When I was growing up my Father’s parents, my Grandparents, lived miles and miles away, in the Bronx, in New York City. Air travel was a very expensive way to travel from Cleveland, where we lived to virtually anywhere and as a result as a young child I got to spend only one week each year with my paternal Grandfather – my Grandpa Meyer. Every other year my Dad and I would take a taxi into downtown Cleveland, to the Terminal Tower, to board the Twentieth Century Limited, a New York Central train that made the 12+ hour trip from Cleveland to Grand Central Station in Manhattan. Words cannot describe the excitement I felt each time my Dad and I made that trip. On the alternate years, Grandpa Meyer made the trip to Cleveland. I loved my Grandpa Meyer and always looked forward to being with him. The visits were always in late summer and I can remember beginning to “count the days” as early as June!
As I grew older and life started happening to me I realized just how much I remembered about my time with Grandpa Meyer. We would sit on the front steps of our house or play catch in the driveway and he would talk to me. He talked to me about Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Franklin Roosevelt, Tammany Hall, Ireland, corned beef and cabbage, black people, religion, politics, boat docks, and just about anything that popped into his mind when we were together. And I listened to it all. I didn’t understand most of it, and I think he knew that, but that didn’t stop him from talking and me from listening.
And then, when I was 12 years old, my father died. Shortly after his death Grandpa Meyer’s visits stopped. I was told that my Grandfather’s age made it difficult for him to travel, and my Mother didn’t particularly like her in-laws and as a result she refused to make the train trip to New York. She also didn’t invite Grandpa Meyer to our home so, regardless of the reasons, my visits with Grandpa Meyer ended when I was 13.
There is an American writer named Mitch Albom, who though he is most often referred to as a “sports writer” is probably best known for a book he wrote entitled “Tuesday’s with Morrie”. The book is a non-fiction account of his visits, mostly on Tuesdays, with his dying former professor, Morrie. Morrie talked about life, and Mitch listened – and learned. In a recent article Albom posed the question “If you could spend one day with any person that has passed away who would that person be?” Because I loved him so much, and miss him constantly, my first inclination was to want to spend just one more day with my father. Then, because I was so angry at her, my second thought was to spend that day with my mother. But it finally occurred to me that the one person that I would really want to spend just one more day with was my Grandpa Meyer. Why? Because deep inside me I know that there was so much more that I could have learned from him.
I don’t have any letters from Grandpa Meyer, nor is there anyone alive that can tell me more about him or what he thought about this and that. I have only what he chose to give to me – my memories of those one week visits every summer for 12 years.
I don’t know why my Grandfather chose to tell me the things he did when he did, but I am glad that he did.
As of this writing my wife and I have twelve grandchildren, amongst them the son of our youngest son, our youngest grandchild, Wesley. Eleven of our grandchildren live miles away – plane rides across the country – with the exception of Wesley who lives a ten short minutes away. Though I love them all, I really don’t know the “plane ride” grandchildren very well, and unfortunately, I don’t think they know me very well. That’s not really their fault, or mine for that matter. Long distances and active lives do that sort of thing.
But I do know Wesley and Wesley, who is not quite two years old, knows me. His face lights up when he sees me. I can hear him calling “Poppi – Poppi” whenever I come into his line of sight. My wife and I make it a point to see Wesley at least once each week and our plan is to continue to do that as long as we are able. But, at 68 I am a realist. Wesley has many more weeks remaining in his young life than I do. And I have discovered that, like Grandpa Meyer must have concluded, I too have “stuff” I would like to share with him – an unending number of “weeks in the summer” I would like to spend with him.
This book is for him.
As I said, Wesley is not quite two, so I don’t expect him to understand what I am writing. But sometime later, perhaps much later when he has a family of his own, I hope he will read this book, close his eyes and spend lots of imaginary weeks in the summer with his Poppi.
That would be very nice.
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