Granddaddy
Jun. 2nd, 2003 05:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
urocyonI have been thinking about my grandfather again tonight. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ptenbob's recent posts may have helped this line of thought along some, but it's the time of year for it anyway. Both my grandfathers died in the spring of 1986; both were 65 years old. And both of them had lung cancer, so I very wisely sit here smoking, but I digress. I felt like I needed to be "strong" then, and for years afterward, so entirely fresh grief still occasionally hits me. (Yes, don't try that one at home, kiddies, even if you're thoroughly overwhelmed with other stuff.)
There is no way I can do him justice here; what good would a full elegy be, really? I wish I'd had more opportunity to know him. I wish I had a third of his dry wit. And I almost wish I hadn't seen him that last day, after the cancer had spread to his brain, and he kept calling me back to the side of the hospital bed to clutch at my hands like a drowning man. (That phrase did become trite for a reason.)
I am glad to have spent as much time with that set of grandparents as I did, though; at least when we still lived in Bluefield, it seems like I spent half my time there. They lived nearby, and Nana has always been pretty much my favorite person in the world--also about the only one who could almost keep up with me when I was little, and actually enjoyed trying. Granddaddy may have spent a decent bit of time gone with the railroad, but I still got to spend more time with him than many seem to with their grandparents. I remember how, so many times, he'd come in from several days at work and lurch around looking half-dead, sluice himself down at the kitchen sink (don't know why he liked to wash there), and go to sleep it off in the back bedroom. He despised being an engineer with N&W, and I still don't know why he didn't find something less onerous. Instead, for someone with such an over-developed conscience, he sure did bring home a lot of little things like paper towels and bottled water--which hurt the company badly, I'm sure. :)
No, I suspect I do understand, to some extent, why he might repeatedly think of changing jobs and not do it--this has very much to do with being a Worrier with a capital "W". One of the things that got me thinking about him tonight, to begin with, was reflecting again upon how much we have in common in some areas. Thank goodness a lot of mine has been modulated just enough to be less troublesome, because I don't get the impression he was a very happy man overall, but the similarities are there. Including in the worrying department, more in the style of worrying, to distinguish it a bit from some of the other family worriers. *g*
What particularly started this line of thought tonight was finding myself falling into a too-familiar pattern. The very same (and generally impressive, if I do say so) faculties which more people on that side of the family turn toward merrily bedeviling other people--this is difficult to appreciate properly unless you've encountered some of them in action--others of us seem to have a talent for concentrating inward. Yes, we may occasionally cross the line, finding a vulnerable spot and verbally disembowelling someone, with no apparent mercy (even more nastily than our more outward-directed brethren); however, this is only a taste of what we tend to do to ourselves every day. That sort of comment is one of the main reasons my biological father grew to truly hate my grandfather, assuming the feeling was mutual. I realise I'm prone to letting amazing things slip out (and feeling fully justified at the time), so I watch carefully; I don't want to let what my mother termed the "Brewer Mean Mouth" alienate people. (And, my, am I good at beating myself up after it gets away from me!)
As I hinted, perhaps the worst of it, though, is rarely being able to live up to your own sense of ethics. Rarely being able to satisfy yourself in any accomplishment. All this accompanied by much self-flagellation, including the Mean Mouth turned inward. I know my grandfather had this problem worse than I do, as does my Aunt Sally now. Both of them have had the added trouble of being too tightly wound to discuss their problems in any way. (I think Aunt Sally is the most tightly-wound person I've ever run into, which is slightly frightening, really.) His problems were apparently--and not surprisingly--aggravated by the war (he was a medic with the Big Red One, for extra disturbing factor) and more added on; I have no idea what's up with her, but it's upsetting. Granddaddy and I have some additional motivational similarity, trying hard (fully realising it or not, all the time) not to be anything like our fathers, for an extra ethical push. The "dad" I mention here in my LJ is technically my stepfather, but he's my real dad. (And I do wonder what it was like, realising that his son was turning out entirely too much like his own rather unpleasant, amoral father. Ick.)
