The color enhanced black and white photograph remained on her bureau more than thirty years after the subject’s death. A smooth man’s face with kind eyes stared out from the photo. His head slightly tilted with a subtle wry smile faintly playing around his mouth. A stranger to this man might mistakenly guess this to be a handsome man with a good joke to tell. Those who knew him and his life knew the cocked angle hid a secret. And the not quite smiling eyes spoke of pain rather than joy.
His name Walter Greek Daniel, my paternal grandfather. I loved to examine his picture as a child. His violent death occurred about ten months before I was born. I learned his story slowly and secretly over the years. My grandmother loved him and never allowed a negative word about him to pass her lips. She also did not tolerate it from others. The very first story I heard led to my fascination with his photo.
I was about five when I overheard my dad tell someone, “The best thing that ever happened was when my father got pushed down some stairs in a bar fight where he lay dead drunk They got him to the hospital too late. My old man managed to survive but not for long, he died a few days later in the hospital. I knew Mother would be safe.”
This little snippet of information grew in my mind to legend with a more romantic flair. You see my dad was somewhat of drunk also. Handsome and charming but a drunk none the less. So I took the secret words, considered the source and reinvented it as I gazed at my grandfather’s photo.
“Dashing family man risks his own life in the effort to save a mysterious stranger from the perils of a dimly lit stairwell after a night of dancing and drinking. Sadly, our hero survived only hours after his fall. Wife and daughter were beside his bed as he passed into glory.” This would be the headline story if my musings came true.
I needed a hero. Even a generation old hero was better than the non-hero dad I thought I had. Turns out my dad would be a hero, but I would not know that until his death nearly thirty-five years after my early fascination with the photo on the bureau. As a child, I lived varying miles from grandmother’s house but every summer we visited. Every summer included a meditation-like visit with my grandfather’s photo.
As the years passed I heard more secret stories. My grandfather did drink to excess and laid very rough hands on my grandmother, my dad, and my aunt. Two younger children, both boys, my uncles escaped most of the abuse. At a young age, he was involved in a serious car accident, this would have been in early 1930’s. The accident left him with a crushed check bone that left his face sunken under one eye. It caused him a lot of pain and he was known to grimace quite often with the sharpness of the pain.
Now I look at that same photo and know that he hated the crushed side of his face and always tilted his head to minimize the effect. His slight smile more of a sneer. I also know that my aunt forgave him and looks forward to being reunited with him in heaven. She prays every day that he found a way back to God in those last hours of his life. I know that if it weren’t for him there would be no me. One more thing, sometimes a slight tilt of the head is just that but sometimes it hides a secret.
My grandfather really was found at the bottom of the stairs in a popular bar. He did drink. He did abuse. He also taught school. He told good stories. He was not happy. He loved my grandmother a lot. She loved him. This is all I know for sure.
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