Somewhere there is a picture of me with my paternal grandfather. I am standing on the sidewalk in front of his independent pharmacy in Dublin, Texas. The picture was taken in 1974 or 1975. I am 2 or 3 years old. In the photo I have a huge smile, and I am holding a broom at least twice as tall as I am. My grandfather - Carl L. - stands behind me and you can see the broad smile on his face as he looks down at me. He is holding the top of the broom and is helping me while I “sweep up” in front of the store.

I don’t know a lot about my grandfather, and almost all that I do know is second hand. I know that I was born on his birthday. He was born on May 27, 1923 - 49 years to the day before I was born. I know that he worked as a pharmacist, the same as his father, the same as his two sons - my father and uncle. I know that he was beloved by many in the community, where he was an active and enthusiastic volunteer. I have found numerous articles in the archives of the local paper celebrating his work as a little league coach, Lions Club officer, and Boy Scout troop leader. One article describes an award he received from the Boy Scouts of America for leading the troop with the highest percentage of Eagle Scouts in the state of Texas.

These are the verifiable facts I have for my grandfather. The other things I know I have gotten second hand from the people that knew him and interacted with him. 

I know that he was once a partner in the big Rexall store on the corner in downtown Dublin, but split with the other two partners because he thought they were more interested in money than in caring for patients. He opened his own drug store one street over, off the main drag. He worked the store with only two employees for the next 20 years. He got numerous offers to expand, partner with others, and grow his business. He always refused. He told people that he was in the business of helping people and making his community better. Almost everyone I talked to used the term “stubborn” to describe my grandfather.

Boy does that fucking track.

I know that my grandfather was near me almost every moment of my young life. He (and my father) were described as doting, loving and deeply caring men. My grandmother (my mom’s mom) told me that she never saw men as in love with a child as my dad and granddad were with me. She said that they were tender and took me everywhere, even as a baby.

I don’t remember any of that. But I hope it’s there, somewhere, inside me.

I know that my grandfather and father were very close. I know that their family was described by person after person I talked to as close knit, caring, and loving. “They were the family we all wanted to be,” one family friend told me, “and it wasn’t fake. They all genuinely loved each other. Carl L. cared about those boys and was always there for them, always cheering.” 

Until he wasn’t.

In June 1975 my grandfather I had a massive heart attack behind the counter at his pharmacy. Despite being a block away from the hospital, there was no helping him. He was dead before he hit the floor. 

In the wake of his death, the family imploded. My grandmother Rose went into a deep depression, and passed herself 3 years later. My dad fell into addiction and drifted out of my life. He passed away in 2006 after suffering a brain injury when he fell down some stairs while under the influence. He is buried next to his parents in Dublin, a few miles away from my grandfather’s pharmacy.

I never really knew my grandfather. We never went hiking, camping, or hunting together (all activities I am told he loved deeply). He loved baseball, especially the New York Yankees. We never got to share that. I didn’t get his advice on how to be a dad. I don’t know how life would have been had things gone differently.

I am zen enough to know that life is as it is. There is little value in wondering what if.

But, I’m also human. And zen only goes so far. I still wonder.

Somewhere there is a picture of me with my paternal grandfather. The picture, like so many other pieces of my life from long ago, is missing. I don’t know where it is. 

I know where I am. And I know that some part of my grandfather is with me.

The first time I met Jim Grubbs I was 8 or 9 years old. What I knew about him was that he ran the ranch that abutted ours to the south. We raised Texas Longhorns on our ranch. Grubbs had Simmentals, a Swiss breed that was unusual in Central Texas. He was always polite and friendly, and I really liked that when my EBS (evil bastard stepdad) talked to him, Jim always - always - made it a point to say hi to me.

We interacted occasionally. We would see him in the feed store. Jim also worked part time in the local western wear store and we would sometimes see him there. He and my EBS got along okay, and EBS didn’t get along with many people. From the earliest time I knew him, Jim had a way of bringing out the best in the people he interacted with. He wasn’t overly pollyanna-ish or anything. He just made people feel comfortable and happy. There was just something about the way he carried himself.

