I know “Pop-pop,” the name I called my mother’s father, was severely depressed during the late 1980’s and for years after. Yet, I mostly remember him as my kind and silly old Pop-pop. When I reread this excerpt from that day, it was the first time in my life I ever really wondered what it must have been like to be the adult daughter of a depressed father. I cannot relate. My own father has always been a happy-go-lucky guy. One who can see the bright side of things, has kind words to say, and is eager to move on from sullen conversation. His perspective on life was filtered through “rose-colored glasses” my siblings and I would say. The kind of jovial attitude that can get annoying, although it often provokes a smile from us in the end. When Mom was worried about money, he would appear to have the answers to unasked questions. The solution was easy, couldn’t she see?

“We’ll just make more!” He would say.
  
It came in handy if he loved you. When my sister would tease me in front of him, “Why weren’t you in your dorm room Saturday morning when Dad called?”
 
He would interject, “She already said she was at the library… studying.” With a wink.

Now, as a sporadic happy-go-rose-colored-glasses practitioner myself, I realize this attitude is a mix of one’s natural disposition and a lifestyle choice that takes work to maintain. Like salve on the skin, it can have many benefits when applied daily. And like pain relievers that only treat the symptoms, using it alone can enable us to avoid processing a stinging reality.
 
My mother’s reality in 1989 was that she was a 30-year-old married mother of four with a father who was so overwhelmed in melancholy, he was not available to be a father nor a grandfather. Her choice in her husband makes more sense than ever.

SOFTLY KNOCKING ON A CLOSED DOOR

Road trips down the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Mom-mom and Pop-Pop’s house happened several times a year in the late 1980’s. I discovered the distance one travels to visit family is in direct proportion to the welcoming procedures upon receipt. It was a big deal when Mom and Dad brought their four children to visit our maternal grandparents. Their humble abode also housed Mom-mom’s brothers, great uncle Charlie and great Uncle Mike… and anywhere up to three sons who needed a place to crash at any given time. Aunt Aggie also needed to stay there with her two daughters during a rough patch. Aunt Rhonda was often there visiting as she lived just down the street with her family. One of six Irish Catholic children my mother was, if you’re counting. This house lives in my memories as a clown car of sorts where relatives were always coming or going. I could never figure out how six bedrooms fit in that unassuming home.

The house wasn’t far from the highway exit. A small, white stucco cottage sitting about 200 feet off a very busy street. “Tooter didn’t look both ways,” Mom-mom would say about this street. Reminding us all that it claimed the life of her darling, ugly as sin, pug. We better be wise to not make that same mistake. “Look both ways.” We never had occasion to cross the street because we were forbidden. But, it was fair advice. She was a worrier by nature and it soothed her anxiety to repeat the warning to her grandchildren.

Our grey 1985 Chevy Caprice, also my father’s company car, turned right up the short driveway to the space in front of the garage that sat next to the house. Excitement begins. It’s Christmastime and we always enjoyed visiting Mom-mom and Pop-pop’s home. All four of us piled out of the back bench seat of the station wagon and made our way toward the small, multi-level back deck that led to the door used by family. We were a ‘deck door’ family, always have been. We never entered from the front door. That was for company and strangers. There was no snow in time for Christmas, as usual for the area. Just frigid air and stiff frosty grass. It wouldn’t be any fun to play in the back yard that day. No climbing the willow tree or hanging from the monkeybars on the swing set. Just a quick glance around to make sure all was as we left it. Yep. As reliable as the change of seasons, the old ‘69 Mustang 428 Cobra Jet with a broken engine, sprouting the only tall grass and weeds on the property, was sitting broadside, flank right. One of my uncles was gonna work on that someday.

Mom opened the glass door with frosted edges, releasing a cloud of warm air floating scents of homemade cookies, roasted meats, and Christmas tree needles over our wintery cherry cheeks. Not red from the short time in the cold, but immediately red from entering a tropical atmosphere where coats can’t unzip fast enough before squishy, boney relatives scream for joy and smother you in their bosoms and coffee breath.

Although space to greet each other in the kitchen was tight, my family always insisted on their ‘enthusiastic hellos’ before we had a chance to do anything else. Like adding our coats to the pile on top of the washer n’ dryer or dropping the gifts under the tree. Immediately our tangled group shuffled from cousins to Aunts and Uncles, bumping into the large kitchen table and chairs. This eight-seat oak table, acquired second-hand from an office board room, served for decades as the hub of family visits and all transactions that go with it. Eating, talking, reading, writing, cooking, fighting, laughing, crying—a place to do homework, taxes, and the Sunday crossword puzzle. A place to tell jokes, make promises, and share recipes.

