3B

Wednesday, September 25, 2019 // The Statement 3B

T

here’s a 500-page book about my 
grandfather’s life sitting on my 
shelf.
“Book” might be an understatement. He 
titled it “memoir novel,” but “textbook” 
might be more accurate, due to its size. 
I’ve had my copy for over a decade and so 
far, it’s only been used for pressing leaves 
and four-leaf clovers. 
Grandpa passed away in May 2018. We 
weren’t very close — either the cause or 
effect of neglecting his memoir — which 
is why I didn’t know what to say while 
standing next to his bed in the hospital. 
I felt like I should come up with a long 
monologue about our relationship, but the 
words weren’t there.
Finally, I said, “I’m sorry I never read 
your book. I promise I will one day.” We 
sat in silence with my hand resting on his 
stomach. After a few minutes, his left eye 
fluttered open. 
I’d forgotten Grandpa had blue eyes. 
As I stared, I imagined him conversing 
with the thousands of people he met dur-
ing his life; he was suddenly the blue-eyed 

boy supporting his family in the South by 
selling boiled peanuts on the street, the 
high school prom king and football quar-
terback, the husband trying to navigate his 
two marriages. 
I’d never been this close to his face 
before. His eyelid was now only half-open, 
just enough to peek at who was touching 
him. It fell closed a few seconds later, and 
I wondered if my image even registered in 
his mind. 
When 
Grandpa’s 
memoir, 
“Boiled 
Peanuts and Buckeyes,” was published 
in 2006, he paid for our entire family to 
visit his hometown and attend his book-
launch event. I have a photo of him stand-
ing up and giving a speech, though I don’t 
remember what he said. Strangers walked 
up to his table afterward to have their cop-
ies signed. It was odd watching Grandpa 
interact with people who barely knew him 
but held his entire life in their hands.
He gave each of his grandchildren their 
own signed copy, as if to say, “Here’s my 
life, read it as you wish.”
After Grandpa’s death, I re-read the 

note: 
When you get older or maybe even now, 
you may enjoy reading about your mother’s 
family. The book also will come in handy if 
you need to prepare a family tree for one of 
your classes. I wish you a long and happy 
life.
Love, Grandpa Holland
It was strange to see his full name, Lee 
Eudon Holland, printed on the cover of the 
book but Love, Grandpa Holland signed 
inside. The title “Grandpa” seemed to give 
me a special license, a backstage pass to 
the information with an insider’s perspec-
tive. 
The truth was, the most I’d read of his 
book was the citation of my name in the 
index. I was mentioned once at the very 
end, a single name in a long list of grand-
children. His entire life as Grandpa Hol-
land was a mere epilogue to his story.
Grandpa loved stories. He dreamt that 
one day I would write a memoir of my 
own, knowing that I’ve been a writer 
since I was young. On multiple occasions, 
he suggested putting me in contact with 
local authors he knew, though I never fol-
lowed up on his offers. Later, he mailed me 
his copy of “Your Life as Story,” a how-to 
guide for memoir writers. I didn’t read it 
and realized I forgot to thank him. 
When I was a junior in high school, 
Grandpa emailed me after we hadn’t seen 
each other in a while. 
Since I don’t see you very often, I would 
like for you to share some of the things that 
happen in your life that have a lot of mean-
ing to you, he wrote. Just a few lines once a 
week or so ... 
He suggested he would send some 
excerpts from his memoir in return.
I emailed him a response of equal 
length about my own life and my thoughts 
about becoming a writer. He never replied, 
which I assumed was either because he 
was too busy or changed his mind. Even 
when I saw him in person for holidays, we 
never spoke of the email.
After he died, I searched for his name in 
my inbox and discovered he had actually 
sent me a dozen emails that were lost in 
my spam folder. They were spread out over 
a few years; congratulating me on a college 
scholarship, wishing me luck before I went 

skydiving, detailing how he met my grand-
ma. He never knew if I read them.
I felt more guilty than I had in my 
entire life. Shame pressed on my chest and 
weighed as much as the book itself — three 
and a half pounds, actually, according to 
my bathroom scale.
If I read his messages earlier, I would’ve 
known that Grandpa talked about his 
favorite song, “In the Pines,” a lot. Every-
one at the funeral seemed to know it. In the 
pines, in the pines / Where the sun don’t ever 
shine ... 
My dad spent the last few days trying to 
find the original version to play over the 
speakers at the visitation, but like most 
traditional folk songs, “In the Pines” has 
been shaped and remade as it was passed 
down through the generations. There’s no 
official author, lyrics or tune; its story is 
never finished, but rather echoed. 
I learned the song on the ukulele and 
played it with my family after the visita-
tion as a tribute, a way for me to connect 
with him in a way I couldn’t when he was 
alive.
Grandpa didn’t open his eyes again after 
he looked up at me in the hospital. I was 
the last person he saw. I was there for his 
last breath, too: a gulping, life-culminating 
gasp, like nothing I’d seen before. I didn’t 
understand why I deserved to be there at 
the end of his life, when I was only men-
tioned in his memoir once. 
But I don’t live in his memoir; I live as a 
folk song. I am a folk song, and I carry on 
his legacy of storytelling by writing about 
my life — just as he wrote about his. 
I thought of him when deciding on my 
senior thesis project for my creative writ-
ing degree: a collection of memoir pieces, 
using “Boiled Peanuts and Buckeyes” as 
a textbook. By the end of the year, I will 
have read the entire book cover to cover, 
picking out four-leaf clovers along the way.
Though our connection happened later 
than expected, I feel closer to Grandpa 
now than I did while he was alive. And 
I’m hoping that, in reading his stories, my 
journey as a writer can echo his own.
I wish you a long and happy life.
Love, Grandpa Holland

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Subject
Modern Love: An echo through 
the generations

BY HANNAH BRAUER, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

PHOTO COURTESEY OF HANNAH BRAUER 