Jim was a burly man with thick black hair and a Tom Selleck mustache. He was one of the physically strongest men I ever met. I remember one year at the Fort Worth Livestock Show and Rodeo. We showed our cattle there every year. I won several belt buckles. This year I recall I must have been 10 or 11. I was walking from the arena back to the barn area and who did I see? Jim Grubbs, leading two Simmental steers, each about a year old. He was leading them to his stall in the barn. He saw me, and stopped to say hi and ask how my prep for the show was going. As we were talking, two teenage boys walked by. They were talking loudly and roughhousing. When they got to us, one of the boys made a sudden jolt toward the steers Jim was holding. Both steers started to freak out. They were pulling and snorting and trying to get loose. 

So here’s Grubbs. He is holding 1800 pounds of scared, frightened animals. He moves the leads into his left hand. He walks to the boy that lunged and grabbed him by the shirt. He is holding the thrashing steers in one hand and lifting the boy off the ground with the other. “You scared?” Grubbs asked. “Yes, sir,” the boy offered. He was shaking. He was scared. “Now YOU know how it feels. So cut out the bullshit.” “Yes sir!” the boy said. Jim set him down. He calmed the steers. He wished me luck at my show that afternoon and walked away with the steers. 

It is still to this day one of the most jaw dropping things I have ever seen.

A few years - and a LOT of bullshit - later my mom would leave EBS. Shortly after she and Jim Grubbs started dating. I was confused and scared at first. I didn’t want another man in our life who would hurt and abuse me. But they kept dating. And soon Jim Grubbs was in our life full time. 

He would turn out to be one of the most amazing men I ever met. Jim was strong and capable. He was compassionate and kind. I am not sure there was anything he couldn’t fix. He was an amazing cook. Barb and I still fantasize about his steaks and sauteed mushrooms. He loved my mother intensely and cared for her deeply. And she was better for it. Her narcissism faded. She was absolutely her best self with Jim. She was loving and caring. She truly saw others and cared about them. And that was because of Jim. He made her better.

Until he didn’t. 

Jim died in a motorcycle accident in 2002. My mom fell apart, and she coped how she always coped with trauma - by sinking more deeply into narcissism. She would eventually struggle to see even basic reality. 

Jim had been a grandpa for only a few years. He made the most of his time. He was present and caring and LOVED his grandkids. He was genuinely excited about being a grandfather. He loved being an uncle. And he loved being a stepdad. I miss talking to him almost every day. I hope he would be proud. I hope he knows how much I miss him and love him.

And I am grateful for the time we had with him.

I am a grandpa now. It feels weird to type that. It feels weird to BE that. Both of my birth parents are dead. Jim Grubbs - the man I consider my dad - is gone. My grandparents have all passed. It is like everything that came before me is gone.

I get that, on a long enough timeline, we all end here. Eventually everything that surrounds us will fade. We are dust in the wind. I recognize that eternal truth.

And I also feel a bit unmoored. I feel disconnected from my own history. I feel - and I have felt - like I must go it alone. That I have to create meaning and connection and family on my own. I don’t have a grandfather to ask for advice about being a grandfather, just as I didn’t have a dad to ask about being a dad. 

I worry about the future. I wish I didn’t, but I do. The two best men in my life left early. They disappeared before I really got to know them. And I worry that I will leave, too. That I will leave my kids, that I will leave Theo. I worry that my brain will finally give way or that my heart will fail or a plane will fall out of the sky and onto me or … something. Something that makes me leave early. I don’t want to think about it. But I do.

No matter how I worry, though, it still felt amazing when I finally got to hold Theo.

I don’t know how to be a grandpa. I am just figuring it out.

I have lost the men who could help me, but I haven’t lost the lessons they taught me.

I know that the best thing I can do is be present. To care for everyone the best I can. To just be myself, and be there for them. All of them. To do as much as I can for as long as I can the best way I can. To be kind and patient with everyone - even myself.

Alex called Jim PawPaw. She was the only kid that really got to know him and to spend time with him. Her memories of him are good.

Because of that, and because of my memories of Jim and the way he moved through the world, I will be using PawPaw as my grandpa name. It is a lot to live up to. But I am ready for the challenge.

I will see the world as a gift, and the people in it as a blessing, for as long as I can.

May it ever be so.