I managed to get an arm out of my coat, one still stuck in the sleeve, before Aunt Rhonda pulled me toward her, pressed her lipstick lips together making them disappear, and touched her rosy cheek to mine in an embrace. I never saw a woman protect her lip application more. Aunt Aggie was next. She didn’t worry about lipstick and always planted a wet one on ya. Mom’s brothers Uncle Joe, Uncle Mark, and Uncle Charlie never married or had kids (that we know of). They seemed to drift in and out of rooms during our visits, not talking much. Not with me anyway, but they liked to chat with Dad about cars. And we couldn’t forget to say ‘hi’ to GREAT Uncle Charlie and GREAT Uncle Mike. They were veterans of WWII. Charlie a navy man who worked in the boiler room of a ship dry docked at Pearl Harbor, Mike a paratrooper in the Army who dropped into the enemy lines and executed covert operations. The trauma they experienced at war steered them toward a lifetime of attempting therapies and treatments with various degrees of success in rehabilitation. After the war ended, and for the rest of their lives, they preferred to wear the fashions of the 1940’s. They donned collared dress shirts with patterned rayon ties, wingtip shoes, and pleated trousers barely hanging on to their shrinking frames with leather belts. The veteran brothers generally stayed in their preferred wooden chairs around the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes all afternoon, the only two allowed to smoke in the house. Often steadying their focus with a mumbled sound, “hm mh mm mh mm hm.” Like basset hounds who’d long seen their last hunt, their noble eyes were dark and droopy. Proud noses and ears with tissue paper thin skin covering their swollen blue and purple veins. They were never cruel or upsetting, just forever distant. “Mm hm hm ‘em mm hm…Dinner ready, Ag?” Ag was for Agnes, Mom-mom. A smile and a wave to them from across the room would do. A smile and a nod back.

Mom-mom always gave the best hugs, as grandmothers do. Agnes’s delicate red hair was swept back in a high, loosely coiffed bun. Pale and freckled skin, with a flush of life in her cheeks, weathered but vibrant. Often an Irish themed pin would adorn her sweater collar, St. Patrick or a four-leaf clover, and a gold claddaugh ring on her finger. She came to this country with her parents as a baby, but unfortunately they struggled to provide for her and her eight or nine siblings. Years later she was sent to live with a foster family, as were her sisters. Her brothers were expected to work. No doubt this void of parental leadership had lifelong residual effects. As my grandmother, she almost seemed to be as sweetly naive as we were. Giggling, she would ask, “Oh, are you my Bridget? You’re so big…heh-heh-heh-heh.” Or chiding with the tip of her tongue, “Did you see the news? Che-che-che… such a sin.” When she said ‘hello,’ she didn’t have to bend down much to hug us, she was just about 5 feet tall. All her children were long and slender like my Lithuanian Pop-pop.

We said ‘hello’ to Pop-pop last during these visits. Charles would be in his bedroom. Another mystery to this clown house was that two of the six bedrooms were used by Mom-mom and Pop-pop separately.  All four of us grandkids approached Pop-pop’s first floor bedroom. It was standard procedure. My mother gave a soft, polite knuckle to the door. She had already checked in to see if he was receiving visitors. Not waiting to hear a response she opened the door and we entered single file, oldest in front—Michael, me, Lisa, then Steven. It was small and dark in there. No lights on, no curtains drawn. The only luminance was the cool glow from the TV. It bathed the room in a strobe light fashion, unsyncopated sequences of various blue tones lasting unknown amounts of time before the TV program cut to another scene. I don’t remember the programs, but it was daytime network TV in the late 1980’s. There were only a few options and my money was on soap operas. Slowly, our eyes adjusted, and Pop-pop’s silhouette would come into focus. He laid on his twin bed facing the TV with a blanket over him. It would be unclear if he was dressed for the day or still in pajamas… the same money that’s on soap operas would be on pajamas. He was soft spoken and kind. We would singsong a ‘hello,’ 

“Merry Christmas Pop-pop!” 

“Merry Christmas,” the even-toned reply. 

He would ask us, “Yous in school?” 

