Carol Kroll

My Grandfather

This week my grandfather passed away. My father’s father. He was 97 years old and born on Christmas day in 1912. The same year the Titanic sank, Arizona became the 48th state and Woodrow Wilson was elected president.

He had been in a nursing home for about five years. Nursing homes are miserable, but his was very nice. As nice as nursing homes go that is. But we all will end up there. ALL of us. Often alone and wishing someone will visit. No matter if you have 20 kids or none. We come into this world alone and we die alone. It’s hard not to think about that when you are there or standing inside a funeral home listening to your grandfather’s life story being told by a complete stranger who didn’t know him at all and wondering how this day got here so quickly, even though its been 97 years and you yourself had only been a part of that 97—-37 years of it.

1972ish. That’s me in the middle, and my Dad’s father keeping watch perched on the organ he loved to play.

I spent a lot of time…

with both sets of my grandparents from the time I was born until the time they all passed away and I loved them each dearly. We lived close to each set and now I am really glad and thankful we did. A lot of my friends weren’t as lucky as my sister and I were in that respect, but that isn’t something you fully realize until you’re older and they are gone.

Yep, that’s me in my Dorothy Hamill haircut entering into the ugly awkward Jr High age. My cutie-patootie sister Cindy, is on the right.

My mom’s parents were a good 10-15 years younger than my father’s parents. My maternal grandmother (who I was extremely close to) was of French Canadian descent (born in Ontario) and my maternal grandfather was mainly English (Irish sprinkled in). They represented (more or less) the reserved side, although involved my sister and I in countless number of activities frequently and often like skiing, ice-skating, sledding, movie-going, hiking, bowling you name it, we were constantly on the go. Right up until the end in fact. They never cried victim or let on that they were “getting old”. I greatly admired that and plan to follow suit.

My mom’s parents and I in 1976. My grandfather was a man who liked to laugh, make silly faces and have fun. Can you tell??

A good ‘ole 1980 sing along with my Mom and Grandmother. I was the official page turner for my Mom when she would play. She wouldn’t tell me when either because she wanted to make sure I was paying attention to the notes. I liked that job.

My paternal grandparents represented the Old World European side of my make up. My grandmother’s parents emigrated from Czechoslovakia. My grandfather’s parents emigrated from Prussia (Germany).

My father’s parents were all about natural/organic/whole foods WELL before it was the fashionable or “in” thing to do. Both my grandmother and grandfather were the original “foodies”. They loved making food, talking about how to make food and of course delighted in the eating of the food. They both were part of The Great Depression and had a deeper appreciation for all that was/is available to us presently. Much more than we might. My grandmother told us a story once about how one Christmas all her brother’s and sisters each got an orange for their holiday present. That was it. She tried to convey to my sister and I how incredibly special and rare that really was (early 1920’s I believe). Not in a guilt ridden way either. Just matter of fact. I always remembered that story and am glad she told us. Truth be told, I do think of it often when I peel an orange.

My grandfather made his own bread, sausage, yogurt, horseradish, pickles and sauerkraut. In fact, I made the kraut with my grandparents a good 15 years ago using the original wooden cabbage shredder my great grandfather brought over from Prussia and was in the family well before that. I also was part of the canning process too after it had fermented for weeks in their basement. I am really happy now I got to be a part of that. And I miss the family recipe when I slum it and buy Frank’s Kraut.

Although admittedly, all the meat loving tendencies I have come from my father’s side of the family, I did not inherit my grandfather’s love for head cheese.

Cannibal sandwiches and liver sausage, yes, but head cheese I just stare at (in awe?). This item was one if his favorites. Although I would give it another go in present day before I completely dismiss it.

My grandfather also liked (as he called it) to “go bummin’ around”. He took my sister and I, along with my grandmother, all over. To North Beach in Racine for a swim, ice-skating at the Racine Zoo pond, up to the Wisconsin Dells, and into the boonies of Hartford, WI to show us how cheese was made, and next door to Hustisford, WI to show us how real hot dogs and sausages were made. These buildings were ancient at the time we visited them ( in the late 70’s early 80’s) as they went about making their products the old school way. But even then, I knew I was being shown something very special that wasn’t going to be around for very much longer. And it wasn’t, shortly after that.

My father, myself and my grandfather at Circus World Museum. My father’s favorite place. No it’s not. It’s quite the opposite I found out recently, but he put on a good show for the photo!

I know he skated well into his 80’s. He too never let on that he was “getting old”.

My Dad’s parents and I. This I “believe” was for my sister’s baptism. No wait, my first communion. I secretly wished for long hair. True story.

Through his stories my grandfather would share about his youth, about HIS parents, his memories of simpler times, how to appreciate good food made the old world way – I myself developed a great appreciation for all these things along with him as a person. I often wished (and still do) I had a time machine to visit them (and my parents) when they were younger. To see and feel their memories as they did. Didn’t seem fair then that I couldn’t – doesn’t seem fair now that all four of them are gone.

Gone but certainly never forgotten.

My Dad’s father on the left and my Mom’s Dad on the right in 1972ish. I’m in the middle and no my grandfather wasn’t mad. He liked to goof around. And here he is making light of the fact I am about to ruin his glasses.

Two winters ago, in the dead of January, when I was heading out down to Milwaukee for band practice, I drove past a church where they were digging a grave in the frozen ground amidst three feet of snow. The dirt was somehow excavated (a perfect rectangle carved out of the frozen tundra) and then oddly enough, green astroturf was thrown over the rest of the mess to “conceal” what was really going on. Though I used May instead of January and made it about a walk and not a drive, I had to write about it because the whole scene and idea seemed absurd to me.

Here is the audio of that tune if you are interested.

Today I thought of this when I stood with family members to hear the pastor’s last words about a man he never knew and saw the green astroturf covering the large hole my grandfather’s baby-blue casket would be lowered into after we were gone. What a crazy charade, I thought. So instead of becoming sinister and depressed, I concentrated on the possibility that he truly is in a much better place now and realized I will never be able to express in words, art or song about how grateful I am about the time I got to spend with him or my other three grandparents. I wish all four of them love and light in their new journeys either in this world again or in another.

I miss all four of you greatly and think of you quite often. I’m sorry I never got to say a proper thank you. Hopefully you know already though.