"Isn't telling about something... already something of an invention? Isn't just looking upon this world already something of an invention? ... The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?" -- "Life of Pi"
18 May 2011
My Dad's Parents
I never really got to know my dad's parents. Papa died when I was only three months old. Nanny died when I was in the sixth grade, but I don't really remember spending that much time with her. I loved her and I loved her cooking, but when we went to visit her, I was always playing in the hallways or the elevators or the stairwells of her apartment building with my brother, sister, and/or cousins. I loved Papa, too. Still love him, though I've never met the man, at least not to remember. I love to hear stories of him: how he cheated at Uno is the only one coming to mind at the moment. And the story I love most of all: him claiming me as his baby. My Papa was not the type of man to hold newborn babies. Ever. But I was three days old when I was "introduced" to the family and he said "Give me my baby." My mom thinks it was because he knew his end was close (though I don't think he was sick or anything... I should find that out) and he knew he wouldn't be around to know me when I was older.
I cry every time I think of this story, this little bit of my history. I cry because I am overwhelmed that I, out of his millionsseveral grandchildren, and the youngest of those at that, was held as a newborn when he wasn't a baby person. I cry because I never got the chance to know this man who claimed me as his baby.
Why bring it up? My aunt has been posting old pictures of Papa and Nanny up on FB, and all these thoughts surge to the surface.
After a coyote hunt with two friends
A close up of him.
Papa and Nanny on their wedding day.
Picture of Nanny. She was absolutely beautiful, no?