Mark & Ruth Eaton |
My grandfather’s name was Mark
Dutcher Eaton. My dad was 28 when his father died. I am a decade past that age
myself, and my heart breaks for him to think about it. I can’t imagine losing my
dad now. I really can’t imagine not having had him in my life for the last
decade.
I only have one strong memory of my
father’s father. I had just turned six when my Grandpa Mark died. He had
cancer. I have a softer memory of him, just before he passed, lying on a green
couch in the front room of the house, covered in an afghan while we visited. Other
than that, I have just the one memory of him that I have held tightly to.
I have protected that memory from
alteration and exaggeration. I keep it sacred; it has always felt important. I
think of it every holiday season. I do not know how old I am in the memory, but
I am staring up at him and he seems seven feet tall. And in the memory, my
Grandpa is healthy.
We
stop in to see them on our way to dinner somewhere. I like coming here. I like
the stone fireplace. My Grandpa smiles the biggest smile and asks us if we want
a cookie. My parents protest but he isn’t listening. They acquiesce but tell us
we can only have one while he is gone from the room (and they mean it).
He
comes back from the kitchen with a round tray full of different kinds of
cookies. He says we can have whatever we want but our parents’ eyes are on us. I
can’t decide. I look up and he is smiling. It is such a bright smile. [As a
grown up, when I see that smile in my memory, it reminds me of what delight looks
like]. I take a cookie. I don’t remember which kind I picked. But I remember
that he’s wearing a sweater. I remember that I barely know him but I know he
loves us.
Thus endeth my memories of Grandpa
Mark. If I was a couple of years younger, I wouldn’t have any. So I am grateful
for it, grateful for that vision of his smiling face.
Still, I wish I had more memories
of him, or knew more stories of what he was like, something I intend to rectify
moving into this new year. Not just him, though. My family didn’t spend a lot
of time talking about those who had died with us kids, though I do remember hearing
them talk about people we’d never met. How could we have contextualized unknown
names and faces when our worlds weren’t any larger than our immediate families
with their smiling faces and warm laps we felt free to climb up on?
A large part of this ancestor work
for me comes from wishing I had asked my grandparents and great-grandma about
their parents and grandparents when they were still alive. But I didn’t. What I
can do is to try to collect what stories can be found for my nieces and nephew.
After all, names and dates don’t tell you about who they were. And having more
personal context helps you connect to those you did not know.
What about you? Do you know who
your parents’ parents were? Or their parents? Why not start off the new year by
honoring the loved ones who are no longer with you? Remember them. Pick a
memory of those you lost, of your grandparents and your great-grandparents,
maybe siblings and parents if you have lost them. Write out the memory of them
for the children that will come after you who never knew them or might not remember
that they once did.
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