When I retired just over a year ago and we moved to this wonderful bucolic North Carolina acreage, I was sure I would have plenty of time to think and write out my thoughts. Blogging is more what it is called today – and that is just fine with me. I type much better than I write longhand any way, and there’s the benefit of an instant readership. I would finally have the quiet and the time to sort out and unravel all my heart-felt opinions about life and living.
It seems I’ve always had very strong opinions about almost everything (quick thanks here to my friends and family who have loved me in spite of those opinions) and now was the time to really set my mind straight. Growing older causes you to see things VERY differently than when you were in your 20s, 30s, 40s (you get the idea), and it amazes me to see that I am still evolving. I think I see myself becoming more seasoned and in some things more thoughtful and balanced. I wanted those who have known me well to know I wasn’t done yet. Sort of like cleaning up a file cabinet, my thoughts would be logical and linear and possibly even help someone else along the way!
I was also excited to be able to establish a little literary history of my life, my future, my failings, my triumphs, particularly for my precious children and grandchildren. Religion and politics, two not-so-secret passions of mine but subjects that were not always very welcome dining table discussions, would be high on my agenda.
So what happened? In the last year I have written exactly once – it was the 2008 Ohsberg family Christmas letter that is my annual job. Since then I’ve had plenty of ideas, plenty of opinions (particularly in an election year), but somehow I came to believe that what I have to say matters very little. And so I got writer’s block. Nothing! Even coaxing from my daughter and her daughter could elicit nary a paragraph.
That changed Wednesday night, April 29, 2009. Not by wishing or a sweating desire to write, but by necessity. I knew my writer’s block was broken that night, the night that I stood around the bedside of my husband’s dying father.
I want to honor the man who raised my husband, the man I affectionately called “Pop” for nearly 40 years. The words I write and the remembrances that I share are important for my children and grandchildren to know. When my own father died fifteen years ago my heart would not allow anyone to know the depths of my loss, and I am deeply sorry now because memories fade and some are forever lost. So forever let all those who read these words know that I write about the legacy to me and mine of my father-in-law, John Edward Ohsberg, Jr.
One thing I want you to know about John is that he was honest, brutally at times, but always. Above all he valued the truth in himself and others. Integrity and loyalty were the foundations to his character. He looked for these qualities in every relationship he would form. He was the archetypical straight shooter. You knew where you stood with John, either because he told you so or because of what he didn’t say.
He could be cynical and even sensitive to the point of being touchy, but I’m convinced that these two traits heralded back to his birth. John never knew the love of a mother. She died when John was just a wee lad. John was left to be forever rejected by his father and shuffled from relative to relative for his upbringing. He grew up expecting to be rejected, feeling undeserving of any unconditional love. You could say he sort of had his “dukes up,” ready to deliver a blow before he’d be suckered punched. And in that context one can understand the man he grew to be.
A man small in stature but gigantic in intensity, he told us on one of our last visits with him how he joined the Navy – lying about his age, and he learned early to be mean so that he wouldn’t be picked on for his size by the rest of the crew.
When he met and fell in love with your grandmother, Ginny, he put all his eggs in one basket. He would be to her a husband of the highest integrity and loyalty, love her with a mighty love that has echoed down through the generations. Theirs was a marriage that every one of his children has marveled at. It was such a wonderful example of unity that I based my own awkward attempts at marriage on it, and it has served me well over the past 39 years.
John moved away from Connecticut after retiring from the State Department of Transportation where he was a consummate welder and fabricator. Although he didn’t brag about his ability, he knew what he was doing with a torch and a piece of metal in his hands. He took great pride in that accomplishment. Later he went on to spend another 10 years at the same job but for the State of California – where he was affectionately called Barney (because he reminded his coworkers of the Flintstones character, lovable and small Barney).
He and Ginny had moved to California to be near Jack and me, and to get away from the cold of New England winters. In fact they lived just across the street from us for about 7 years. The move was not easy on them, but they embraced it and began to put down roots again well into their 50s. Now I realize just how difficult a move like that was.
We saw them struggle with change, but we also rejoiced with them when they made new friends and became part of a very important community – a community of believers that would affect the rest of their lives. They came to Woodland, California as life-long Episcopalians and within the first year became born-again believers with much more intensity for their faith and a wonderful new role for themselves as mentors and servants for Jesus to their fellow congregants.
After Ginny’s sudden death in 1996, John was devastated. He soon moved away from the house they shared in Woodland for 17 years and decided the best way to get away from the memories was to move as far away as possible to a new place. He joined his son Russ in Stuart, Florida.
He never really regrouped from losing Ginny, which is the way it seems it should be with all love stories. He had lost his heart and soul and didn’t find much purpose to living after that. He was brave and made good attempts to let his children know he was getting by, but he fooled no one. He longed to go home and be with Ginny and enjoy his reward in heaven with her for eternity.
The last few weeks when John knew he was dying were met with incredible resolve. There was some fear but I believe it was of losing his dignity as his controlled grip loosened on his revolting body. He knew he had done his job of living and was ready to go.
Your grandfather showed his children how to live, how to endure adversity and not let it beat them, how to be a marriage partner, how to be an ethical worker, how to be a good neighbor and trustworthy friend, how to give his children what they needed and not necessarily what they wanted. He was what I would call a meat and potatoes type of individual – no nonsense, plain spoken, his word was his bond. He knew what it was to struggle through a great deal of his walk on this earth, but he wasn’t a whiner or a complainer.
I have come to appreciate that more than I thought I would. I can look back on all of it in a larger context today, perhaps because I’m much older and know a few more things about life and what it really means to live it. I know your grandfather was a wonderful and important part of your heritage and he left you with a richness that is part of your own DNA. As you encounter your own struggles and seek to conquer your highest mountains, I hope that you will think about who you are deep inside, what your DNA is made of, and what your parents and grandparents have bequeathed to you. But one thing is all important as far as relationships go, and the one thing I think your grandfather, John, was golden at was how to be a wonderful mate. I remember early on in our marriage when I’m sure he was trying to get a point across to a very inexperienced young bride, he said, “I didn’t marry your mother (in-law) to fight with her.” Think about those words – they are priceless indeed.
I will leave you with a quote from your grandmother. This excerpt is from a letter she wrote to your own dad when we moved away from New England to what she thought was the other side of the world, way off in California where she was convinced she would never see her son again. “Be a good man, Jack, and when in doubt, think of your father, as I don’t think you can find a better example anywhere.”
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