Mom wrote an entry about her dad, my grandfather, aka “Gramps”, on her weblog recently.
As she says, there is a great deal of construction on 322 near West Chester, and the major intersection there, which used to have zero traffic lights will now have at least three. Maybe if they were there when Gramps was driving that day, he’d still be with us. I don’t know. Like my mom, I often wonder about him whenever I pass through this area.
I certainly didn’t know him as well as Mom did, but I like to think he had a positive effect on me. I remember going out with him to trap $7 muskrats in hip-high boots in the frigid late-fall Brandywine. His favorite holiday was Thanksgiving, and it bothers me these days that it’s not really possible to celebrate it like we used to. I have fond memories of the many fishing trips at the bay in the boat named after my brother and myself, and the long car rides to get there. It’s possible that my love of space and stars was spawned in his telling of the constellations.
His passing marks my life in other, more personal ways, too. I didn’t know Gramps’ birthday was in July, but I’m glad Mom mentioned it.
