My grandfather's name was Dudley - Dud for short. I guess the name didn't carry the same connotation as it does today, generationally speaking of course. So his name was Dud. Middle name Rocker. Again, not the same connotation. Anyway, we all called him Dud. Grandpa Dud. He's my grandfather and I have no idea what the sound of his voice is like. I don't know if he had an accent, nor do I know if he could sing or tell a joke.
His wife, my grandmother, was named Gigi. And yes, it was funny to everyone who had to say it. "Dud and Gigi are having a party. Are you going?" Other relatives of mine couldn't stop mocking their names. Especially other grandparents whose names were normal. "Are you going over to see Gigi, papa, poo poo?" Jealous grandparents are a treat...
I loved Gigi. I have no family which I will confess to owning, as many people know, but Gigi was the one person I do. We were very close and had my son been born a girl, I would have fought to name him after her. Virginia, not Gigi.
Dud was a drunk. He was raised to be a successful one by his parents who were also drunks, and their guidance worked to perfection. By the time I came to know him around 1975 he had already suffered several strokes, a heart attack or two, and was no longer able to speak clearly, move without a wheelchair, or even light his own cigarettes. He was a mess, but I loved him. Dud was just that - as a grandfather - but I still loved him anyway. I guess you overlook or forgive a lot when you're a child. He woke early, drank often, and did nothing more than watch TV and occasionally weep softly and drool on himself. I was 15 when he died and I never had a real conversation with him though I spent many hours, days, weeks of time with him. For years I pushed him around in his wheelchair, helped him light cigarettes (I put them in my mouth, lit them and then put them in his mouth... Lucky Strike no filters, very tasty. I was nine.), made his drinks (Jim Bean with a splash of water), or tried to entertain him in any way I could. He didn't find me funny, or couldn't laugh because he wasn't able to, but that didn't stop me from trying. I'm sure he was in a special kind of hell having to watch me entertain him and not be able to get away. His only method of self-propulsion was his left foot which he could lower to the ground and push off with. It didn't offer much in the way of speed or direction, but he was moving. If his brakes were on, he was screwed.
He could barely talk. On top of being drunk, he had suffered so many strokes that he could barely formulate two words a minute and even then it was like trying to translate slurred Arabic spoken by someone with a mouth full of marbles. Not much of it made sense. He grew angry when it took too long for his point to be understood and he would either howl in frustration and start crying, or just thrash about until he grew tired. It must have been horrible to be lost inside of that broken body and not be able to communicate a simple desire. Perhaps that's why he drank. There seemed to be good and things about his condition, more bad than good; the last thirty years of his life he wore nothing but pajamas 24 hours a day. That's a good. But he was also not able to hug anyone or say that he loved them. That's not so good.
It was very hard for me relate to him and I will admit his life has motivated me to have a better one.
The stories of his life were great entertainment for me and I ate it up whenever my grandmother got drunk enough to tell me a story about him. She was also a terrible drunk, but she is what they call a functional drunk. She drank a gallon of white wine a day. On the rocks. But she could still talk, cook, clean and care for Dud in her obliterated state. She was very lively in her descriptions of their life together and I think I get my narrative style from her. I was particularly fond of the stories about their romance and marriage. That is until the day she got drunk at Easter dinner and told everyone at the table all about their extra-marital affairs. From then on, the stories about their marriage weren't quite as sweet.
Dud was anything but in his formative years. He spent World War Two in the Pacific and was he able to figure out a way to turn a profit from his time there. He came home and worked for the government for years before finally having to retire. Sadly, he started having health problems in his late thirties and by the time he was fifty, he was an invalid. Trapped forever in a wheelchair. But each day for the rest of his life he was able to sit in that wheelchair next to my grandmother, who sat on the couch next to him, and that's a good. They would smoke and get drunk and watch television together. Also a good. It was very sweet, even if it was very sad to see.
Dud died on father's day. My father took him for a drive and he died during the drive. My father said it scarred him but honestly, he was scarred long before that ride. In an effort to pay homage, each year we drank a shot of Black Label to honor him. Don't ask me why. I never saw Dud drink scotch but my father insisted. I never understood how you honored a drunk by drinking. I hate scotch and I dreaded that shot. When my father died fourteen years later, that homage ended. Now I try and remember Dud by finding and pushing around some invalid in a wheelchair. I have to do it quickly before someone catches me but it makes me feel better to honor Dud in this way.
