My grandpa louis | Wisconsin Jewish Chronicle

My grandpa louis

I didn’t think my Grandpa Louis loved me or even liked me. Whenever we would visit him and my Grandma Bessie, he pretty much ignored me. I remember that he was short and stocky, almost bald, except for a fringe of hair around the back of his head. He always had on big, wide suspenders and usually wore house slippers. 

Of course, he sort of ignored everyone — my dad, my mother, and my brothers David and Jerry— but no one else seemed bothered. They acted like he was there but were used to his non-involvement with us. But it bothered me, as I wondered why he didn’t talk. 

Grandpa Louis would grunt hello when we came into the house and then go back to his newspapers, strewn around his stuffed chair, read his magazines, or listen to his beloved Philco radio. There was always some news station blaring, and on Sundays, he would have on what I think was called “The Jewish Hour.” I didn’t know Yiddish at the time but was fascinated by the tone and rhythm of the announcer. 

About a year before Grandpa died in 1953, I was in the backyard of our home on 82nd street with my dad as he carefully pruned his peonies. He loved growing them around the house for their smell and their beauty. Dad also planted pansies every year, but his attention was always on his peonies. 

I got up the nerve to ask him why Grandpa Louis didn’t love me. He put the shears down and looked at me. “Why do you think that?” he asked, and the whole story came pouring out. He listened, asked some questions, and then smiled. “You take this too personal.”  

He went on to say that his father Louis was just a man of very few words. “He was quiet when I was a kid too,” he said. “He never said much but I knew he loved me and Aunt Helen and Uncle Leo very much.” “How did you know?” “I felt it.” “Oh.” 

Then he picked up the shears, tousled my hair and said, “I love that old man.”  

I wondered why I never thought of that….  

We stopped talking and he went back to his pruning. I watched him work. 

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These essays — are works of creative nonfiction and memoir from Alan S. Wolkenstein, obm. He was a clinical professor of family medicine with the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health, a father, a grandfather, and a native West-Sider. We are grateful to Alan for all the colorful stories he has brought to our pages before — often on his life in Jewish Milwaukee — and to his son Evan, for allowing us to publish these works. For a note from Evan, click here.