Grandparents, part I

I did not grow up with a grandfather.

My paternal grandfather died of cancer shortly after I was born; my maternal grandfather died of a heart attack the day before my first birthday.

When I think about it, I feel cheated. Everyone should be able to grow up sharing his or her childhood with at least one grandfather. Someone to take you swimming on hot, summer days. Someone who lets you tag along on their vacations. Someone to hide behind when your mom’s chasing you down for tracking mud on her freshly mopped floor.

I am embarrassed to admit that, literally, the only thing I know about my paternal grandfather is that he traveled all over searching for a cure for his cancer. My dad said he spent every last penny he had on snake oil cures. He died in a car on his way home from a trip he had taken with my uncle. They had gone out west to visit a doctor who assured him that he could heal his cancer.

As I sit and write this blog, I realize I could know so much more. Not only is my dad alive, he lives right next door, and could answer all my questions. I don’t even know where my grandfather is buried for crying out loud! How can I have a business planting flowers on the graves of strangers, but have never so much as visited my own grandfather’s grave? I know it’s right here in town somewhere. What is wrong with this picture?

Mental note to myself: tomorrow, get my ass over to my dads and ask him about my grandpa.