Gigi pressed on for another eleven years before she died. After Dud died she became lost in the big empty house where they have lived together all their lives. It was hard for her and eventually depression trumped the booze and she let herself succumb to her sadness. Eventually other relatives got involved and they took her apart. Once they picked her clean, they put her in a nursing home in Branson, Missouri and she died there after two years of isolation. Alone and senile. In the end, she didn't know any of us. Or even remember that she was a drunk or a smoker or married.
My father was their only child and he was a scandal. Dud and Gigi were white - pure white. My father was not white - he was red. A solid red. A red that you would notice if you looked at him. Not a red that could easily be explained away in 1950's white America. Dud and Gigi could have easily just said they adopted a red child from a foreign country and people would have been okay with it. It wasn't uncommon to adopt the lost children of war-torn countries, but my father wasn't the right color for a war-torn country. Dud and Gigi decided not to tell anyone where he was from, not even my father. Instead, they got plastered everyday and passed out before the sun went down to avoid talking to strangers with questions about their red son. My father was left alone to raise himself. He had questions without answers. He had a family without parents. He was pretty bitter.
Not feeling he was a part of their world and knowing he wasn't a blood relative, my father created a whole existence for himself. My favorites, which lasted up until his death, were that he was Italian. Or French Canadian... or bet yet... A science experiment. Don't ask me what that means, but I remember him telling people he was special in that way.
It turns out he was Native American and he never met any of this blood relatives. When my father discovered he had cancer and needed bone marrow donors, his adoption papers were opened and his past was finally revealed to him. He was cautious at first, but he finally picked up the phone and reached out to his mother. They spoke on the phone once and she died two days later. Ten days later, he was dead too.
As it turns out, my father had seven brothers and sisters he would never meet. None of them were aware of his existence and when he contacted their mother and she died, none of them was ready for it. Then it became especially hard when they discovered that not only was their a mystery brother they had never met, but that he was dying too. It was a lot for them to absorb. After my father died, his brother and sister came to the funeral to learn as much as they could about their lost brother. They told me that their mother had been gravely ill for many years and they felt that when my father called, she could finally let go. A sense of peace was found.
I think of this now because no one seems to concerned with what sort of grandparent they are going to be. People seem to concentrate on the parent part, with the notion that being a grandparent will be easy.
His wife, my grandmother, was named Gigi. And yes, it was funny to everyone who had to say it. "Dud and Gigi are having a party. Are you going?" Other relatives of mine couldn't stop mocking their names. Especially other grandparents whose names were normal. "Are you going over to see Gigi, papa, poo poo?" Jealous grandparents are a treat...
I loved Gigi. I have no family which I will confess to owning, as many people know, but Gigi was the one person I do. We were very close and had my son been born a girl, I would have fought to name him after her. Virginia, not Gigi.
Dud was a drunk. He was raised to be a successful one by his parents who were also drunks, and their guidance worked to perfection. By the time I came to know him around 1975 he had already suffered several strokes, a heart attack or two, and was no longer able to speak clearly, move without a wheelchair, or even light his own cigarettes. He was a mess, but I loved him. Dud was just that - as a grandfather - but I still loved him anyway. I guess you overlook or forgive a lot when you're a child. He woke early, drank often, and did nothing more than watch TV and occasionally weep softly and drool on himself. I was 15 when he died and I never had a real conversation with him though I spent many hours, days, weeks of time with him. For years I pushed him around in his wheelchair, helped him light cigarettes (I put them in my mouth, lit them and then put them in his mouth... Lucky Strike no filters, very tasty. I was nine.), made his drinks (Jim Bean with a splash of water), or tried to entertain him in any way I could. He didn't find me funny, or couldn't laugh because he wasn't able to, but that didn't stop me from trying. I'm sure he was in a special kind of hell having to watch me entertain him and not be able to get away. His only method of self-propulsion was his left foot which he could lower to the ground and push off with. It didn't offer much in the way of speed or direction, but he was moving. If his brakes were on, he was screwed.
