Grandfathers

A variant of the family invitation is to create an art piece dedicated to one of your grandfathers.

Due to being part of a step family, I grew up with four grandfathers known to me, each old patriarchs of the war generation, known to me mainly as kindly, twinkle-eyed men who tried to hide their shadows, teach me about the world, and encourage me to be outrageous in various ways.

What I remember about each of them (Vasco, Philip, Jürgen, and Lynn, all passed on now) is a vibe of dignity, sorrow and humor. They were each in their own ways awesome, brooding, and affectionate.

As a little one I had the feeling, which I believe children often get from their grandparents (even in the middle of a scold or a lecture), that I was an absolutely delightful being.

This impression that there was something wonderful about me just as I am, at least to them, is something I have carried with me my whole life. Their love was a protective talisman-like gift from each of them, that has helped, I feel, to counteract the enormous pressure from the masses of forces trying to lead us all to conclude otherwise about ourselves.

The grandfather I spent the most time with was Lynn, or Boppa, a grand figure who had been a fighter pilot, classical violinist, and school principal in his day. By the time I knew him, as a child, he was mostly in bed, watching classical music on tv, drinking wine, and pulling us in to tell stories of great drama and trickery, about the early days of California living, the war, ex-pat Paris, and life in Big Sur during the days of high bohemia.

This song is for him. It includes some of the pain I feel about having not fully enjoyed him to the full extent that I could have, while he was still here with us.

My invitation to you: honor one of your grandfathers with an art piece of some kind, that will help you remember him forever.

Lyrics:

I saw the wall of broken china, landmark I dreamed from outer space. I saw you racing along the breakwater, salted air in crash of lace.

You perform a new sonata, leave me a message and I’ll write you back. I heard you got a new computer, leave me a message and I’ll write you back.

You slept in fields in sage of heather, gorse and broombrush full of bees. The oaks are pushing through their illness, you’re laid up nursing swollen knees.

I hear you shuffling up the front steps, leave me a message and I’ll call you back. I fold my hands across the table, leave me a message and I’ll call you back. 

This is for the mustard bloom & the bonny painted room, and the oil of silver spoons all over, all over. For the island, brown, and the jasmine tumbling down, all around this sleepy town, all over. And it’s for the purple flowers, and the idle passing hours, and the lathe-turned face of owls, all over.

(song arranged, recorded and produced by Mike Billmire in Ann Arbor in 2009 along with the rest of the Painted Room: Mary Fraser, Merilee Philips, and Serge Van der Voo).

Lynn as a little one, left