A Tale Of Two Grandpas

I’ve told you how my father’s father died—the poor fellow drowned in the River Clyde in Scotland.

There is—and always will be, I guess—a lingering uncertainty about the circumstances which might have caused him to be “seen falling” (the words used on the death certificate) off the boat that dim and dreary February day. At six in the morning, it’s a little late to be still drunk from the night before, I’d think. At least, not drunk enough to fall overboard.

He could have been thrown or pushed, I suppose. I don’t know for sure if Grandpa Bernard had long or short-term enemies of the type that might perpetrate such a crime, but of course even back then there would have been random acts of senseless violence. One can always hold out hope.

Because then there’s the other awful possibility—you know the one I’m talking about. I guess I have to admit it’s the one that seems most likely in my mind.

Did I ever mention that as an infant, Grandpa was baptized at St. Dympna’s Catholic church in Feebaghbane, County Monaghan? In case you’ve never heard of St. Dympna, here’s a bit I found about her patronage: “Against sleepwalking; epilepsy; epileptics; family happiness; incest victims; insanity; loss of parents; martyrs; mental asylums; mental disorders; mental health caregivers; mental health professionals; mental hospitals; mental illness; mentally ill people; nervous disorders; neurological disorders; possessed people; princesses; psychiatrists; rape victims; runaways; sleepwalkers; therapists.”

That’s exactly how it was worded at the Catholic forum I visited. I don’t think St. Dympna was really against “family happiness” or various others of the items, professions, and conditions mentioned, but yeah, I can see her being against sleepwalking.

Suffice it to say, and you can take this with more than a grain of salt if you are so inclined, that St. Dympna is the patron saint of the mentally ill. Now that I type it in so many words, it occurs to me that I might have shared this information with you before…in fact, I distinctly remember Michael Main commenting about another saint’s credentials….Oh, well. Saints Preserve Us!

So, Grandpa Bernard died at age forty, in an obviously tragic and possibly mentally ill state. But, you’re probably thinking right about now, didn’t you have another grandpa? Wouldn’t your mother also have been fortunate enough to have a dad?

Yes, yes she was. The grandpa I knew my whole life was called Papoo. He lived until the summer of 1976, when I was twenty-two. We lived in the same town our whole lives, and he was a thoroughly wonderful man to know and love.

I’m thinking about him a lot these days, as Doug and I are leading up to hopping on the plane for the Old Country.

The first time I went to Scotland was after I’d grown up and moved out on my own. My parents had decided to go and take my brother and baby sister who still lived at home. I had the brilliant idea to fork over a wad of cash and piggyback onto their vacation.

Papoo spent the night at Mom and Dad’s house the night before we were scheduled to fly. I spent the night, too, because we lived far from the airport and a limo was scheduled to retrieve us and all our stuff fairly early in the morning.

Before I awakened, Mom cooked a full Irish breakfast for her daddy, who then kissed her good-bye and headed back to his house, a twenty minute drive from hers. Did I mention Papoo was a widower, lived alone, and that Mom was his only child? To say he felt a bit of panic about his daughter leaving the country for five weeks, when he was used to her calling him twice a day, would be putting it mildly.

We got the phone call about an hour later, just as the limo was scheduled to pull up in front of the house. Papoo had called my sister Liz and said, “I’m not feeling too well. Can you come over to the house? Don’t tell your mother, though, because she and the rest of them are about to leave for Scotland.”

Liz and her new husband Big John rushed right over to Papoo’s house and there he sat in the kitchen chair, the phone in his hand, way past only mostly dead.

You might say that Scotland laid claim to both my grandfathers, then—the first, whose loyalties drew him home to Ireland over the waters and back again, and the second, who with his final earthly thoughts could only imagine seeing the place through his lovely daughter’s eyes.

Scotland is fascinating and frightening, beautiful and bleak. The memories and the might-have-beens it recalls are as jagged as the craggy mountains that cut into the mist-enshrouded landscape.

At the same time, though, there’s healing in the heather. And so, once again, Caledonia calls.

Posted by Katy on 04/22/06 at 08:05 AM

Fallible Comments...

Katy - I sure wish we lived close enough to go enjoy a latte together and chat sometimes... Sometimes the co-incidences in your blog posts to my life are a little overwhelming!

My maiden name is Duncan - though my family didn't come over quite as recently as yours. And my grandpa Duncan also drowned in a river under very suspicious circumstances...

I can't wait to hear about your trip to Scotland. I've been to England once, but not Scotland yet.
Posted by Chris(tine) on 04/22/06 at 09:20 AM
Katy
I love the following description you wrote:
Scotland is fascinating and frightening, beautiful and bleak. The memories and the might-have-beens it recalls are as jagged as the craggy mountains that cut into the mist-enshrouded landscape.

That is beautiful!

I've always wanted to go to Scotland as well. My husband's family is from there. I'm a huge mix of Irish, English, Cherokee, Blackfoot, and French Canadian. So, that makes me interested in a lot of stuff LOL
Posted by Sandy on 04/22/06 at 10:38 AM
Chris(tine)--Ooooh. Suspicious circumstances are endlessly fascinating. I would love to compare notes, over coffee or not! (I will know more, I think, about my Irish grandpa when I get back from the Old Country....)