He could barely talk. On top of being drunk, he had suffered so many strokes that he could barely formulate two words a minute and even then it was like trying to translate slurred Arabic spoken by someone with a mouth full of marbles. Not much of it made sense. He grew angry when it took too long for his point to be understood and he would either howl in frustration and start crying, or just thrash about until he grew tired. It must have been horrible to be lost inside of that broken body and not be able to communicate a simple desire. Perhaps that's why he drank. There seemed to be good and things about his condition, more bad than good; the last thirty years of his life he wore nothing but pajamas 24 hours a day. That's a good. But he was also not able to hug anyone or say that he loved them. That's not so good.
It was very hard for me relate to him and I will admit his life has motivated me to have a better one.
The stories of his life were great entertainment for me and I ate it up whenever my grandmother got drunk enough to tell me a story about him. She was also a terrible drunk, but she is what they call a functional drunk. She drank a gallon of white wine a day. On the rocks. But she could still talk, cook, clean and care for Dud in her obliterated state. She was very lively in her descriptions of their life together and I think I get my narrative style from her. I was particularly fond of the stories about their romance and marriage. That is until the day she got drunk at Easter dinner and told everyone at the table all about their extra-marital affairs. From then on, the stories about their marriage weren't quite as sweet.
Dud was anything but in his formative years. He spent World War Two in the Pacific and was he able to figure out a way to turn a profit from his time there. He came home and worked for the government for years before finally having to retire. Sadly, he started having health problems in his late thirties and by the time he was fifty, he was an invalid. Trapped forever in a wheelchair. But each day for the rest of his life he was able to sit in that wheelchair next to my grandmother, who sat on the couch next to him, and that's a good. They would smoke and get drunk and watch television together. Also a good. It was very sweet, even if it was very sad to see.
Dud died on father's day. My father took him for a drive and he died during the drive. My father said it scarred him but honestly, he was scarred long before that ride. In an effort to pay homage, each year we drank a shot of Black Label to honor him. Don't ask me why. I never saw Dud drink scotch but my father insisted. I never understood how you honored a drunk by drinking. I hate scotch and I dreaded that shot. When my father died fourteen years later, that homage ended. Now I try and remember Dud by finding and pushing around some invalid in a wheelchair. I have to do it quickly before someone catches me but it makes me feel better to honor Dud in this way.
Gigi pressed on for another eleven years before she died. After Dud died she became lost in the big empty house where they have lived together all their lives. It was hard for her and eventually depression trumped the booze and she let herself succumb to her sadness. Eventually other relatives got involved and they took her apart. Once they picked her clean, they put her in a nursing home in Branson, Missouri and she died there after two years of isolation. Alone and senile. In the end, she didn't know any of us. Or even remember that she was a drunk or a smoker or married.
My father was their only child and he was a scandal. Dud and Gigi were white - pure white. My father was not white - he was red. A solid red. A red that you would notice if you looked at him. Not a red that could easily be explained away in 1950's white America. Dud and Gigi could have easily just said they adopted a red child from a foreign country and people would have been okay with it. It wasn't uncommon to adopt the lost children of war-torn countries, but my father wasn't the right color for a war-torn country. Dud and Gigi decided not to tell anyone where he was from, not even my father. Instead, they got plastered everyday and passed out before the sun went down to avoid talking to strangers with questions about their red son. My father was left alone to raise himself. He had questions without answers. He had a family without parents. He was pretty bitter.
Not feeling he was a part of their world and knowing he wasn't a blood relative, my father created a whole existence for himself. My favorites, which lasted up until his death, were that he was Italian. Or French Canadian... or bet yet... A science experiment. Don't ask me what that means, but I remember him telling people he was special in that way.
It turns out he was Native American and he never met any of this blood relatives. When my father discovered he had cancer and needed bone marrow donors, his adoption papers were opened and his past was finally revealed to him. He was cautious at first, but he finally picked up the phone and reached out to his mother. They spoke on the phone once and she died two days later. Ten days later, he was dead too.
As it turns out, my father had seven brothers and sisters he would never meet. None of them were aware of his existence and when he contacted their mother and she died, none of them was ready for it. Then it became especially hard when they discovered that not only was their a mystery brother they had never met, but that he was dying too. It was a lot for them to absorb. After my father died, his brother and sister came to the funeral to learn as much as they could about their lost brother. They told me that their mother had been gravely ill for many years and they felt that when my father called, she could finally let go. A sense of peace was found.
I think of this now because no one seems to concerned with what sort of grandparent they are going to be. People seem to concentrate on the parent part, with the notion that being a grandparent will be easy.
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