“Yes” we would say. Of course we were in school! But I wasn’t complaining about the easy answer to a dark silhouette in a TV lit room. This was our chance to elaborate on any current events, but we were all between 4–10 years old, so details were simple. Mike played soccer. Me and Lisa played with the neighbor’s new kittens, and Stevie… he was doing whatever 4-year-olds did.  

“Yous take some candy,” he offered.

There was always a bowl of various hard candy behind us on the dresser. Mom-mom must have kept it supplied. Butterscotch was my favorite, but as this was a home with “old” people, those were sparse treasures. Next best was the strawberry kind with a teeny tiny pocket of fruit-inspired flavored goo in the center. In this semi darkness we had to feel around and do our best guessing amongst the crinkly cellophane wrappers. Strawberries had one twisty end, butterscotch had two. Lifesavers were detected after sensitive fingertips rolled over the circle and then pressed the indented center hole. Fruit-inspired flavored Lifesavers were great, but I knew from experience the chalky mint kind were included in the bowl too. Since they also accomplished fresh breath, they weren’t frivolous enough to be a treat. Strawberry was the best option. A cheerful ‘thank you’ from us kids was next. Then we proceeded out the door to the crowded kitchen and threw away our wrappers. That was it. That let everyone else know, we can commence with the festivities.

Thinking back, I wonder how the Christmas cacophony landed on Pop-pop’s oblong saucer ears back there. He was never that far away. Did he crack the door? Was he quietly peaking around the corner just to take in the scene? I never thought about it then, but my mother must have. Why did he feel like he couldn’t join us? She must have been worried for him, but was she also a bit hurt herself? Perhaps, as it is with mothers, she was triaging, prioritizing, compartmentalizing. The thought of his wellness weighed on her, and so did the thought of her children having a good holiday. She said ‘cheese’ for the camera, she smiled as we opened presents, she enjoyed the meal that was prepared. However she was feeling that day, she still took a soft knuckle to his door and brought her children in to spend time with their grandfather. Growing up, I’ve heard that tender knock on my door from time to time too. How can a sound express love? It did.

I was later aware that Pop-Pop had a form of depression. During his doctor-prescribed pharmaceutical treatment, he took too many pills one night and scared everyone, including himself, enough to voluntarily register at a mental health facility. Even though he did eventually get better, and the family was very supportive, maybe it seemed unfair to my mom. His capacity to be self-sufficient took a nosedive after his wife went on a cross-country trip.

Before that he was keen to joke around. He’d laugh with your entertaining observations, or at your expense. All for the funny. I recall one summer day when he hid behind the garage door, threw an empty plastic milk jug toward me and my sister, then stayed hidden and giggling. Amused to see the bouncing container startle his unsuspecting grandchildren into shaken or frozen poses. A real practical joker. Why couldn’t that fun-loving man let his wife have this precious trip to Ireland, her beloved homeland, to visit her few remaining family members? She came over ‘on the boat’ as a baby, never to return. This was her chance to see what her Irish relatives talked about. Can’t a woman take a trip and not come home to a husband who is making it impossible for her to dream of ever leaving again, just because he’s insecure, or something?

And yet, I have to ask myself, have I ever made it that difficult to be around me? I’ve felt myself drawn to darkness all my life. It’s not talked about enough, the darkness in us all. Is my particular brand of gloom from Pop-pop? Like the cancer gene my mother and I shared, was it genetic? I like to smile, but I also like to drown my anxieties in a cloud of goose down, gummy bears, and YouTube for hours and hours… and hours. There was a time when I guzzled down booze every day, just to not feel anything. Escapism. Ignore all reality and responsibility. Nursing my dreary heart with the same toxic behavior that makes me feel awful in a never-ending cyclone of discontentment. Deny myself creative outlets because I’m a ‘stupid selfish bitch’ who doesn’t deserve it. Cut my wrists, longways, then hide it with bracelets the next day. And go on hiding… everything. The alcohol from my family and friends, my unhealthy body with smoke n’ mirrors. I wanted to avoid bills, deadlines, the pressure of attending family events, the risks it takes to meet new friends, and the personal obligations of being a reliable life partner. I wasn’t present. I was paralyzed with addiction and unrealized potential. I was frustrated with not understanding my place in this world. My purpose was absent.  

The practice I keep to remain healthy has turned this around for me. Movement, marijuana, reading, writing, nutrition, nature, and community. These general buckets hold the tools I need. When applied daily they have many benefits. Choose my own adventure and set myself up for success. Pin yoga for Saturday. Get three pages typed before noon. Farmer’s Market Sunday. Team meeting. Family hike. Call my sister back. Finish that chapter. Peace out with Blueberry Kush. Must stay flexible. Find the balance. Now, there are less cyclones, more like passing storms. I know my restlessness with my life was a byproduct of not knowing myself. The journey continues. All is not lost, AND there are still mountains to climb. 

