Relativity

I never knew how to refer to my mother's father. Sure, I knew he was my grandfather, but I never had the opportunity to link myself to him like I could with my father's father. That grandfather was "Grampy," but the other man was a black and white photograph on the mantel of my grandmother's house.

I was digging through the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway of my house sometime during high school when I came across a red leather scrapbook filed away among photo albums. I don't remember what I was looking for at the time, but I spent at least an hour sprawled out on the carpet, leaning on my elbows as I went through the pages of newspaper clippings.

He was an accountant, a Navy veteran, a husband and father. He'd attended high school with my grandmother, but they did not begin to date until well after their school days. He was a city councilman and the city's first Little League commissioner.

There were countless photographs of him - tall, dark hair, strong face and build. He held a baseball bat in many of the pictures, standing next to young boys who looked up to his wide smile.

The quotes indicated that he loved to roll up his sleeves and tackle ward issues. He wanted neighbors to approach him with ideas and concerns; he loved to watch the local kids grow and succeed. He was looking forward to helping the city further succeed, and he believed the best way to do so was through the simple act of hard work.

He wore a dress shirt and tie in every photograph save two, both of which were taken while he sat in a hospital bed. He had the same healthy grin, but the captions explained that he had been hospitalized for chest pains. He told reporters that he felt fine and would be out of the hospital, back to work, in no time.

The next stories were the largest, accompanied by more shots in the shirts and ties. These had the largest headlines. Unexpected heart attack. City officials and residents shocked, the stories said. He was a vibrant, fit man until it happened. He was survived by a young wife and three very young children, a son and two daughters.

All of the extended family on her side was named in the stories and subsequent news obituaries, and it was surreal to read the names written decades before I was born. Strangest was reading about my mother as a four-year-old. It hadn't fully dawned on me just how little she could possibly remember about her father - and I cried as I realized that was probably why I hadn't been told many stories about my grandfather as I was growing up. I was born in the hospital in which he'd been pronounced dead.

I put the book away and leaned against the wall. My mother was young - that was frightening enough - but my grandmother was still young when she became a widow with three children to raise. True to form, she hadn't been quoted much in the subsequent stories - she was shy and tended to keep to herself. Rather than turn to the press, she focused on working hard and raising her kids on her own.

I started thinking about how she'd always been so giving as my brother and I, the first of four grandchildren, were growing up. I was the typical spoiled brat, always wanting more and always wanting the focus to be on myself. For the first time, I wanted to find out about her - how she did it, how she felt about her husband's death.

I went downstairs to ask my mother about it. She seemed surprised that I found the scrapbook, even more surprised by my red eyes. She told me what little she knew about everything when it happened - she, my uncle and aunt went to their uncle's house and didn't realize what was going on. She didn't remember much else about it - and she best remembered how tall her father seemed when he'd bend down to pick her up. My grandmother wasn't likely to say much about it if I directly asked her - she didn't like to talk about "it."

Rather than make it difficult, I've spent the time since that discovery finding out little details about my grandfather. My aunt and uncle have shared stories they heard at family reunions and the like, and I convinced my grandmother to go through photographs with me - his high school portraits, pictures of him in his Navy uniform. I saw some letters he wrote for work and was able to marvel over his impeccable handwriting. She's shared little stories with me, but I keep waiting for the opportunity to really find out what he was like - who the man was that she fell in love with.

My father and I drove to the grocery store this morning to pick up last-minute Easter dinner necessities, and he remarked on how he was glad my mother's family was so low-key on holidays. It's more about being together and laughing than dressing up and feeling uncomfortable, he said, because my grandfather enjoyed relaxed and casual holidays. My grandmother had told him years ago that my grandfather spent so much time in suits and ties that when holidays rolled around, he wanted to actually enjoy himself. No ties, no stress.

I thought to myself that it was yet another reason why, had I had the chance to meet him, he and I would have gotten along so well.