The Man of the Hour

Frank A.

There’s an old theory that people have “A” Grandparents and “B” Grandparents.

The “A” Grandparents are the ones that are always around. They go to all the birthday parties, soccer & little league games. They call you on your birthday every year, and babysit you whenever you need somewhere to go. 

The “B” Grandparents are the ones who you only really see during the holidays. You chit-chat with them occasionally, but they don’t make as much of an effort to see you. Although it can be nice with them, you don’t feel that close of a bond.

I was 23 when I heard about this theory, sometime after all of my grandparents were gone. But it still made me laugh because it was so perfect in describing my relationships with all of them.

My mom’s mom (Mildred) was an “A” Grandparent, and my dad’s parents (Frank & Tilia) were “B” grandparents. At least that’s how it was growing up. 

I didn’t know either of my dad’s parents that well as a kid; neither did my sister or any of my cousins, and to be perfectly honest, I was afraid of them. Which when I think about it now is ironic, I mean...

... yeah terrifying.

Being the quiet introverted kid that I was, unless someone was going that extra mile to be kind and open with me, I automatically assumed that was a person I needed to steer clear of.

I saw them at the holiday parties and we would talk briefly, but I just always wanted to get away from them because I never knew what to say. I used to cling to my dad and let him talk.

My nana was a very gregarious woman. She was opinionated, sometimes to a fault, but we all gave her the benefit of the doubt because that was her, and we all knew it wasn’t coming from a malicious place. My grandpa, however, was different. He was always quiet and reserved. At family gatherings, I remember him always sitting alone looking off into the distance, deep in thought.

The first real connection I ever made with him was when I was 13. It was 2009, after my nana Mildred had just died. We were at her funeral and he put his arm around me as I cried. It wasn’t much, but it was him reaching out to show love towards me, and it was the first time I saw him differently. 

Shortly after that, I began tagging along with my dad every Sunday when he would go visit his parents. It was during these visits that I started to learn things about him I never knew.

I knew he served in WWII. But what I didn’t know was that his younger brother was drafted first, but was about to start art school. So he wouldn’t miss that opportunity, my grandpa volunteered to take his brother’s place.

My grandpa went to England with the Army Air Force. Only a few months in, he was promoted to corporal, and a few months after that, became a sergeant. He returned home after the war, in September of 1945, and worked at a few different jobs, and even attended NYU for a while on the GI Bill. Eventually, he found a career as a sales executive in the trucking industry.

He met my nana at a wedding in 1947. While they only spoke briefly, shortly thereafter they coincidently bumped into each other on the L-train, while they were both going to work.

They got married in June of 1949 and had four sons, three of whom were born in Brooklyn, including my dad Vic. In 1959, they moved to 3582 Ivy Drive in Bethpage, NY, where they remained until he died. My dad and his brothers all eventually got married and had kids, giving my grandparents seven grandchildren.

I was the youngest of all the grandkids, so by the time I came along, it was just known that my grandparent’s house wasn’t the usual place to go for babysitting. Hence my lukewarm relationship with them as a kid.

Those visits with my dad years later, however, became a part of my weekly routine, and in many ways, one of my favorite memories.

The routine was the same. My nana, the old Italian housewife that she was, always had the kitchen smelling of sauces. I still think about the vivid smells that came from that kitchen, and I find a sense of calm when I do. My grandpa, usually in the den watching the news, would make his way in to greet my dad and me. A bowl of plain popcorn (just imagine eating little bits of paper) was always the “snack” offered to us. My nana would tell the same stories, which were usually way more appealing to her than the person listening. But she had such a way of speaking that you almost couldn’t help but listen and be intrigued. My dad was usually off fixing things in the house, and my nana was either with him or cooking, so I would go sit with my grandpa. It’s kind of funny if you think about it, being the two quiet ones of the family, but we would always find a lot to say to each other. When my dad and I left, my nana would always send us off with, “Okay boys”, and we would go on with our week until next Sunday rolled around.

I used to assume my grandpa was just some old guy who I would never have anything in common with, but it turned out he wasn’t that at all. He was a very well-read man, and a fun person to talk to. He was also a good listener; he was interested in learning about my life and hearing what went on in it. We had a bond, and whenever my dad and I would go over there, or during family get togethers, I would go looking for him to continue our talks.

He died on March 24, 2012, with all of us by his side. He was 92.

While it wasn’t a surprise, since he had been so sick, a part of me felt cheated. It was like: I’m finally getting to know him and then he dies! Not to mention right in front of me.

Coincidentally, the day after he died, I turned on the TV, and the movie Big Fish was on. It was a scene towards the end when the father dies. I watched until the end, and the credits played the song, Man of the Hour by Pearl Jam.

To this day, whenever I hear that song I think of my grandpa.

He was just a man, not without faults, but he lived his life the best way he knew how. I’m proud to have gotten the chance to know him and will carry those memories with me for the rest of my life.