Memories of a Grandfather

We don't see many inspirational stories in today's news. Most of the stories are dismal, depressing, examples of human failure and distress. Murder, rape, theft, taxes, corruption, and the list goes on as authors write about the flaws of humanity; it is rather sad that people seem to be infatuated with the negative. However, every once in a while there is a story to be told that goes beyond the darkness, a made-for-hope type of tale that can give a person something optimistic. This is one of those types of stories: and it is one quite close to my heart.

My grandfather died when I was very young. The year was 1969: a lot of bad things were happening in our country. Vietnam, assassinations, economic problems, drugs, prison rioting, police brutality, and the list goes on to where there wasn't much to be thankful for. His death was just one more cog in the machine that was part of growing up. My family was unprepared for it all. I was unprepared for it all. I had just started to realize what kind of a good person he was. Some of my innocence died that year.

He was born Harry Thevenin on April 6, 1910. Not much is left of his childhood except that he grew up in small Pittsburgh suburb of immigrant French parents, and that he was interested in machines, art, and electrical things. He was rather slim and somewhat tall for his family, and he never gained much weight. As he grew up he began to draw and paint, a talent that he would show through the work that he would save. Somewhere in his youth he met a woman and fell in love. This woman, Helen Kraus, of German immigrant parents, would become my grandmother.

Looking at pictures of the two of them, both together and separate, they were made for each other. I often wondered how their parents felt in the fact that their home countries were in the midst of fighting two wars against each other and they weren't probably supposed to get along. They married in 1934 in a civil ceremony but did not officially marry in a church until 1943. By that time my mother was born; a single child who would also inherit artistic talents from my grandfather.

As rich in artistic abilities as my grandfather was, he left it all behind to work as a heavy machine operator. For years he made a decent living doing this, although I am sure his heart was always in art. As my mother neared high school graduation and her own love affair, his life changed suddenly for the worse. In the fall of 1953 he had a massive stroke, one which nearly paralyzed his entire left side of his body. My grandmother was forced to go out into the workforce and begin her own life as a restaurant cook, something she did for nearly the rest of her life. My grandfather was told that he would never walk or talk again. Being a stubborn Frenchman, he refused to listen to this prognosis. He decided to fight.

Eventually he would prove the doctors wrong, walking with a limp but walking all the same. He also regained entirely is ability to talk, never losing his capacity to rapidly involve himself in conversation about just anything. He had developed friends in almost every part of the Pittsburgh area, and he shared his stories with most of them. My sister and I would travel with him to some of his favorite watering holes, playing pinball machines and drinking cream of soda while my grandfather swapped his stories. His will to live and to be productive impressed me, even as a young boy. I could see in him the desire to be someone and to share his life with others, even as he worked through his failings. He had a short temper and the two of us several times saw it in action. All of this was nothing to keep us from thoroughly worshiping him. He was taller than life to us; when he smiled he radiated a kind of energy that is hard to explain. It was that will to live.

I was not quite a teenager when he died. A second stroke claimed him, and he never recovered. I didn't see my grandmother cry about it until many years later, when something that was said brought a flash of memory back to her. She lived to see me graduate from college, begin my own career, and see my sister start a family. She died in 1984.

Many years passed before I was shown his drawings. He had an eye for people, something that I had tried myself and could not do. I began to wonder what kind of an artist he would have been if he had pursued it. I recently rediscovered these drawings and found what appeared to be a love letter to my grandmother, obviously before they were married. He could, to my opinion, write poetic verse as well, bordering the poem/love letter with drawings. I also uncovered a colored drawing of his "dream" cabin or cottage, which he saved all those years. He never realized this dream, but he apparently kept the vision alive by holding on to his drawing.

You may ask: what was the inspiration? How did he inspire me to be who I am? It is simple: with his capacity to fight through illness and depression to continue to live a life of contribution and dedication. Even after his difficult rehabilitation and incomplete recovery he insisted on doing things on his own and getting back into the workforce. He began anew a career in the police department near his hometown, and he walked regularly, although he did not give up coffee and cigarettes. He kept family close, and committed himself to sharing time with my sister and me, something that had to have been difficult for him with the energy we both had. he was still working when he died.

I decided to share some of his work with the world because everyone who knew him in his life is dead or have forgotten those days. I felt that someone had to tell his story, and someone had to give his spirit new meaning, new existence. He was a typical hardworking American and millions of these kinds of stories need to be preserved and told. My effort here is to keep him alive, especially for those who like to hear these tales. Those who read this print will need to recognize the similar yet different plot of living and growing. His struggle to survive and regain his worth is one that I admire, and I am sharing it with my daughter. It is the least I can do.

Inspiration comes from many directions, many sources. The choices of life make us targets for both good and bad. My grandfather's life gives me hope that, no matter what, I can leave something behind that can perhaps inspire a later generation, even without gaining fame or fortune. Harry Thevenin's grave is in a cemetery not that far south of where he lived most of his life, and he is surrounded by many of his family members. A headstone is not enough, however, to honor a man or woman who left a legacy that is threatened to be forgotten. We must honor the dead by telling their stories, and as many and as much as possible.

I know myself that I am closer to the end than I am to the beginning. I, like most human beings, have seen my share of tragedy as well as excitement. One of the greatest days of my life was watching my daughter be born. In today's world of cyberspace and huge storage space we have a better chance of leaving a record of our own lives. Those who came before us do not have that opportunity. This is, again the least I can do for him.

If I could say something to him today, I would tell him to read this story and smile. I would hope he would do that. It would be the least he could owe me.