My Grandaddy Jack was about many things. But most of the time, he was just about Jack.

Cliches are not wasted on the legacy that is my Grandaddy Jack’s. He was the quintessential rogue, ruffian and rambler. He had a penchant for generous women and spare change. At the same time, he had spare concern for the welfare of his family.

My perspective of the man who was my maternal grandfather comes primarily from somewhere among the scattered stories my mother shared with me over the years. Her word was, and still remains, gospel. So I have no reason to believe he was anything other than what she recounted to me. My grandaddy was not a loving and attentive father. At times, or so it seems, he was content to leave her needs to others to meet. Yet, my mother retained an unyielding love and affection for her father. And in that paradox lies some profound truth that I struggle with. I think it must be about something borne of soil, at ground level, and very human. It must have been about blood and kinship. He abandoned her when she was most vulnerable, but she refused to abandon him.

As I proceeded through the ignorance of my adolesence, my grandaddy was relegated to irrelevance. He was remiss regarding any affections shown me, and I was reluctant to be in presence. He was decidely rough around the edges, and prone to eccentricities. I carry his DNA, so that particular aspect of his character is no great mystery to me. It’s the greater part of his nature that eludes me. What could possibly explain a grown man abandoning his young children to the kindliness of noble female relatives, choosing instead the company of whores and poker tables?

Finally, as my attention turned to family, he was departing. And he left no clues. I harbor no animosity towards him. I simply have few feelings for him in any way. And there lies a void. I wonder at some times if some dark portion of this man’s soul dwells within me, lying fallow, just waiting to fester. I do the math, and the quotient gives me cause to ponder.

I’m baffled by, yet fully respect, the fond memories my siblings and cousins have expressed to me regarding my grandfather. I speak only from my perspective, and solely for myself. The hardscrabble man that was my grandaddy, who grew as an elder back to a child, died just a few doors down from the delivery room from which I entered the world, more than two decades before.  At the same time, the doctor who delivered me, lay dying in a room between. Somewhere  in all that might lie some symbolic irony, but I doubt it’s anything more.

After all that had passed, Jack’s children professed to love him. So I suppose I loved him too. I only wish I could say I miss him.

This simple man will remain a complex consideration for the remainder of my life.