My father’s father (“Gramps”) was a sweet kind man. He said very little, but I do recall that he called his wife (my grandmother) “Mom” and she called him “Dad.” He was short, paunchy and bald; sported a coat, vest and tie, even on the hottest days; and wore his glasses on the tip of his nose, like Santa Claus. 

Gramps was also very smart. He majored in chemistry at Harvard, graduating in the class of 1908. He entered Harvard at the ripe old age of 26, having spent several years before Harvard teaching at a one-room country school for an annual stipend of $320. I have a photograph of him sitting on a stage beside Thomas Edison. As a chemistry teaching assistant, Gramps had the honor of introducing the famous inventor to the audience. 

He taught chemistry for 44 years at Dickenson High School in Jersey City, New Jersey. His paltry salary barely covered the cost of living in a duplex in Kearny, a blue-collar town. “Mom” taught piano lessons to help make ends meet. 

Gramps first love was photography. He spent hours in own dark room, developing black and white photograph. Sometimes he’d add color, an unusual process back then. Some people paid him to take pictures of their houses and add color to them. 

He also loved astronomy; I remember him letting me look through the telescope in his small back yard. He made occasional contributions to “Popular Astronomy” magazine and lectured on the atom at the American Museum of Natural History. 

After Gramps retired from teaching, he got a job in a bank as the person overseeing the safe deposit box area. One day, he showed me how he’d let people into the cage to give them access to their box. I think he felt embarrassed to have ended up with such a menial job. 

In August 1963, I visited Gramps in the hospital where he was very sick, essentially on his death bed. He had wasted away to nothing; his fine mind 

was gone. I barely heard him mumble just one thing: “The Russians have a bomb.” Maybe he was prescient. He died a few days later, and “Mom” died shortly after. 

I sure wish I’d known Gramps better. I should have sat down and talked with him about his life. Where did you grow up? What did you like to do as a little boy? Did you have brothers and sisters How did it feel to be at Harvard as an older student? How did you pay for it? What was Thomas Edison like? Why did you go into teaching and what did you like about it? What do you remember about World War I? How did you get through the living hell of seeing your second son Morris die when he was just a boy? How did you feel about your two sons serving in World War II? (My dad worked on the Manhattan Project and his brother Ted captained a sub chaser, an experience he later wrote about in a book entitled, “Splinter Feet.”) Sadly, I’ll never know the answers to these and other questions. 

My granddaughter Karis, who’s starting at Bowdoin in the fall, did better than I did at getting to know her grandparents. For her senior year project, she interviewed each of her four grandparents for a few hours, taping each interview. 

I thoroughly enjoyed writing down some notes as I looked back over my life so I’d be prepared when Karis called to interview me. I shared the anxieties of moving around often as a child, as well as the successes and failures along the way. By the time we’d finished that interview and a follow-up call, Karis had a much better idea of how I came to be who I am, for better or worse. 

I encourage all the older people reading this article to sit down with children and grandchildren and talk about your lives. At the very least, write something up. At the end of the day — or a life — all we have to share are our stories. Let’s do so before it’s too late. 

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com. 

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