My hero died last week
In the fifteenth part of my book I write about my grandfather, and how he inspired me to keep working even after I'd made a mess out of my life, and my prospects seemed pretty bleak. My grandfather was my hero, a person who, to me, represented everything it means to be a good man. He spent his whole life helping others.
One of my great regrets about what I did was how I disappointed him, how miserably I failed to live up to the example he set for me. I will never forget the day I had to tell him the truth about my actions, after he'd been so sure I couldn't have done thing the things I'd been accused of.
On Wednesday we buried him. He lived a long and fruitful life and his passing was expected, the result of an extended illness, but it didn't make it any easier for me. I will miss him very much.
The section about him in the book was shortened during the editing process. Today I looked up the original version of it and wanted to share it with you:
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My grandfather, my mother’s father, built his first house with his own hands. He served in the Army during World War II, then lived with his wife and two young children in a rented house in Southern California and, within a couple of years, saved enough money to buy a small lot in Redondo Beach. He hauled concrete for a living by day and in the evenings, and on weekends, constructed a sturdy two-bedroom house out of supplies he bought each week after cashing his paychecks. During the final three months of construction, in the summer of 1947, his family moved into an Army tent on the back of the lot and waited for the house to be completed. They stored food in an icebox and cooked on a camp stove and my grandmother kept the tent spotless. It was California, and the weather was mild, and for my mother, who was about to start kindergarten, living in the tent was an adventure. When I’d ask my grandmother about it she would laugh, and share funny stories about the tribulations of life lived beneath olive-green canvas, and say “Well, that was how it was. We didn’t have much money and your grandfather wanted to take care of his family, so he built a house.”
Things were different then. There was a housing shortage, and living in a tent on the back of one’s lot while finishing up a house was no great shame. The neighbors didn’t complain. No social workers came around to inspect their living conditions and fret over the welfare of the children. City building inspectors didn’t loom over my grandfather’s work with clipboards in hand, looking for deviations from the Uniform Building Code. What my grandfather did then probably couldn’t be done today, but this has never made it any less heroic to me. The story of the built house and the tent behind it never failed to astonish me. I often wondered if the house was still there, or if it wasn’t, what sat in its place. No one seemed to know.
The house in Redondo Beach was merely the first of many things my grandfather built during his life. When he moved his family to Sacramento he built his second house (no tent this time). He built churches from the ground up. He bought dilapidated houses that he renovated and rented out. When he was in his mid-70s he installed central heating and air conditioning in his house, by himself. Building was never his occupation, but when he needed to draw upon the skill, he did.
I’d always hoped I inherited some of this fierce self-reliance from my grandfather, the quality that allowed him to look at a bare piece of land and envision something beautiful and sturdy and useful, and then build it. Sadly, unlike my brothers, who had impressive collections of power tools and were able to string electrical wiring and lay pipe and pour concrete and great aplomb, the genetic predisposition for constructing buildings seemed not to have been passed down to me. I could drill holes and install ceiling fans, but the very notion of building something from the ground up gripped me with fear. But still, when I remembered what my grandfather did, I longed for the same ability to forge something from nothing, coax structure from chaos under difficult circumstances.
One of my great regrets about what I did was how I disappointed him, how miserably I failed to live up to the example he set for me. I will never forget the day I had to tell him the truth about my actions, after he'd been so sure I couldn't have done thing the things I'd been accused of.
On Wednesday we buried him. He lived a long and fruitful life and his passing was expected, the result of an extended illness, but it didn't make it any easier for me. I will miss him very much.
The section about him in the book was shortened during the editing process. Today I looked up the original version of it and wanted to share it with you:
------------------------------------------------------------
My grandfather, my mother’s father, built his first house with his own hands. He served in the Army during World War II, then lived with his wife and two young children in a rented house in Southern California and, within a couple of years, saved enough money to buy a small lot in Redondo Beach. He hauled concrete for a living by day and in the evenings, and on weekends, constructed a sturdy two-bedroom house out of supplies he bought each week after cashing his paychecks. During the final three months of construction, in the summer of 1947, his family moved into an Army tent on the back of the lot and waited for the house to be completed. They stored food in an icebox and cooked on a camp stove and my grandmother kept the tent spotless. It was California, and the weather was mild, and for my mother, who was about to start kindergarten, living in the tent was an adventure. When I’d ask my grandmother about it she would laugh, and share funny stories about the tribulations of life lived beneath olive-green canvas, and say “Well, that was how it was. We didn’t have much money and your grandfather wanted to take care of his family, so he built a house.”
Things were different then. There was a housing shortage, and living in a tent on the back of one’s lot while finishing up a house was no great shame. The neighbors didn’t complain. No social workers came around to inspect their living conditions and fret over the welfare of the children. City building inspectors didn’t loom over my grandfather’s work with clipboards in hand, looking for deviations from the Uniform Building Code. What my grandfather did then probably couldn’t be done today, but this has never made it any less heroic to me. The story of the built house and the tent behind it never failed to astonish me. I often wondered if the house was still there, or if it wasn’t, what sat in its place. No one seemed to know.
The house in Redondo Beach was merely the first of many things my grandfather built during his life. When he moved his family to Sacramento he built his second house (no tent this time). He built churches from the ground up. He bought dilapidated houses that he renovated and rented out. When he was in his mid-70s he installed central heating and air conditioning in his house, by himself. Building was never his occupation, but when he needed to draw upon the skill, he did.
I’d always hoped I inherited some of this fierce self-reliance from my grandfather, the quality that allowed him to look at a bare piece of land and envision something beautiful and sturdy and useful, and then build it. Sadly, unlike my brothers, who had impressive collections of power tools and were able to string electrical wiring and lay pipe and pour concrete and great aplomb, the genetic predisposition for constructing buildings seemed not to have been passed down to me. I could drill holes and install ceiling fans, but the very notion of building something from the ground up gripped me with fear. But still, when I remembered what my grandfather did, I longed for the same ability to forge something from nothing, coax structure from chaos under difficult circumstances.
1 Comments:
Ken,
I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather. That piece in your book jumped out at me in part because of my own grandfather, an Italian immigrant who also built his life in this country to take care of his family. I was happy to read the rest of what you wrote about your grandfather. They are so important to our lives. Even though years pass, we still think of them. At 56, I still miss my grandparents.
I just read your book today, in one sitting. Absolutely riveting.
I'm so impressed by your intelligence, creativity and drive. The way you turned everything around is inspiring. Best of luck to you. I'll be looking for your next book.
Ev M., (ebay "southernmainer")
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