Sandy--Thanks for commenting here! I visited your site and Wow! Your interests are amazing...Good for you!
Posted by Katy on 04/23/06 at 07:27 PM
Did I confuse things between Ireland and Scotland? :)

I've got to go back and read your posts again... I really look forward to hearing about your trip and what you learn!!
Posted by Chris(tine) on 04/24/06 at 08:09 PM

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	A Tale Of Two Grandpas I’ve told you how my father’s father died—the poor fellow drowned in the River Clyde in Scotland. There is—and always will be, I guess—a lingering uncertainty about the circumstances which might have caused him to be “seen falling” (the words used on the death certificate) off the boat that dim and dreary February day. At six in the morning, it’s a little late to be still drunk from the night before, I’d think. At least, not drunk enough to fall overboard. He could have been thrown or pushed, I suppose. I don’t know for sure if Grandpa Bernard had long or short-term enemies of the type that might perpetrate such a crime, but of course even back then there would have been random acts of senseless violence. One can always hold out hope. Because then there’s the other awful possibility—you know the one I’m talking about. I guess I have to admit it’s the one that seems most likely in my mind. Did I ever mention that as an infant, Grandpa was baptized at St. Dympna’s Catholic church in Feebaghbane, County Monaghan? In case you’ve never heard of St. Dympna, here’s a bit I found about her patronage: “Against sleepwalking; epilepsy; epileptics; family happiness; incest victims; insanity; loss of parents; martyrs; mental asylums; mental disorders; mental health caregivers; mental health professionals; mental hospitals; mental illness; mentally ill people; nervous disorders; neurological disorders; possessed people; princesses; psychiatrists; rape victims; runaways; sleepwalkers; therapists.” That’s exactly how it was worded at the Catholic forum I visited. I don’t think St. Dympna was really against “family happiness” or various others of the items, professions, and conditions mentioned, but yeah, I can see her being against sleepwalking. Suffice it to say, and you can take this with more than a grain of salt if you are so inclined, that St. Dympna is the patron saint of the mentally ill. Now that I type it in so many words, it occurs to me that I might have shared this information with you before…in fact, I distinctly remember Michael Main commenting about another saint’s credentials….Oh, well. Saints Preserve Us! So, Grandpa Bernard died at age forty, in an obviously tragic and possibly mentally ill state. But, you’re probably thinking right about now, didn’t you have another grandpa? Wouldn’t your mother also have been fortunate enough to have a dad? Yes, yes she was. The grandpa I knew my whole life was called Papoo. He lived until the summer of 1976, when I was twenty-two. We lived in the same town our whole lives, and he was a thoroughly wonderful man to know and love. I’m thinking about him a lot these days, as Doug and I are leading up to hopping on the plane for the Old Country. The first time I went to Scotland was after I’d grown up and moved out on my own. My parents had decided to go and take my brother and baby sister who still lived at home. I had the brilliant idea to fork over a wad of cash and piggyback onto their vacation. Papoo spent the night at Mom and Dad’s house the night before we were scheduled to fly. I spent the night, too, because we lived far from the airport and a limo was scheduled to retrieve us and all our stuff fairly early in the morning. Before I awakened, Mom cooked a full Irish breakfast for her daddy, who then kissed her good-bye and headed back to his house, a twenty minute drive from hers. Did I mention Papoo was a widower, lived alone, and that Mom was his only child? To say he felt a bit of panic about his daughter leaving the country for five weeks, when he was used to her calling him twice a day, would be putting it mildly. We got the phone call about an hour later, just as the limo was scheduled to pull up in front of the house. Papoo had called my sister Liz and said, “I’m not feeling too well. Can you come over to the house? Don’t tell your mother, though, because she and the rest of them are about to leave for Scotland.” Liz and her new husband Big John rushed right over to Papoo’s house and there he sat in the kitchen chair, the phone in his hand, way past only mostly dead. You might say that Scotland laid claim to both my grandfathers, then—the first, whose loyalties drew him home to Ireland over the waters and back again, and the second, who with his final earthly thoughts could only imagine seeing the place through his lovely daughter’s eyes. Scotland is fascinating and frightening, beautiful and bleak. The memories and the might-have-beens it recalls are as jagged as the craggy mountains that cut into the mist-enshrouded landscape. At the same time, though, there’s healing in the heather. And so, once again, Caledonia calls. Posted by Katy on 04/22/06 at 08:05 AM Fallible Comments... Katy - I sure wish we lived close enough to go enjoy a latte together and chat sometimes... Sometimes the co-incidences in your blog posts to my life are a little overwhelming! My maiden name is Duncan - though my family didn't come over quite as recently as yours. And my grandpa Duncan also drowned in a river under very suspicious circumstances... I can't wait to hear about your trip to Scotland. I've been to England once, but not Scotland yet. Posted by Chris(tine) on 04/22/06 at 09:20 AM Katy I love the following description you wrote: Scotland is fascinating and frightening, beautiful and bleak. The memories and the might-have-beens it recalls are as jagged as the craggy mountains that cut into the mist-enshrouded landscape. That is beautiful! I've always wanted to go to Scotland as well. My husband's family is from there. I'm a huge mix of Irish, English, Cherokee, Blackfoot, and French Canadian. So, that makes me interested in a lot of stuff LOL Posted by Sandy on 04/22/06 at 10:38 AM Chris(tine)--Ooooh. Suspicious circumstances are endlessly fascinating. I would love to compare notes, over coffee or not! (I will know more, I think, about my Irish grandpa when I get back from the Old Country....) Sandy--Thanks for commenting here! I visited your site and Wow! Your interests are amazing...Good for you! Posted by Katy on 04/23/06 at 07:27 PM Did I confuse things between Ireland and Scotland? :) I've got to go back and read your posts again... I really look forward to hearing about your trip and what you learn!! Posted by Chris(tine) on 04/24/06 at 08:09 PM Page 1 of 1 pages Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: Half A Million Little Dollars Previous entry: Sometimes I Feel Like A Daughterless Mom << Back to main


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A Tale Of Two Grandpas

Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri