This page exists to keep random things that I write in one place: college blogs, papers, random thoughts, or news stories I write for my Beacon internship will likely end up on this blog.
This is my first entry, displaying my OTHER first entry for my OTHER blog, which must have something to do with the subject of autobiography and/or mimic the style of an autobiographer that my class is currently studying.
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Grits and Scars
I heard this type of "grandparenting" often growing up. It was a general rule at my Mama and Papa's house every Saturday morning after the three of us kids traipsed over for one of our regular summer breakfast visits--and it certainly explains why my grandfather had two open-heart surgeries. Some of my first childhood memories are of visiting Florida, learning to swim in my grandparents pool. I distinctly remember tracing my finger down the pink scar on my grandpa's chest while he told me about how he almost died on the operating table, and that it was god that saved him.
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At that age I remember him as the nicest, most kind man that could possibly exist. He did all the prototypical grandfatherly duties: gave me old coins from all around the world, showed my brother how to whittle, and he would often secretly pass us candy (which was replaced by money later in life).---
As I grew older, my mother's stories of abuse began to rack up in my brain, and my understanding of my grandfather began to change a little--but not much. I could see signs of his faded, volatile temper in the way he behaved towards bad waiters or slow sales clerks; however, like many men, my grandfather has tenderized with age.
Sometimes I see him now, sitting quiet with eyes that look clouded over, and I wonder if he's back There, reliving memories I could not possibly imagine or cope with myself.
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I learned of one of his experiences indirectly, from my mother: He was on the ground with one of his close friends and partners, clearing the area for any threats. Just as his friend bent over a bush to scope things out, he jolted back violently, his head blown clear off his body. Although I never asked my grandfather about this morbid experience, I've thought about it often, and I wonder how frequently it comes to his mind.---
Papa has only told me one story of his days as a paratrooper in WWII, and it was sparked after he learned that I was taking Russian in school. He recalled the time he was practically forced to drink glasses of Russian vodka that "damnnear made [him] sick."It all started after he liberated a concentration camp where prisoners were separated by nationality. In the Russian camp the freed men broke out vats of hidden, seemingly-rancid homemade vodka in celebration of freedom, and they promptly invited their saviors to join them for a drink.
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He didn't speak much Russian at the time, but a Polish friend was able to translate between the elated Russian men and my grandfather. According to Papa, the Pole took it upon himself to share my grandfather's triumphs with the liberated Russian men, telling them of the many numbers of Germans he killed across Europe, and "exaggerating" about his acts of bravery. After many boisterous cheers and toasts were directed in his direction, my grandfather became privy to what was going on.Humbly accepting his praise, he knocked back the rustic vodka, taking shot after shot for his comrades, "and those shots were tall as a glass of water, if you'll believe it." After toasting a number of times in honor of my grandfather, the group continued to drink, raising their glasses to Roosevelt, Churchill and Lenin.
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After hearing my grandfather recount this story - one he considered to be more of a tale of young drunkenness, than a war story - I tucked it away deep in my memory, knowing that I might never hear him talk about those days again.For a moment in time, a group of Russians celebrated my grandfather with the same high esteem as Lenin, and that alone blows my mind.