As they usually do these days, my thoughts turn to wondering how much more pleasant a life Granddaddy might have had, had he been born later. Or had attitudes been different and half-decent psychotropic medications been available then. It's certainly not easy now, but a mood stabiliser and some anti-anxiety meds likely would have done him wonders--not to mention feeling like he could talk about the things that were bothering him with someone. Instead, an extremely bright, witty, funny (I may have made him sound grim, but he could make a room come alive when he was up) man spent far too much of his life miserable. I do have to wonder if half the reason I'm in better shape isn't so much a direct result of medical treatment, but of realising life doesn't have to be like that.
ptenbob's recent posts may have helped this line of thought along some, but it's the time of year for it anyway. Both my grandfathers died in the spring of 1986; both were 65 years old. And both of them had lung cancer, so I very wisely sit here smoking, but I digress. I felt like I needed to be "strong" then, and for years afterward, so entirely fresh grief still occasionally hits me. (Yes, don't try that one at home, kiddies, even if you're thoroughly overwhelmed with other stuff.)There is no way I can do him justice here; what good would a full elegy be, really? I wish I'd had more opportunity to know him. I wish I had a third of his dry wit. And I almost wish I hadn't seen him that last day, after the cancer had spread to his brain, and he kept calling me back to the side of the hospital bed to clutch at my hands like a drowning man. (That phrase did become trite for a reason.)
I am glad to have spent as much time with that set of grandparents as I did, though; at least when we still lived in Bluefield, it seems like I spent half my time there. They lived nearby, and Nana has always been pretty much my favorite person in the world--also about the only one who could almost keep up with me when I was little, and actually enjoyed trying. Granddaddy may have spent a decent bit of time gone with the railroad, but I still got to spend more time with him than many seem to with their grandparents. I remember how, so many times, he'd come in from several days at work and lurch around looking half-dead, sluice himself down at the kitchen sink (don't know why he liked to wash there), and go to sleep it off in the back bedroom. He despised being an engineer with N&W, and I still don't know why he didn't find something less onerous. Instead, for someone with such an over-developed conscience, he sure did bring home a lot of little things like paper towels and bottled water--which hurt the company badly, I'm sure. :)
No, I suspect I do understand, to some extent, why he might repeatedly think of changing jobs and not do it--this has very much to do with being a Worrier with a capital "W". One of the things that got me thinking about him tonight, to begin with, was reflecting again upon how much we have in common in some areas. Thank goodness a lot of mine has been modulated just enough to be less troublesome, because I don't get the impression he was a very happy man overall, but the similarities are there. Including in the worrying department, more in the style of worrying, to distinguish it a bit from some of the other family worriers. *g*
What particularly started this line of thought tonight was finding myself falling into a too-familiar pattern. The very same (and generally impressive, if I do say so) faculties which more people on that side of the family turn toward merrily bedeviling other people--this is difficult to appreciate properly unless you've encountered some of them in action--others of us seem to have a talent for concentrating inward. Yes, we may occasionally cross the line, finding a vulnerable spot and verbally disembowelling someone, with no apparent mercy (even more nastily than our more outward-directed brethren); however, this is only a taste of what we tend to do to ourselves every day. That sort of comment is one of the main reasons my biological father grew to truly hate my grandfather, assuming the feeling was mutual. I realise I'm prone to letting amazing things slip out (and feeling fully justified at the time), so I watch carefully; I don't want to let what my mother termed the "Brewer Mean Mouth" alienate people. (And, my, am I good at beating myself up after it gets away from me!)
As I hinted, perhaps the worst of it, though, is rarely being able to live up to your own sense of ethics. Rarely being able to satisfy yourself in any accomplishment. All this accompanied by much self-flagellation, including the Mean Mouth turned inward. I know my grandfather had this problem worse than I do, as does my Aunt Sally now. Both of them have had the added trouble of being too tightly wound to discuss their problems in any way. (I think Aunt Sally is the most tightly-wound person I've ever run into, which is slightly frightening, really.) His problems were apparently--and not surprisingly--aggravated by the war (he was a medic with the Big Red One, for extra disturbing factor) and more added on; I have no idea what's up with her, but it's upsetting. Granddaddy and I have some additional motivational similarity, trying hard (fully realising it or not, all the time) not to be anything like our fathers, for an extra ethical push. The "dad" I mention here in my LJ is technically my stepfather, but he's my real dad. (And I do wonder what it was like, realising that his son was turning out entirely too much like his own rather unpleasant, amoral father. Ick.)
As they usually do these days, my thoughts turn to wondering how much more pleasant a life Granddaddy might have had, had he been born later. Or had attitudes been different and half-decent psychotropic medications been available then. It's certainly not easy now, but a mood stabiliser and some anti-anxiety meds likely would have done him wonders--not to mention feeling like he could talk about the things that were bothering him with someone. Instead, an extremely bright, witty, funny (I may have made him sound grim, but he could make a room come alive when he was up) man spent far too much of his life miserable. I do have to wonder if half the reason I'm in better shape isn't so much a direct result of medical treatment, but of realising life doesn't have to be like that.
