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
NEW MESSAGE
SEND
To
Subject
Modern Love: An echo through
the generations
BY HANNAH BRAUER, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
PHOTO COURTESEY OF HANNAH BRAUER