"All men live in suffering, I know as few can know."— William Butler Yeats
My grandfather, George Frawley (1895-1957), was a rough and tough man, cocky, confident and fearless – blunt as a sledgehammer, abrasive as coarse sandpaper, but could be as gentle as a butterfly. He was as Irish as a pint of Guinness.
As a young man he was an excellent amateur boxer, well-known in the Boston and Brockton areas. He worked at the Fore River Shipyard, and was a bookie.
In 1924 he married Catherine McDonnell and they had two daughters. Living in an all-women household must have been challenging and frustrating at times – probably leaving him flabbergasted and speechless.
A year after his oldest daughter married, she gave birth to a boy. George, beaming and proud, had a grandson – and I had a grandfather unaware of the adventures ahead – the magical and mystical journey of love and friendship between a grandfather and grandson.
From the day I was born until he died almost 12 years later, I saw him every day – I lived just two houses away. By the time I was 5 years old, I was his partner and sidekick. We went to ball games and horse races and boxing matches, and spent time in barrooms throughout Boston. Every Friday night I stayed overnight at his house. We would get pizza and watch the Gillette Friday Night Fights. On Saturday mornings we would go out to breakfast.
He told me enchanting tales of Ireland and also the atrocities the British committed against the Irish. Almost daily he would challenge me to spell new words and stressed the importance of reading. He encouraged me to take risks, to be independent and adventurous.
He taught me how to gamble, when to bet and when to leave the money in my pocket – to be a good winner and a gracious loser. When I lost a bet to him, he always demanded the money – no excuses.
Only once did he lose his temper with me. It was a Sunday in August 1957. I was 11 years old and at dinner with my grandparents. I drop my fork and blurt out, "F**K!" My grandfather reaches across the table to slap me but misses. I run out of the house but my grandfather catches me. I'm shaking and scared, tears in my eyes. He puts an arm around me and tousles my hair and says, "Let's go for a drive and get some ice cream." I look at him and say, "Really?" He smiles, takes my hand and off we go.
Jump to September 26, 1957.
"I heard the news today...the news was rather sad." — Lennon/McCartney.
As the sun was rising on what was to become a bright blue, beautiful day, I rode my bike to Saint Mary's church to serve as the altar boy for the 7 a.m. Mass. When Mass started, my grandfather, as usual, was kneeling in the front row. But as he knelt there, I was unaware of the inner turmoil and demons raging within him.
After Mass I was in a rush to catch the bus to school. I passed him as he walked home and yelled, "See you after school!" He waved and shouted, "Ammonia and pneumonia!" Two words I needed to spell when I saw him again.
When I got home from school, he wasn't home. So, I sat on his front porch and did my homework. As I waited for him, he was in the woods across the street standing on an old stone wall. A rope was in his hands. He made a noose, tied an end of the rope over a thick branch, slipped the noose around his neck.
He probably paused and said a prayer, a moment still and peaceful. Then he silently stepped off the stone wall, his body swayed like a pendulum counting down the final seconds of his life.
The next morning my parents told me my best friend, my hero, the man I called grampa, was dead – my dreams broken, my heart shattered.
When I got home that afternoon, I had dreams of the days and years ahead that I would spend with my grandfather. I even knew how to spell ammonia and pneumonia.
Yeats ends his poem “Broken Dreams” with these words: "vague memories, nothing but memories." My memories of my grandfather are both vague and vivid, but what most remains is the loving beautiful bond between a grandson and his grandfather.
And six decades later I am still waiting for him to come home.
Thomas Truelson lives in the town of Sandwich on Cape Cod.