I knew a man once, many years ago, who was a decent man.  He was married to my grandmother.  He was not my biological grandfather, however, because my grandfather had died at the dawn of the 1940s, before I was born.  But this man was my grandmother’s second husband and, as I said, he was a decent man.

But to my uncles on that side of the family (my grandmother’s sons) he was at best an outsider and at worst an interloper.  My uncles made fun of him—not usually to his face but among themselves.  Their jeers drew attention to this decent man’s flaws.  He was elderly, and like other men his age, he had lived through the so called Great Depression of the 1930s which made him thrifty—my uncles called him stingy.  He was an independent-minded man who refused to be bullied; my uncles said he was stubborn and hard-headed and attributed this personality trait to his German heritage.

So maybe he was stubborn; what of it?  I’m a man now of his years and I’ve never liked or responded well to being bullied.  Is this a blemish carried down from my English or Swedish ancestry?  Perhaps this decent man could have been more open to other people’s suggestions and ideas—especially my grandmother’s requests to mind the speed limits when driving—but again, he was an elderly gentleman when I knew him and perhaps he felt uncomfortable driving because of certain physical limitations related to age.

I grew up, like all or most of my cousins, thinking of this decent man as an outsider who was difficult to live with.  I carried these impressions of this decent man into my adulthood without thinking very much about it.  The decent man had become a cutout, a two-dimensional photo of a man, representative of characteristics worthy of ridicule.  But I had not really given much thought about the decent man who I knew as a child.

Later in life, I thought about this decent man and what I personally knew about him from my own experience.  I remembered his whiskery hugs and kisses on the cheek he gave whenever we arrived at his and my grandmother’s home.  I remember the tears that welled in his eyes when we were leaving.  Obviously, he felt some deep sadness when our visits ended.  I remember he was quiet and let my grandmother absorb the spotlight during family gatherings or when her children paid a visit.  He did chores, especially those no one else cared to do.  I remember that his dentures slipped at mealtime, creating a soft clicking sound that no one else I had ever known made.  I remember that he was proud to have been born and raised in Ohio.  I remember that he loved my grandmother and would have done anything in his power for her.  I didn’t remember him being stingy or stubborn, but generous with his time and love.  I remember him being a decent man.

What I also discovered, far too late in life to express to him personally, was that I loved him.  And I still do.  I love you Grandpa Vern and I hope somehow you know this now.