Monday, April 11, 2005
Regrets and the Journey
One of my regrets is that I began the journey to discover my grandfather’s life too late.
Looking back, I had plenty of warning signs that should have triggered me to pursue this earlier. Papa was a very quiet, shy man. He didn’t talk much at all; but even when I was in grade school, my mom left hints that should have been clues. I remember the genuine surprise I felt when off-handedly asking my mom to confirm a detail about a war story my grandpa had told.
“I have no idea,” she said. “He’s told you boys way more about the war than he ever told me.”
So I had an “in”. I had access into the vault of his memory, a key to a door that he unlocked for few people. There were other signs, conversations in my twenties that I’ll recount later, which confirmed it. But by and large, I didn’t take advantage. I’m not even sure why. Now, there are all sorts of things I wish I could sit and ask him. But when I had the chance, there was too much else to do, I guess. Isn’t it funny? We grow up hearing people tell us to honor our families, listen to our elders, because they won’t always be there. People try to help us re-frame what seems to be all consuming and important at the time. But for the most part, we never listen. I wish I had begun this journey more intentionally long ago.
My only choice now is how to go about the search.
At first, I envisioned writing down all the stories and experiences I could remember: Yosemite and Lawrence Welk and the Battle of the Bulge report in fifth grade and the red stripe in the kitchen and tomato plants. Of course I’d need to do research at some point, but wouldn’t it be better to get all my untainted memories written down first? I began to envision this book in chapters, each beginning with a short memory, which then would be fleshed out with Pulitzer Prize winning research (including, in my dreams, the treasure trove of finding notebook after notebook of my grandfather’s own personal journal, locked in some hidden attic in Nebraska).
I’m too obsessive-compulsive to let things go, though. I’m not at a stage of life where I can head off to Nebraska for weeks at a time to break into people’s attics. But I have to do something. I’ve started the journey, and simple memories won’t do. The research has begun. Mom gave me a shopping bag full of Papa’s special things, and I’ve made an amazing discovery: far from tainting my memories, finding out new things about my grandpa has brought back a flood of new ones. So I’ve got a new plan for the journey of this book; I’ll talk to family, make Google my friend, and write as I go.
Inside the bag is a small cardboard box, not much bigger than the kind of box that holds your brand new checks. Inside, I find many things, things that are the highlights of almost ninety years:
One of my regrets is that I began the journey to discover my grandfather’s life too late.
Looking back, I had plenty of warning signs that should have triggered me to pursue this earlier. Papa was a very quiet, shy man. He didn’t talk much at all; but even when I was in grade school, my mom left hints that should have been clues. I remember the genuine surprise I felt when off-handedly asking my mom to confirm a detail about a war story my grandpa had told.
“I have no idea,” she said. “He’s told you boys way more about the war than he ever told me.”
So I had an “in”. I had access into the vault of his memory, a key to a door that he unlocked for few people. There were other signs, conversations in my twenties that I’ll recount later, which confirmed it. But by and large, I didn’t take advantage. I’m not even sure why. Now, there are all sorts of things I wish I could sit and ask him. But when I had the chance, there was too much else to do, I guess. Isn’t it funny? We grow up hearing people tell us to honor our families, listen to our elders, because they won’t always be there. People try to help us re-frame what seems to be all consuming and important at the time. But for the most part, we never listen. I wish I had begun this journey more intentionally long ago.
My only choice now is how to go about the search.
At first, I envisioned writing down all the stories and experiences I could remember: Yosemite and Lawrence Welk and the Battle of the Bulge report in fifth grade and the red stripe in the kitchen and tomato plants. Of course I’d need to do research at some point, but wouldn’t it be better to get all my untainted memories written down first? I began to envision this book in chapters, each beginning with a short memory, which then would be fleshed out with Pulitzer Prize winning research (including, in my dreams, the treasure trove of finding notebook after notebook of my grandfather’s own personal journal, locked in some hidden attic in Nebraska).
I’m too obsessive-compulsive to let things go, though. I’m not at a stage of life where I can head off to Nebraska for weeks at a time to break into people’s attics. But I have to do something. I’ve started the journey, and simple memories won’t do. The research has begun. Mom gave me a shopping bag full of Papa’s special things, and I’ve made an amazing discovery: far from tainting my memories, finding out new things about my grandpa has brought back a flood of new ones. So I’ve got a new plan for the journey of this book; I’ll talk to family, make Google my friend, and write as I go.
Inside the bag is a small cardboard box, not much bigger than the kind of box that holds your brand new checks. Inside, I find many things, things that are the highlights of almost ninety years:
- A bunch of pins, acknowledging his career in the U.S. postal service. There’s one for 2500 days of earned sick leave; eleven different pins marking eleven straight years of a safe driving record, broken only because he moved to a coveted walking route in the Rose Garden of San Jose, California; and one special pin, acknowledging meritorious service as a letter carrier.
- A plastic box, holding insignia and medals from World War II. The Timberwolf patch of the Army’s 104th Division; an expert marksman award pin with a “rifle” designation, and the scorebooks which earned the award; a combat infantry badge, and a medal for good conduct.
- And, going back farthest in time, an even smaller cardboard box holding medals for the high hurdles and the 440 yard dash, earned as a high schooler in Alliance Nebraska.
