Like any genealogist, there is a long list of ancestors I would like to meet if I could. But I think that number one on that list would have to be the subject of my previous post, Grandpa Red Brosius.
 |
| Sitting on Grandpa Red's lap, Easter 1980 |
To be quite technical, I did meet him. He was still alive when I was born, and, I am told, was crazy about me. But he passed away from emphysema before I was even a full year old, and I have no recollection of him at all. I have photos of him, an audio of his voice saying "Merry Christmas" in the 1950s, and numerous stories told to me by my parents and the few other surviving relatives who knew him.
Sadly, he was an alcoholic, and the stories I hear could almost be the stories of two different men. But it is clear that my parents (or whoever is telling the story) loved him. They paint a picture of a man who was caring, quirky, fun-loving, and intensely human. He fixed everything with duct tape--including plumbing. He insisted on watering the lawn, even in the middle of a drought (for which he made the local news as an example of what not to do! Wish I could find a copy of that). He chewed snus and used it to wash the car's windshield: he would squirt it between his front teeth onto the glass. He also smoked and, when an ash tray wasn't handy, would tap his ashes into the cuffs of his pants. (Grandma hated that!) He had injured a finger years earlier on a piece of glass, so that he had only one half of his fingernail, which he would whittle away with a pocketknife. To this day my mom treasures that pocketknife, which he sharpened so many times that the blade itself is little more than a sliver.
But I wish I had more than just these stories, and more even than the mementos. I wish I had a memory of him.
No comments:
Post a Comment