Discoveries

I grew up spending many of my childhood weekends at my paternal grandmother’s and grandfather’s home. Gramps, as I called him, was the only grandfather I ever knew. He was a loveable character of Irish descent. One of my fondest memories is Gramps giving me a dollar to spend at the five and dime store every weekend. It was our tradition. Later we would walk to the corner drugstore and he would get a big jelly donut for himself and a milkshake for me. I didn’t realize then that he was a diabetic and this was his way of getting out of the house away from my grandmother’s watchful eyes. My Gram was a very stoic lady. She always wore a lace-up corset, stockings, a freshly ironed dress, and a pair of black low-heeled shoes. The two of them were opposite personalities. Gram was always working, cleaning, cooking, and waiting on Gramps. After my grandfather died, she continued to work hard at various jobs into her 80’s. Eventually she moved to Arizona and lived with my mother and me.

One day many years after my mother and Gram passed away, I rummaged through some of my grandmother’s photobooks and memorabilia. To my surprise, she was a very stylish woman in her early 20’s. She wore blouses, silk trousers and on occasion a fur coat. She was married to my father’s birth father then, who originally came from Germany. There are photos of them riding in shiny new cars and visiting many tourist spots around the United States. They appeared to be a happy couple, laughing, and making silly poses in many of the photos. After deciphering a few faded captions, I learned that he was a silversmith by trade and returned to Germany when my father was seven years old. I also found a poem written by him. It was almost identical to one that I had written when I was a teenager. Both were about a little camp that my family owned on a logging pond in Maine. Both held sentiments about this special place that brought us such peace and serenity. During the summers that I spent on that pond, I was unaware of the poem or that my paternal grandfather had built the cabin. I wish I had known. No one ever talked of him. And yet, now when I read his poem or look at the photo that accompanies it, I feel as if I have always known him.

(A few verses from my Grandfather’s poem written in 1925)

“So quiet, calm, and serene

with the gentle sloping mountains

reflecting their shades of green

Oh, little camp, so quiet and still

if molded into life

You would bid us return and remain with thee

away from worldly strife”