So is writing and publishing these feels airing dirty laundry or truth telling? I think there's a fine line, and I've been debating with myself all day. I've decided that authentic living is important.
I called him Grandpa. My parents were young when I was born, and I entered the world with 10 grandparents and great grandparents! To keep them all straight, each had a unique name, and Dad's parents were simply Grandma and Grandpa.
Grandpa was a complicated person. I never doubted that he loved me as his grandchild, but he was definitely not a warm-and-fuzzy grandfather. Actually, I might describe his as a hard man.
Through various circumstances like hard work, frugality, a career in the airline industry, key investments, and inheritance, my grandparents were wealthy. And they did some wonderfully generous things, like setting up savings accounts for all the grandchildren to help fund our college educations, and paying for the entire family to go on a celebration cruise.
When I was a kid, they lived in Villa Park, Calif., about 5 miles from Disneyland. So when we went for a visit, Disneyland was usually involved. That's definitely where my love of Mickey Mouse started.
I remember harsh, condescending words when my family was late to morning gatherings. I remember being too scared to say anything when I split the front of my leg open hopping into the van because I knew Grandpa would say "I told you so."
I remember their beautiful Villa Park home but not much warmth inside. I remember my grandmother always looking (to me) sad and tired.
Part of my childhood and life experience was that my other grandparents always lived close. We saw them all the time. They were (are!) loving, affectionate people who made me feel loved and special my whole life. The contrast was stark - living so far away from my other grandparents, mixed with their perceived cold personalities. I never really knew them. I always felt different, distant, out of place, and even unwelcome around them and that side of the family.
Dad was deeply scarred by his upbringing, and I believe Dad spent the last years of his own life trying desperately to reconcile, gain his father's acceptance and love, and make up for a lifetime of perceived rejection. I don't think it's coincidence that he died just months after Grandpa.
I've truly never blamed my dad for the way his life ended. I know his illness took him from us. But part of me does blame Grandpa and the way he treated my father.
Grandma and Grandpa moved north to Newberg's Friendsview Retirement Community in the later years of their lives. It was strange - and nice - to have them physically close to us for the first time - getting to celebrate holidays and birthdays together and see them way more often than every before.
I got to see a softer side of Grandpa in his last years. But does that make up for a lifetime of coldness? I wrestle with that question.
So it's with very mixed feelings that I say, Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa! I wish you were here to celebrate with some cake, balloons, and family. But more than that, I wish I would have known you as an affectionate grandfather, and I wish Dad had known you as a supportive, affectionate father.
