I have the weirdest dreams while sick. This time, I dreamt I was living at my old house. I did all the things I used to do as a child (such as chill in the tree in the backyard, play gameboy under the veranda and climb up the support poles to the second story because I’m badass like that) before going up to have dinner. Ultimately, I didn’t end up eating. Instead I went to my bedroom. I went to take out my clarinet (something I didn’t actually play back then) and, for some reason, my clari was shaped like a saxophone. Just smaller. And oddly fat. The case also had a mini banjo in it. Actually, it looked like the love child of a banjo and a ukulele. I pulled that out, looked at it for awhile, and then yelled at Dad to come have a look. I think I said something along the lines of “hey, I found a banjo” so I assume the banjo wasn’t meant to be in the case… though the case did appear to be designed to fit the sax-clari and banjo together perfectly…
And then I woke up. How odd. I don’t know the extent of what the hell goes on in my subconscious. Frankly, I don’t want to know.
So I’ve been discussing my heritage with my Dad recently. I have an interesting family. It appears that my last name was made up. It’s technically a Polish surname, which is odd as I have no Polish ancestry that I know of. What’s weirder is that it’s only the last 3 generations that have this surname. Granddad has the same last name as Dad and I, but my Great Grandfather does not. We actually added an extra letter. Well, Granddad did. His brothers don’t have the last letter of our surname. Just Granddad. When asked about why, he usually responds with “I ‘unno, don’t ask me. Should prob’ly get it changed, it isn’t our last name anyway”.
He was actually the first (only?) member of his side of the family to get a proper education instead of work as a peasant farmer with the rest of them, and he’s also the only one to have unknowingly (?) changed our surname. Go figure. (What, was it a spelling error that stuck, or..? Seriously, how do you spell your surname wrong? I don’t even-)
I was always under the impression that our surname was Hungarian. It’s not. If you disregard the extra-letter, our surname is German. Even though that side of the family is mostly Hungarian. (EDIT: A Google search brings up results in... The US and Ukraine? What? Okay, I am very confused. I need to sit Granddad down and have a serious conversation about our surname, it seems).
Anyway, with Grandma’s side… things are also interesting. My Great Grandmother/Oma is German and my Great Grandfather/Opa is Hungarian. Seems simple enough on the surface. Something that should be obvious (though I, in my naivety/stupidity/obliviousness never actually noticed until my Dad pointed it out) is that they are rather different to my generation in appearances. They were both blonde and blue eyed. Well, they’re dead now, so it’s hard to notice these days… ahem, anyway. Their youngest kids were also blonde and blue eyed. All except for the eldest daughter, my Grandmother. Genetic mutation? Sounds cool, but no. She was born before Oma and Opa had even met. She is Oma’s illegitimate daughter.
You’d assume that we could’ve asked Oma what happened to this mystery Grandfather, but my family don’t like making things easy. Now, I adore my Oma, and I hope she’s not rolling in her grave with me speaking about her (she can’t be, we got her cremated. Oh well. Details, details… ) but, well, asking her was never of any help. She was very secretive at best, and what she did tell us often turned out to be total lies. I’ve asked many people about her, and they’ve basically said to me “whatever she told you as a kid can be taken with a grain of salt, so to speak” so that’s… uh, yeah anyway.
What we do know is that this mystery-man might have been called Eric. She told Grandma that she was named after him (her name being Erica). That said… that could very well be a lie, as well.
Everything else about this elusive ‘Eric’ character was kept a secret. A secret that Oma managed to take with her to the grave. Aw dang. Dad believes he must have been of Mediterranean origin based on our appearances. I don’t see why not. Speaking of which, I should tell you why we look so damn different to the rest of the family. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is blue eyed. Most of the family is blonde though we have perhaps two instances of red hair. Most of the family is also extremely pale. From Grandma onwards, we have brown hair, olive skin and brown eyes. Well, my skin has started going more and more pale from years indoors, but originally I was as dark as the rest of them.
We’re basically completely opposite from the rest of the family. Which is pretty cool, if you ask me. Dad and I were speculating on what nationality this ‘Eric’ may have been, and we’re decided it would be coolest if he were Italian, Greek or Spanish. I think that makes me infinitely more sexy. Wow, that was actually really, really awkward to type.
There’s a nice ending to all this confusion, though. Back then, it was weird to be a single mum. Especially as this was during World War II and no one wanted to marry someone with a bastard child, nor did anyone want to spend cash on a kid that wasn’t theirs (Not to mention a kid of mixed race. Nazi Germany, guys, this sort of thing wasn’t exactly accepted). People didn’t have that money to spend in the first place. Really, it was surprising that Oma kept Grandma in the first place. Anyway, I don’t know how Oma met Opa. All I know was that they started talking to each other through letters. Opa was a prisoner of war somewhere in Europe at the time (Somewhere in/around England, I think Dad said) and it was kinda difficult to communicate, but they managed. Once he was freed, he found Oma, decided that he didn’t give a damn about Grandma being someone else’s, and married her despite the money issues, the poverty and the gossip of the people around them. He did love children, though, so truthfully I’m not surprised that he took Grandma on.
