As I turned each page, careful not to tear the aged and
delicate paper, I saw many place names underlined. “He underlined every place
he’d been when he gave it to us,” my mom told me. “We were kids of course.”
China, Chosen (“formerly Korea” written in ink beside
it), Cuba. The nations were listed alphabetically with brief overviews under
each name: England, Finland, France, Hawaii, Japan, Mexico, Labrador, New
Zealand, Nicaragua, Panama, Philippine Commonwealth, Puerto Rico, Sweden.
Grandpa didn’t spend time in these places as a tourist.
He was a United States Marine, enlisting when he was 14 years old, lying about
his age, convincing an elderly...
aunt to sign documents giving a year of birth several years earlier than his own.
He stayed in the service for as long as he could, becoming
what is known as a “lifer” Marine. Young soldiers called him “Top” and “Sir.” When
he finally retired, he became a professional writer, authored several books,
and wrote a weekly column in his local newspaper. But to me, he was just Grandpa.
We lived far away from him, and because he didn’t like
talking on the telephone, he insisted that we correspond — as in writing letters.
From the time I learned the alphabet, we wrote to each other every single month
and kept it up for decades, right up to his passing more than 20 years ago.
Grandpa was a brilliant — and often hilarious — storyteller.
He had a deep, booming voice and made expressive faces when he spoke. And,
despite his barely legible handwriting (at least most people found it so), I
had no trouble reading it. I could spot the stroke of his pen anywhere.
Every week, he clipped his newspaper columns and pasted
them into a scrapbook. When I visited him, after a round of family storytelling,
he would quiet down, get himself a bowl of vanilla ice cream, settle into his
recliner, and motion for me to sit on the ottoman next to him. The scrapbook lay
nearby.
I would pick it up, eagerly turn to the page marked since
my last visit, and read his most recent columns aloud, accompanied by the soft
clink of his spoon in the bowl. We laughed, cried, discussed the affairs of the
world, and complained about the typesetter’s frequent errors, page by page,
story by story. I would read until he drifted off to sleep, snoring in that
Grandpa sort of way.
After Grandpa’s funeral, his last will and testament
sorted out, my uncle lifted the stack of familiar scrapbooks, then turned to me
with tears in his eyes, and said, “Krys, looks like he wanted you to have the
greatest gift of all.”
At the time I probably didn’t fully understand how
profound Grandpa’s gift really was, but as the years wore on and his voice
faded from my memory, I took care of the scrapbooks. I gradually came to
realize that his stories and their significance not only stayed with me but that
they’re part of who I am, warts and all.
My uncle was right. Grandpa left me the greatest gift.
Stories connect us, teach us, define and inspire us. Stories
have the power to unite and strengthen us, to soften and remind us.
A biographer friend once told me, “When an old person
dies, it’s like an entire library closes forever; we need to capture and listen
to their stories while we can.”
To all you older folks out there, I do hope you will tell
your stories — whether on paper, computer, recording device, or simply by sitting
back in a chair and sharing with those who will listen. And to the busy younger
set, I hope you can sit for a moment and allow yourself the gift of stories
told by those who lived them — meaningful, real-life stories captured before
they’re gone forever.
Now I’m going to scoop some ice cream into a bowl and
listen for an old, familiar voice telling stories from the brittle pages of some
dusty scrapbooks left silent far too long, a 1942 world atlas close at hand for
reference. Priceless.
This post is
excerpted from my weekly column in The Daily Sentinel as published in the Sunday,
June 24, 2012, edition of the newspaper.
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