Grandpa

Today I thought about my Grandpa. I saw my Grandpa at least once a year. Even as a small boy, I would travel on the airlines, decorated with a huge red button that designated me as an Unaccompanied Minor. Each trip, a flight attendant would give me a set of wings; over the years I had a collection of identical wings pins from the airline I always flew. I kept them, small symbols of my annual trip across the Midwest.

Sometimes my Grandpa--he was always more a grandpa to me than a grandfather, and I cannot quite explain that except that it makes sense to me--could meet me at the airport, but not usually. More often my Grandma would pick me up and we would drive to my Grandpa's work, because he could not get away. He wanted too, of course, but he could not because of his work ethic. I would find a spot to sit and I would watch my Grandpa work in the hardware store he owned on Main Street. I watched people come in and ask questions about hoses and bolts and windows and paint. He was the wisest man ever, and I was his grandson.

My Grandpa's first name is my middle name. And so when I write out my name fully--first middle and last names all together--I see his name. I have my Grandpa's name. But I no longer have him. He died many years ago. I cried as a pallbearer when I carried his casket, yet I was the proudest man in town. I still remember standing at the cemetery on the most glorious of fall days, the wind blowing gently but firmly as if his very spirit was still mussing with my hair and loving me at the same time. It was in that church cemetery that I realized I have my Grandpa's name.

Grandpa never knew that I am gay. I don't know that he even considered the idea, or would have found it acceptable that his oldest grandson liked men. But he would have kept on loving me. My cousins and I, we were a troubled bunch. We dragged more problems through our grandparent's house than we would care to remember. We always found refuge with Grandpa. He would sit and talk with us, or extend his hand in a friendly wave, or raise his voice into something of a cheer, like a man would when toasting his friends over a friendly beer, though I do not think he drank. He loved me.


I miss you, Grandpa. I wish I could talk with you about my life now. I would cry if I could talk with you, just like I am crying right now. We would probably sit at your old kitchen table and drink small glasses of orange juice. You would tell me you love me, no matter what. Even if it cost you your reputation, you would remind me that I am your grandson, and nothing could change that. You would convince me to keep journeying.

I want to make you proud, Grandpa. After all, I have your name.