Can You Forgive the Past?

Experience the Freedom

Old Newspaper photo of birds landing on my Grandfather

Pictured above is my maternal grandfather. His authoritative voice could sound off in the most bellowing bass I have ever heard, usually accompanied by an equally loud laughter. Must have passed whatever gene codes laughter to my mom forming her signature guffaw.

When I was little and traveled with mom to Florida about twice a year, I would get to play cards with the adults for about an hour before I was sent off to bed. We played Tonk with nickels, and Grandpa often let me take away the growing pot in the middle of the table (even though he provided the nickels in the first place).

In the game, when you’re close to 31 with three cards in the same suit, you slap the table and say “Tonk.” Grandpa enjoyed scaring the beejeebies out of all of us with such a loud slap that the table shook, and Grandma would about near jump out of her chair.

“Paul!” she’d say. “Stop it!”

His name was not Paul, but when he met my grandma back in the 1920s, he gave her his middle name, for some reason, not ready to commit. She forever called him Paul just to make a point. Mom & I always giggled at her use of his name and the evil eye she gave him when telling the story of his little lie.

“That’s the name he told me, so that’s the name I use,” she’d state matter-of-factly.

The local Clearwater, FL newspaper featured him in an article back in the 1980s because he was a fixture at the park near his home where he retired after being a Detroit fireman. Not only did everyone know him enough to wave a kind greeting, but folks might also sit with him a while because he reminded them of an octogenarian Dr. Doolittle.

Animals had no fear of this man called Tony by everyone other than his wife. Birds trusted him and frequently perched on his outstretched arm for a treat. Squirrels took crackers right out of his hand.

And he might even throw a hamburger bun in the pond for the allegator who performed numerous sweeps by the shoreline, curious about his daily visitor. And Tony just spent his mornings gently communing with these animals, always with full pockets of bits & kibble. Enough to share with other pedestrians who might want to try petting a little chipmunk if they could be gentle enough not to scare it away.

Tony did his own yardwork too till the end of his life. No one found it strange to find an 80-year-old on top of the roof, or digging up a tree stump in that thick crabgrass typical of Florida terrain.

Once a neighbor called 911 thinking that Tony was suffering a heart attack but soon discovered that he uncovered a mound of red ants in his yard, and they crawled up his pant legs and attacked him all the way up to his nether area, and he almost did go into cardiac arrest. (I think there’s a metaphor here).

Another time, someone watched him fall off the roof and get up and continue working.

My mother, who also called him Tony more often than Dad, seemed close enough with her father, at least in the perception of my young mind observing from childhood to late teenaged years before he passed away at 88 years old.

Mom had strange stories of her father being a severe disciplinarian. Well, I should say abuser if her stories are accurate. The only reason for any doubt is that she was never afraid of him and neither was my grandmother or my mom’s siblings. Corporal punishment was common in her day, but the way she tells it, he chased the kids around with a baseball bat. And my mom did love to embellish stories, but it’s hard to believe she’d make up something that serious.

After those card games during my childhood visits when I was off to bed, the real games would start. Grandma would smoke her Pall Malls one after the other (though she didn’t inhale) and mom & her dad would clink the ice around their high balls while they played poker till the wee hours of the night, hooting and cackling in fun. I fell asleep to raucous laughter every night under & over the buzz of a window air conditioner in this little Florida home.

Could this man who drew the animals to eat right out of his hand have beaten his children years prior? The man who told tender stories with tears in his eyes of saving children out of burning buildings back in Detroit. Would he care for others while endangering his own?

Could my mother have forgiven him if so?

My mom was a complex character known to hold a grudge for lesser infractions. One time, a neighbor disciplined her dog without permission, and my mom never spoke to the guy again.

Could she have spent evenings laughing it up during poker games with her own child in the next room banking cherished memories of her grandparents that still play on today?

Could she have swept it all under the rug to mix with the dust of a few other secrets?

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Or could she have forgiven her father?

I have learned that forgiveness is not really for the other person. He may not even deserve it.

Forgiveness is for you.

It gives you a sense of freedom. And who doesn’t want that?

[I love hearing your comments when you engage with my stories. Family secrets have a way of festering, don’t they?

Kind of like uncovering a mound of biting red ants.

And stories have a way of cleaning out those wounds. So, dive in. ]

My mother was able to keep one important secret from her family, and you will uncover that muddy secret in my book, 🔗 My Father’s Daughter and see what we all did with it.

My story is no longer for me. It is for you.

Can you forgive the past?

If you have read my book and feel led to leave a kind review, I would be most grateful.

Review My Father’s Daughter.