It’s hard to put into words what the loss of a grandparent means. I guess this is the fourth time it has happened to me, though I only remember three. My grandmother (Mom’s mom) died in 1979, when I was only three years old. The first I remember was Grandpa Ginn, who died in 2004. Grandma Pettigrew died in 2006. Tonight, Grandpa Pettigrew died.
Grandpa was born in 1914. World War I had just begun, the Panama Canal had just opened, Woodrow Wilson was president, and The Little Tramp with Charlie Chaplin was released. Army was the national champion football team, a stamp cost $0.02, and federal spending totaled $730 million.
Through Grandpa’s life, he had seen a total of 17 presidents, the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, two World Wars, Pearl Harbor, man landing on the moon, September 11, and countless other historical events. He saw the advent of radio, television, cable, satellite, talking movies, vinyl records, cassettes, compact discs, video tapes, laser discs, and DVD. The Depression had a great impact on him, making him amazingly frugal throughout his life.
What do I remember about Grandpa? I remember sitting in his living room during the summer of 1984, watching the Los Angeles Summer Olympics on television. I remember the horses in his barn out on the farm. I remember the incredible care he put into his farm machinery, even keeping an 50 year old tractor in perfect working order. I remember the forlorn look on his face in a photo from my mother’s wedding album. I remember the 8-track player in the dash in his 1979 Buick, which still sits in the garage at his house. I remember the proud look he had whenever he attended one of the award ceremonies for my brother and I in high school. I remember him awkwardly holding my oldest son when Alex was first born and chuckling about it. I remember how whenever you asked how he was doing he always replied with “pretty fair.” I remember the smile on his face the first time I called him “Grandpa Chuck” at his 80th birthday party.
Grandpa outlived two wives, being married to Grandma Mabel for 44 years, and Grandma Mable for 26 years. I often joked with family (never to Grandpa, though he might have found it amusing) that the reason he married another Mabel/Mable was because he was too thrifty to change the monogram on her towels. From his first wife, he had two daughters, Peggy (my mother) and Donnis. Over the years he accumulated five grandsons, three granddaughters, twelve great-granddaughters, and seven great-grandsons.
Grandpa was often a quiet man, not speaking much but saying volumes. My other grandfather was the same way, so I would assume that it was something innate in their generation. His two daughters loved him more deeply and completely than any one man could ever hope for.
I miss Grandpa now, though I know those feelings will deepen as the week goes on. Already in the few hours since Mom called me, I’ve gone from just the base level of knowing it happened, to the realization that he won’t be there anymore, to tears while writing this. We knew it was coming, that it would be fairly soon, but didn’t know it would happen as swiftly as it did. Slowly and sadly, the patriarchs of my family are passing away, taking their knowledge and experiences with them. Grandpa lived a life that most wouldn’t envy, but he did it the best way he knew how. The love his family has for him proves how successful he was.
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