I’ve always hated romance. I don’t like being overly romantic. Like everyone, I do appreciate a bit of lovey-dovey ness, and depending on my mood, sometimes I crave it, but I still don’t like the generic stuff. No flowers, chocolates, love poems or over-the-top declarations of love for me, thanks! That said, I’ve always imagined that Opa turned up at her door one night, said something along the lines of “You kept me alive back when I had been captured, and I’ve been searching for you ever since” and, in the rain (yes, it’s raining) he would pull her out into the night and kiss her. I love the idea of him sweeping her off of her feet (not literally). Look, if he was willing to go with her despite how against the whole thing everyone would have been, he obviously cared a hell of a lot. And being sickeningly sweet is not farfetched of him so I think this is all rather possible.
You know, Oma and Opa had two kids of their own, but at no point was Grandma ever neglected or left out. I also like to think they were a tight family unit, them against the world. I know it’s not true (Grandma and her siblings are… well, there’s a bit of bad blood between them, so to speak) but that doesn’t stop me from thinking it.
God, I love my Opa. So damn much. I don’t care that we aren’t blood-related. He was the greatest Grandfather I could ever have, and I would have never traded him for anyone else. Not even ‘Eric’ because I’m certain that he couldn’t have been as brilliant, loving and perfect as Opa was. You know, I could write an entire blog post on the awesomeness that is my Great Grandfather, but I won’t. Not right now. I’m going to talk a little bit though, because I feel the need to. I don’t think I ever have written about him that much, so I guess I’ll do that now.
I miss him. More than any other death in the family. When he died, I didn’t cry. Not until the funeral. I didn’t believe it. I’d never denied a death in my life until then. Not when my brothers died, not when Oma died… no, it was just when Opa left us.
We could’ve had anything from his house, really. The family was fighting over who would take what, but my household didn’t. It felt too cruel. In the end, Dad took Opa’s woodwork desk, something I believe he made by hand. It’s also something he spent most of his life with. I’m surprised no one else took it, but I’m glad it was left behind for us. It’s not worth much in money, but it’s worth a lot in sentimental value.
In one of the drawers, he kept a birthday card I gave him when I was, I dunno, 6? 7? It wasn’t much. I’d folded an A4 sheet of paper in half and drew two stick figures, one of me and one of him. It really wasn’t much, but he kept it. I don’t think he kept anything else from his Grandkids in the drawers.
Anyone who knows me will know that I cry a lot at, well, any well-written sad story. But I don’t start bawling with this. I cry a little, I guess, and whenever I look at the card I will tear up. But I don’t break down. I switch off. I don’t think anything will ever strike me as hard as this does.
God, I really, truly loved… still love, my Grandfather. I don’t usually believe in an afterlife and whatnot, but I hope there is one. For him. His mind was brilliant and his heart was so caring… I can’t bring myself to believe that he’s truly gone.
The blood-is-thicker-than-water saying is total bull. I mean, it is true if you take it literally but I’m not referring to that.
Wow, what a tangent. I digress much too often. Away with thee, sad and depressing topic! Here’s a story I love sharing. My Grandfather (not Opa, the other one. The younger one. Yeah) was a kid when WWII ended. The soldiers left a lot of firearms and whatnot lying around. One day, Granddad and his mates found a box of detonators in the forest area near his house.
What did he decide to do? Set one off in the school. It blew up, and one kid apparently lost his hand.
Heh, they also used to play war games with real grenades. I have no idea how he’s still alive today. Why the hell would you migrate over here when you had all these weapons to toy around with? Seriously, I would’ve stuck around. =P
From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t much of a father to my Dad, but I still adore my Grandfather. His childhood sounded epic.
Mum’s side of things isn’t quite as interesting. There’s more heritage, actually (I seem to have a bit of everything in Europe in me) but there are no missing links or weird stories to share. The family name on their side is Prussian. How freaking awesome is that? So obviously there is Prussian (or you could argue German) in us. The most prominent nationalities there are all from the UK. There’s a lot of Scottish, Northern English, Welsh and Irish. Kinda. Well, according to Granddad.
Granddad: There’s some Irish in us as well.
Grandma: No, there’s not.
GDad: Huh? Yeah. There’s plenty of Irish in the family.
GMa: No.
GDad: I think I’d know.
GMa: No. There is no bloody Irish in our blood.
GDad: What are you talking about?
GMa: For the last time, there is no Irish in us and I do not think you should be telling your kids otherwise.
GDad: But-
Everyone else: SO ANYWAY, HOW’S THIS WEATHER, EH?
I don’t know what’s wrong with the Irish. I’ll proudly tell everyone I’m Irish. Why not? Apart from that time, I’ve never seen my Grandmother get angry. She’s always so kind. Hm. Interesting.
Granddad never elaborated on whether we were talking Northern or Southern Irish. I’m scared to ask, just in case Grandma overhears me. xD
Your family is epic. Love how you called them Gdad and Gma :P
ReplyDeleteYour great-grandfather sounds wonderful :)