“When We Were Little” Wednesday

This post was originally published in May 2008. I’ve been thinking along these lines this week, so I thought it deserved to be republished. Enjoy.

If you could have a conversation over dinner with any one person, dead or alive, with the exception of Jesus, who would it be and why?

Granddaddy passed away when I was 4. He and Grandmother lived in Alabama, which was far enough away that my family and I didn't make the trip south from Virginia very often. We would sometimes meet in the middle for time in the mountains of Tennessee, or one group or the other would make the full trek on holidays.

My memories of him are faint, at best. When my sister and I were very little, the memories of Granddaddy that hung on the longest were the memories of his smell. He smoked a pipe, and whenever we caught the distinctive aroma of pipe tobacco one or both of us would say, "I smell Granddaddy!" As a little girl, I had no idea what that Dad's expression meant when we would say that. I didn't know how bittersweet that had to have been for him. I had no idea that it was that smell - or the very thing that caused it - was what made Granddaddy sick in the first place. I didn't realize how sad it must have made Dad to realize that those faint memories would be all we would have of his father. I had no idea that there was no much more to this man that I never really knew.

I remember that far-off stare well. He would smile, but there was something else there. It was a sadness that my heart couldn't understand.

Sometimes Dad gets that same look - the wistful look of someone who sees something familiar yet still very far away - when he looks at me. I don't particularly resemble anyone in my family in appearance. I have Mom's eyes (especially when I smile) and redheaded complexion, Dad's brown eyes, Grandmother's nose (I see that, even if no one else does), and Granny's little hands. Unlike my sisters, I don't bear any striking resemblance to any one particular family member.

What I do have, though, is a spirit that - had it been given the chance - would have bonded inextricably with that of my Granddaddy. I have been told more times than I can count how much Granddaddy would have enjoyed talking with me. I've been told that a particular mannerism or gesture was "pure John," and that Granddaddy would have loved to read my writing. He and I, it seems, were more alike than I'll know in this life.

He, too, was a writer, and he spent his life teaching others to capture and appreciate the written word. He wrote a book that would guide aspiring writers to publication. He left a legacy in hundreds of former high school students who learned not only about Shakespeare and verb conjugations, but also about character and dignity from their beloved English teacher, Mr. Smith. Grandmother has been told countless times how wonderful her husband was, but none of it comes as a surprise to her.

Granddaddy loved a good conversation, a good book, Auburn University, and Jiffy cornbread.

One lesser-known fact about his life, though, is one that I, too, must live with. Long before it was as accepted as it is today, Granddaddy lived with depression and anxiety. I can point an accusatory finger at genetics or can simply choose to believe that God gives us particular challenges - thorns in our flesh - for a particular reason. Whichever approach I choose, though, the fact remains that I will likely deal with this for the rest of my life. Unpleasant though it is, certainly, I count this as another connection I have with my Granddaddy. Sometimes my heart aches knowing that he lived with the same feelings I have, without the benefit of the help that I have, or even a diagnosis. I hear stories of his good times and his bad times and know just how he was feeling. It breaks my heart, yet reminds me that I am not the only one who has ever felt this way, and it helps me to realize that I don't go through these times by myself.

I would love the opportunity to have a conversation with Granddaddy. I would love to talk with him about writing. I would love to sit with a copy of his book open on the table and chat about what I need to do to make this dream of mine come true. I would love to talk about how it feels to struggle with an illness that everyone thinks they understand but no one really does, and I would love to talk about how he lived with it for so many years. I would cherish the chance to talk about Dad when he was younger, life in rural Alabama in the 1930s, and how he and Grandmother made it through when they were first married and still in college.

If I could have a conversation over dinner with any one person, I would choose to have dinner with my Granddaddy.

I don't know what the full menu would be, but we would probably have Jiffy cornbread.