Memories Of My Grandfather

By my mom and two of her sisters, my grandfather is called dad, but my Aunt Marcia addresses him as Jack Bronder. My maternal grandfather passed away before I was born, but that is not to say his life does not hold a standing presence in my family today, especially for my Aunt Marcia. The man that I imagine as my grandfather is created only by stories passed down to me, but the story that stands out to me the most is the one told by my Aunt Marcia.

We are gathering here today in honor of my father Willy Loman. Willy left us at the age of 60 years old. Leaving behind two sons my brother happy and I. He also left behind my mom, his beautiful wife of 40 years his wife, Linda. We all have our flaws, we will not remember him for his flaws. But, for his perseverance good intentions and values he instilled in my brother and I.

Grandma and Grandpa are probably some of the most amazing people in the world. I am really blessed to be so close with grandma and grandpa. Both distance wise and relationship wise. I don’t even know where to start. Between all the cooking lessons, rock shows, R.V. shows, birthdays, track meets, concerts, holidays, dinners, snakes, shopping trips and so on I have a lot of ground to cover in not a lot of time. I’ll start with the cooking lessons.

Over 300 people lined up at the door of an oratory waiting to pay their respects. Regardless if they knew my grandpa or not it’s as if people felt some sort of obligation, like it’s the right thing to do to mourn over the loss of someone they may or may not have known. It was late January in the small town of Hastey, Minnesota, the ground was as frozen as the hearts of those mourning over the loss of my grandpa. When I found out my grandpa had passed away the piercing feeling in my gut was as harsh as the morbid,Minnesota winter.Majority of people there were nicely dressed in black, with black under their eyes as an accent because nothing but tears have seen those eyes in days.

One of my fondest memories of my dad was when I was young perhaps 10. Dad had stopped drinking and still had the love of dogs and hunting. Each day he would work and come in looking like he had rebuilt the entire stadium of McCarther field. Big work boots, jeans that hung down to his tail, white working shirt, and a beginning bulging belly from too many steaks and too many half gallons of ice cream. It was not uncommon for we older girls to hear his beat up Chevy coming down the road from a block or two away and whoever was there, would have a large glass of tea with ice waiting by the time he drove into the drive way.

Most memories aren’t forever. Some you forget right off the bat. Kind of like when you forget someone’s name right after they told you. Yet, there are some that seem to last forever. Some seem like you can never forget them, and you will remember them until you’re old and grey. That is how the memories of my grandmother are for me.

“I can’t believe that’s true!” I exclaimed, my laughter echoing through the room. My grandpa and I had been chatting on the phone for the past half an hour. You would imagine a man his age would be boring and dull. However, he was quite the joker. At least with me, since I was, of course, his favorite granddaughter.

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of my grandfather and me. One could say that we had a tradition. Often, he would pick me up from gymnastics and go through the drive through of McDonald’s to get me a chocolate shake. And during the trip to his house, we would talk about our day and the exciting things that had occurred. Although we talked about many different things on our way to his house, we always sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. I remember looking out the windows while we sang and admired the beauty of the night. Coming up to the big red barn I knew that we were almost there. My grandparents lived near Saint Peter, Minnesota on Lake Washington. And every night after eating dinner, we would make a fire, look out upon the

I knew I had support from my family. Especially my grandfather. He was everything to me. He was very smart and was very wise with everything he said. My family has always been there. One day my grandfather made sure I knew. He was and always will be my lifeline.

My first memories of God were when I first came to America at the age of ten. Back then, I did not know who or what God is. My mother was coming to the U.S. to do scientific research, and our family didn’t know anyone or have any friends. However, there was a Chinese church where a lot of internationals like us can come together and find friendship, build personal connections, and worship a God that was a very new concept to many of us. That was the place where I first learned about God. Initially, I had a lot of questions about the very existence of God, because in my young mind, I could not grasp the concept of something that I could not physically sense. Gradually, I began to accept the notion that God is what God is and that it is something that we could feel in our hearts, something spiritual.

t was the moment I had been waiting months for. The comforting aromas of bread and tea met my nose the instant I stepped through the doorway. Beautifully-written, thought-provoking books sat on the shelves, waiting to be read while soft strains of celtic lullabies floated through the halls. Excitedly, I bolted up the entryway steps to the arms of some of the most meaningful people in my life- Bumma and Boppy.

Ancestors completely shape, determine and mold their descendants’ lives. Family values are rooted deeply in how a person is raised. Although I never met my great-grandfather, the way he lived directly affects my life. In Little Rock, Arkansas in 1924, J.C. (Jake) Red was born. He was number ten of eleven sons born to the Red family. After his younger brother, W.E. (Buck), was born, his father would leave them to start a new family, across town. He and his brothers would be raised by a single mother, during the Great Depression. To say he was poor, is putting it mildly. Dirt poor is a term that better describes the way my great-grandfather was raised. Jake was smart, athletic, and willing to work hard. Everyone describes my great-grandfather as the cornerstone of my family. His life was proof that opportunities are endless, if hard work and determination remain the central focus. Although, I never got to meet or know him, I have learned he was a very respected and revered man.

All my relatives were there my aunts, uncles, and cousins were there, however the only relatives I remember seeing were relatives who are related to my grandfather. My relatives were in a formal white shirt, black dress shoes, black jacket, and a tie, to show respect for the dead. Looking at their faces, it made me depressed and sorrowful, especially to my dad and uncles, however being the children of my grandfather wasn’t the only reason, it’s mainly all the memories that they spent together just withered away by death himself. On the other hand, I wasn’t as miserable as the rest of my relatives, it felt as though I was just there, standing there asking myself ‘why am I not in remorse similar to the rest of my relatives?’ the only answer I could come up with at the time was not knowing my grandfather similar to my relatives. When I was younger, I and my grandfather was still among the living I could only remember one picture of

When we were together we were invincible, us against the world. I’d look up to him, not only because he was 6’4, but because he was my grandpa. I have clear memories of him picking me up from school, playing old school reggae music during our adventurous car rides. We’d always sing along to our favorites, sometimes turn the music up so loud the people in the cars next to us could hear it. When I would visit his apartment, the familiar smell of drywall and pennies would fill the air. It was my hideaway, my home away from home. My grandpa collected pennies in water jugs. He would say that one day they’d be worth more than just pennies. I loved it there, not only because he had a freezer filled with many flavors of ice cream to which he would often say to me “you can have all you can eat” but because it was our time to bond. For five years it was my mom, my dad, and my grandpa helping me to grow. Those are my favorite people, my role models. Being around my grandpa brought me such comfort and joy.

Like a nonfiction story-book, my grandfather enlightens me with the adventures from his life and provides a valuable lesson through each telling. Quite fondly I remember him saying, “To learn is to remember, to forget is to lose”. There has always been one story, of which my grandpa told me, that has stuck with me and always reminds me to be fortunate that I do not endure the great hardships that so many face.