Gaudy Patter

I don't know my grandfather very well, and he knows me not at all. When my sister and I would visit, my grandmother was effusively warm. She'd look at me from across a room, smile, and I'd nearly reel from the shock of how well-loved I was. Grandfather usually retreated to the master bedroom or basement when we passed through. I don't remember any paternal chats or indulgences, just stern admonitions to eat well, take vitamins and exercise, and to be ever wary of white people's motivations.

How this embittered man made a marriage work with a joyful extrovert who loved to laugh, I'm not sure. The simplest explanation is the most likely -- they loved each other very much. My grandmother passed away in 1987; my grandfather's still angry with her for leaving, and I can't blame him.

We're staying across the river in Cherry Hill with my father's cousin and her husband, but days are spent in Philly, shuttling between the giant old house, home stores, and errands to banks and post offices. I come from two generations of pack-rats, so this post-war 4-bedroom, 3-level house was packed with the random accumulations of two lifetimes. I came across twenty pairs of my grandmother's shoes in a storage bin beneath some padded benches in their finished basement. Bank records were scattered all over the house, and insurance and retirement info were reclaimed from boxes, closets, drawers and cabinets. My dad ruefully jokes that he may have accidentally tossed 20% of his father's net worth while sifting through the clutter.

This afternoon, I discovered a cache of well-preserved LPs, 78s and 45s in a cabinet behind the wet bar in the basement. Holding the vinyl, I could easily picture my grandmother Velora singing along with Rodgers & Hart while Walter Jr. made prune faces behind his newspaper. On my knees, groping for the last of the platters, my hand landed on a leatherette folder. The envelope crumbled as I opened it to reveal a MetLife insurance policy dated 1948. For some reason, I didn't want to look for a name on the forms. I gave it to my father when he came back from visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield, the neighbors next door who hadn't seen me since Carter was in the White House.

Dad spends most of his time talking to contractors who are rehabbing the house so it may be sold. Each workman is a familiar "Mister:" Mr. Tate, Mr. Wiggins, etc. These septuagenarians have an easy air, completely lacking the arrogance and indifference I associate with most general contractors. Because they've known my family since they moved in more than 40 years ago, the labor is discounted.

The house, as they say, has excellent bones -- but the skin and nervous system are in need of repair. Dad's replaced the roof, and Mr. Wiggins has stripped the kitchen down to the lathing. His son will do the painting, and a friend of Wiggins the Younger will do the floors. I didn't catch the electrician's name, but he knows my grandfather, too. Mr. Wiggins knows him well enough to table a discussion about plumbing fixtures for a moment so he and my father could pray for him.

Everyone knows my grandfather but me. I can only get a sense of the man by mapping childhood memories against my adult perceptions of what his life was like. I know he spent more than forty years working on the railroad, enduring all kinds of crap so his family could be a part of the middle class.

By any measure, he's been extraordinarily successful. Until his sight started to fail, he always had a newish car in the garage. Walters III and IV each attended the college of their choice. The mortgage was paid off years ago. To my eye, my grandfather is the embodiment of the American Dream.

As the Fourth, I feel history bearing down on me. Walters Sr., Jr. and III each lit a path for the next to follow, but there's only so far someone else can take you before you have to make your own way. I wonder if I'll be able to make the most of the opportunities these men have given me. Am I capable of taking that light into my own hands so I can make someone else's path easier?

But here's what's really funny: I'm 99% sure that I'm the first Walter to ask these reflexive, existential questions. The first three were too busy moving forward to consider their own particular link in the chain, or whether it'd be strong enough for those who might follow. They just did it.

Since I can remember, my father has jokingly affirmed that he would prefer that I have children and name the first male Walter V. My standard response is usually, "what are we, Kennedys? That's a lot to live up to."

Then again, why not?

I have no idea if children are in my future, but I'm starting to understand why names are passed down -- it forges a connection that requires the bearer to be cognizant of those who came before. A form of accountability that's reinforced every time you sign a check or look in your wallet.

So, here I am with three Walters standing behind me, each waiting for me to hold up my end of the bargain and do better than my antecedents.

I'd better get cracking.