Death in the "Family"

I just found out that my Grandfather died; and I feel nothing. Perhaps it is somewhat fueled by the bitterness of the way that family abandoned me, or maybe it is simply because I never knew him.  Nonetheless I am also surprised to find that I don’t feel guilt about my lack of emotion. I think that I know the answer to that more clearly; I know in my heart that he would forgive me, if only so that I would consider forgiving him for never saying a word.

I suppose that last line deserves some back story, yet I am perplexed at were to start with my epitome of a deadbeat father. I would never say that I had a bad childhood. In fact I have many memories on which I base much of my happiness growing up. I am also very aware that in this day and age it always could have been much worse. And in many ways Paul taught me some extremely valuable lessons, such as;  don’t smoke pot, it is indeed a gate way drug, and you WILL lose brain cells. Yet that is only the start of the endless screw-up’s that define my biological father’s existence.

My father and mother had that cliché of being high school sweethearts. I really don’t know much of the story leading up to their love, only the fall that resulted. Put simply my father was a lying, cheating, drug using bastard (ahhh that felt so good to into words). My mother being the strong spirited women she is left him with me by her side. Of course not before he had the chance to literally bankrupt us and leave us both a little emotionally scarred.

Of course the pain didn’t stop there. I spent the next 22 years of my life attached in some manner to a “father” who I pathetically kept hoping would change. I was kidnapped twice, left with promises broken countless times, and so emotionally drained that when I finally realized that the only reason I still allowed him to be a part of my life was so that I could spew my venomous words at him I simply asked him one day to pretend I never existed for that was my plan from that day forward.

I have kept to that promise for 3 year now. My children who are very young now have never once heard me speak of him nor have they met anyone from that side of the family. I do one day plan to share that sorted past, if only to teach them the lessons he taught me. Yet until than I have enjoyed this freedom of letting my heart let go of something I never really had. Yet today I find myself drawn back into this world that I finally was free of.

Milton Prouty, that is the name of my grandfather whom I barely knew. He was a distinguished narcotics officer in Massachusetts for many years, a Korean war veteran, as well as a loyal husband and father of 4 children.  The only thing that I personally knew about him was his amazingly beautiful ability to play the piano by ear in a way that left you wondering if your eyes were really seeing what was before you.

Yet my memories of this man are small and far between. I re-call after my parents’ divorce only seeing my grandfather as he dropped off my Nana for visits, than picked her up later.  Never once did he get out of the car, or even speak to me for that matter. As I got older on my brief visits to their home, he would be vibrant and sweet as he showed me his incredibly detailed oil paintings, and let me sit next to him as he played the piano and I whistled along. It always seemed so contradicting that he could be so utterly caring and yet completely distant the next. No one ever question this behavior, it just seemed to be a mute point.

With my oldest daughter currently exploring the art of back talk we have gone into great discussions with her about the choices we all make in life. Even though she is only 3 my husband and I feel that it is important for her to begin understanding that her own choices affect all those around her.  2 days after my Grandfathers death I begin to wonder about a choice he had to make years ago.  A difficult choice had to be made between the shame and sheer disappointment of his youngest son (whom his wife and children all coddle and create elaborate excuses for), or keeping his life and family in order, and sacrificing any relationship with me. Years later with a family of my own I very easily can accept his choice as the only rational one to make.  So on his death bed as I look up to the clearing night sky I forgive him for never being able to tell me his sorrow for my plight and I hope that he forgives me for feeling no grief for a Grandfather that could have been.