As for Pop-pop, maybe his depression makes sense. Charles was a poor Lithuanian “orphan” whose immigrant parents gave him up to the St. Casimir Church around 9 or 10 years old because they could not support the children they had. The priests were horrible to him while he worked and lived there. After running away around 11 years old, he survived doing laborious work for this house or that one, so long as they had a place to keep him. One house was ‘a house of ill repute’! How I love this for some reason. I think because they were actually nice to him there. Not like the other nasty housewives who called themselves Christians. To think, these ‘professional’ women were the ones who treated him like a human and cared for him as the valuable child he was. He survived doing odd jobs until he enlisted in the Navy and went to war in Germany. Oh, the stories he could tell. But he never did much of that. I learned from others that Pop-pop drove a boat across the Rhine to and from Germany transporting American soldiers. One night, suddenly, he had to jump ship, fleeing the German’s strafing bullet attacks. The staccato spray tracked toward his vessel faster than he could think. Instinctually he leapt into that powerful, wild river. He hit his head hard against something, and went black. Thankfully he managed to surface on the right side of the riverbank. Upon being rescued, he had trouble reporting his name or recalling what he was doing there. Pop-pop and probably many other immigrant children of parents who didn’t speak English, were untrusting of authority. Even though he himself did speak English, he didn’t know how to handle himself with people in positions of power. He was never taught to. So he avoided them at all costs, even his own officers. Instead, he was drawn to those he felt safe with, people who had looked out for him, women. Candy stripers. The female volunteers in their recognizable red and white striped pinafores offered weak coffee and dry donuts at their station. They helped Charles find where he belonged. 

After being honorably discharged and during the long ship ride home across the Atlantic, I hope he managed to get some respite. He must have liked to sit out on the deck in the sun. I think about how he might have closed his eyes, let the sounds of the sea and the red sunlight beaming through his eyelids take him away from all the painful experiences he had until then. What I do know is that he got quite a dark tan. They disembarked in South Carolina. As he was exiting the gang plank with the rest of the soldiers, the officers directed him to exit in the negro line, not white. He was so darkly tanned that he passed for a black man… according to those officers. They told him to deposit his sea bag, which contained a helmet and Luger, with the others from his line. He continued his journey home. Never saw that bag again. 

I think Pop-pop’s head injury happened while he fought in the Battle of Remagen. He must have served as a coxswain (driver) of a LCM, Landing Craft, Mechanized, popularly known as a “Mike” boat. The description of that battle aligns with the family stories I’ve been told and his plight feels more real to me.

“On March 22, 1945, Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr.’s U.S. Third Army made a surprise hasty crossing of the German Rhine River in the vicinity of Oppenheim at the village of Nierstein. The assault was conducted without prior artillery or air preparation and without any formal plan. It was made in moonlit waters “on the run” by the fast-moving divisions of Maj. Gen. Manton S. Eddy’s XII Corps.” *¹

Before Charles left for the war, he met Agnes, our future Mom-mom. He got to know her a little, took her sledding, kissed her and told her to wait for him. His arduous 10-year pilgrimage from lonely youth to Navy veteran ended with him walking ‘home’ from the train to that miserable St. Casimir Church. It was the first place he thought to go before looking for Agnes. But there was no more church. It had been torn down. Forgotten chunks of crumbled rock laid at his feet. The cemetery was still there. He had served and fought for his country and then had no real home to come home to. It must have been so disorienting. I wonder if it felt like a heavy blow or a weight lifted? Luckily, he and Agnes reconnected, married, and started their life together. Making a living laying sheetrock was hard but somewhat steady work. Times were often tough, as they were for many in those days. Feeling the pain of loss, the pain of uncertainty, the lonely pain that comes with being human was so prevalent after the war….as it seems to be still. Maybe like the lymphocytes in our bodies which seek out disease to conquer it, we can seek out each other in these times, and share the burden that is this life. Just as important as the times we need to be uplifted, so are the times we desire others to allow us to be down. Cozy up under the covers and watch bad television. Share some strawberry candy.

Because people are what matters in this world. And sometimes, people need to hear a soft knocking on their closed door.

1. https://warfarehistorynetwork.com ↩︎