Note: Last year I had the privilege of reading the journals that my grandfather, Will Hannings, kept during WWII. From basic training, being stationed throughout the Philippines, to eventually making the trip back home years later. The pages were filled with photographs and drawings of his time away, an absolute treasure. While I was reading the journals, my other grandfather, Hans Kaufhold, took a sharp turn with his health, and passed on March 23, 2021. I rediscovered one grandfather, while watching the other slip away.
I come from two families of love.
One that’s messy, and loud, and quick to offer up an I love you. A kiss on the mouth.
Another that weaves their love into letters; ‘All my love, Grammie Hannings,’ a peck on the cheek. Old journals with confessions of war time love, and a painting with my name snuck onto the side of a boat.
So much of our lives are dictated by proximity. That’s it.
I always thought I was more like my mom’s family, simply because I live near them, grew up around them, spend countless holidays and birthdays and Saturday night dinners with them.
But now, reading the words of my grandfather, a man I met but don’t remember, I am finding a whole new connection I’ve never felt before.
It makes me cry. Sad tears for the person I missed out on knowing, the man who brought so much love to my family, creativity, and insightful wisdom. But also happy tears as I discover pieces of myself mimicked in his stories, his choice of words, his view of the world. I feel a closeness I never expected to feel. The simple task of scribbling into a journal, unsure if anyone will ever read the words, is one I’ve done for the majority of my life. But his words, in impeccable cursive, traveled all the way around the globe, over three generations. They opened a door to a young man in love, a young man navigating wartime in foreign lands. Reading them showed me the love I knew was there, but didn’t always see.
Grandpa Kaufhold was different. I had him so much longer.
Incredible war stories of his own, and a love story I will forever hope to emulate. But I was lucky, I got to watch this one, to listen, to hold hands and skip through the supermarket. The lessons I learned from him were hands on, he was just always there.
My love of growing came through my mom, directly from Grandpa. He grew food since he was a young boy, a family of 7 living on the outskirts of Hamburg, Germany. It was ingrained in him, it was what you did to survive. My mom talks of a big garden they had growing up, and the expectation that everyone helps out.
I remember planting tomatoes where we used to have a sand box, watching him pollinate struggling plants with a paintbrush, down on his hands and knees, his long nose dusting the leaves. He planted marigolds every Spring, with seeds he brought home from his plants in Texas. Each Fall he’d collect the dried flower heads and save seed for next year. Coffee cans and newspaper spread around the basement.
We always joked about “organic,” him stretching out the word in his thick german accent, and he loved to make fun of the organic farm I worked on for years. He thought organic was something young people did to prove we knew better. “The same rain falls on my garden as over on your farm.” Even through his jabs I always knew he respected the work, and respected me for doing it. He was always offering me vegetables from his garden, and I was quick to replace his cucumber plants after a pesky vole kept eating them.
I’m overwhelmed by the idea of him being gone, even though I knew it was coming. I’m grieving for him, for my grandmother who is struggling to understand, for all the big life events I had hoped he would be there for. But I have to focus on all the years I was lucky enough to have him, all the memories we shared together, all the inside jokes and “I love you more’s.”
Two incredible men that I knew in such different ways. A part of me feels guilty about it, but that’s life, and that’s ok. Family is family, and for me, love only grows stronger the more you listen and learn.
So, keep a journal, craft your love into words. Pen them in the hopes that someone will rediscover them one day. Plant a garden, throw a few marigolds seeds on the back hill, keep growing. Always keep growing.
I come from two families of love. Both different and perfect and forever.
