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Barbara Falconer Newhall

Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.

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A Child Is Born — And So Is a Grandpa

February 13, 2010 By Barbara Falconer Newhall 2 Comments

grandpa Berrypicking grandfather and grandson. Photo by BF Newhall
My son Peter berry picking with his grandpa. My dad rigged up the berry containers for the expedition. And yes that’s blackberry juice all over Peter’s face. Photo by Barbara Newhall

Since writing this post, I’ve acquired a couple of grandchildren of my own. Following my friend Jake’s lead, I’m calling myself Grandma B. — BFN

By Barbara Falconer Newhall

My friend Jake is a man in his prime. He does triathlons, reads good books, knows all the best hiking trails, drinks nice wines, and likes nothing more than a good, scrappy conversation. In other words, Jake has never been anybody’s rickety old grandpa.

Until recently.

A few months ago, Jake’s daughter gave birth to a baby girl. Jake couldn’t be happier about this delightful new creature in his life.

He wasn’t so sure about his new status as a grandfather, however. It would require him to make a decision, a big one.

What would this child call him?

Jake? Jakey? Jay-Jay?

grandpa. A grandfather, father and grandson, circa 1941. Photo by Tinka Falconer
Two Grandpa Falconers — and my big brother Davey. Photo by Tinka Falconer

Anything but Grandpa.

Grandpa — that’s what they call the old guys. And Jake was not an old guy.

I feel his pain. My own father went by Grandpa. My grandfathers were Grandpa Falconer and Grandpa Dick. My mother is Grandma. Old people all.

What’s more, where I come from, Grandpa is not pronounced Grand Pa. It’s Grampa — folksy and countrified, with a short, nasal, deeply midwestern “a.”

GRAMP-uh.

Likewise, at our house Grandma was never Grand Ma, but Gramma – also with a shot of that nasalized “a.”

Pie and Coffee and Grampa With a Twang

Grampa. Gramma. For me, those names have the ring of my father’s small town, Methodist — Mason county, Michigan — antecedents. No dancing, no drinking, no swearing. Reader’s Digest rather than Portnoy’s Complaint. Pie and percolated coffee rather than crudités and cabernet — or even a Stroh’s.

In my husband’s cosmopolitan, coastal — San Francisco — family, on the other hand, the Newhall elders were known as Scott and Ruth. Jon’s father didn’t care much for small children. At dinnertime, they were always seated as far as possible from the head of the table. Preferably in the next room.

But once those small children became lovely, supple young women and bright, headstrong young men, they were allowed to approach the table for adult-to-adult conversation with their peers, Scott and Ruth.

Elders as Royalty

My family frowned upon that kind of familiarity. At our house, parents and grandparents were addressed like royalty. Words like Mother, Father, Dad and Mom were honorifics, terms of respect. We’d no more call my parents Dave or Tinka than we’d call the Queen of England Betsy.

Which takes me back to my friend Jake. His first thought was to have the baby simply call him Jake. Or Jakey. Or Jay-Jay. Something cozy, but age-neutral.

After all, no way was he old enough or fusty enough to be anybody’s Gramps or Grand Daddy. And if he really were old and rickety, he wouldn’t want it pointed out every time somebody called out his name.

Julie Andrews — A Granny and Proud of It

Julie Andrews once confessed to having seven grandchildren — publicly, on The Daily Show. What’s more, she said, she lets her grandchildren call her that most ageifying of endearments — Granny.

Granny Jules, to be exact.

grandpa FALCONER-family-1940s
Center front, Grandma and Grandpa Falconer — royalty.

My sophisticated friends Nancy and Steve — she’s a well known artist, he’s a professor at UC-Berkeley — sent us an invitation to their grandson’s second birthday party recently. They signed it, to my astonishment, Nana Nan and Papa Seeda.

Nana Nan? Papa Seeda?

Granny Jules?

How do these people do it? They must own buckets of self-esteem. How else could sophisticated, in-the-mix people like Julie Andrews and Nancy and Steve risk being thought of as — old?

My friend Jake is a thoughtful guy. As I mentioned earlier, he reads good books, urges his friends toward good conversation, and likes to meet his life challenges head-on — with the aid of a nice cabernet if need be.

Facing Up to the Generational Facts

But maybe Jake, like Nancy and Steve and Granny Jules, was blessed with an abundance of self-esteem after all. (Or was a glass of cabernet involved?) Because somehow my friend Jake finally faced up to the facts.

He may or may not be old, he told himself, but he is a grandfather.

He isn’t this baby’s dad. He’s not her uncle or her big brother. Yes, he loves bicycling, swimming, hiking and scrappy conversation. But he is also this tiny girl’s grandparent.

And grandparents have responsibilities. They are the elders of the family. They provide continuity, stability, security, dignity and maybe even some enlightening dinner table conversation.

It was time, Jake decided, to accept his new responsibilities. And his new title. He’d be what this brand-new little person most needed. He’d be Grampa, with a twang.

Read about my children’s unconventional Newhall grandmother at “Peter’s Fast-Track Grandmother.” And his more traditional Falconer grandmother at “A Manners Challenged Kid Who Became the Apple of His Grandma’s Eye.”

 

Filed Under: A Case of the Human Condition, My Ever-Changing Family

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  1. A Crazy-Making Crazy Quilt -- Finished at Last・Barbara Falconer Newhall says:
    March 12, 2015 at 2:57 pm

    […] wait  — a grandchild? What a thought. I took the leftover calico pieces home and tucked them back into their drawer. […]

    Reply
  2. Today's Downer: Emil Cioran -- "You Aways Kill Yourself Too Late" says:
    January 4, 2014 at 5:07 pm

    […] consider reading “The Trouble With Daffodils.” If you need cheering up, try “Gramps.” Filed Under: My Rocky Spiritual Journey Tagged With: american pop culture, author […]

    Reply

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