incarnate.
Of you and Nan’s babies only two were girls. Mama said you had her go to college saying that the boys will always have good jobs whether or not they have college degrees but to have good paying jobs women needed a college education. Mama finished and eventually got her Master’s. Her baby sister, however, went to college two semesters and both times was successful in finding a husband. After the war, the niece went to nursing school and then into the Air Force.
During World War II, though, all five of your sons were in service. No wonder you started drinking. We were told that part coming up but the seriousness of the drinking we did not know until after you’d died. The serious drinking and the womanizing. Grandmother left you for a time but rathered have you so imperfect than to live without you.
You were the one who noticed that at a year old I would not put my right leg down as I tried to cruise around the coffee table. That became the beginning of my right hip’s life long story.
The really amazing tale came years after you’d died. Susan, a great-granddaughter, worked at a bank in Tuscaloosa. Another clerk, when she realized that Susan’s great granddad was Jim G___, said, “I didn’t care what anybody said I always thought he was a good man.” This called for a sit-down with Janie, Susan’s maternal grandmother, who told the story of your having embezzled from a federal agency. Now, it’s not clear whether you were even tried. Janie’s father reimbursed all the money you’d taken so maybe you avoided prosecution and jail time.
Here's the bottom line, Granddaddy. I always loved you. Your gravelly voice rendered bedtime stories – like Babe the Blue Ox – as though they came from a deep mountain forest. And “give me back my golden arm” … thinking of it even now gives me chills. You taught me the word “placid” and laughed when I stubbed my toe saying “and you didn’t even say one cuss word.” Of course, you didn’t know that I didn’t know any curse words.
Just about every family of descendants has a James as we all have Roberts and Michaels and Annes (Nan’s original name). We remember you with love and gladness for the heritage of your boldness in service of others.
Your granddaughter,
Egghead
— Marmar
This is so beautiful and rich. How fortunate you are to have had such a grandfather. Beautifully written, heartfelt and filled with texture and color.
ReplyDeleteThank you and, yes, I am fortunate for my grandparents and for my whole family. We are so flawed and so beautiful. What do they say about mending the wounds with gold? Yeah, that's us and that is a real blessing.
DeleteThis became a bit too complicated for me to readily follow. I have not been close to most of my relatives, or ever lived near them, so it seems magical and story-bookish. But WOW, it actually IS magic. It is a true family TREE with so many branches. You have turned out well, in my opinion, from what I can tell. Your grandfather was a complex personality for sure, but he knew how to love you. (Macoff)
ReplyDelete