I’ve been deep into a box of old photographs these past few months and in Rochester this week tracking down clues to a family mystery that I may write about. But from time to time I just have to stop and reminisce.

A little girl and her grandfather = the perfect relationship.  Meet little Carol and her Papa.

On the stoop of our apartment on Lancraft St.

My papa and I had a close relationship for his entire life. Maybe not “close” by today’s standards. I didn’t confess my deepest wishes or anything to him. I just loved him and he loved me. There’s nothing as pure as a grandparent’s love and these photos make me smile.

Papa didn’t drive. The story goes that he got in an accident as a young man and never drove again. He relied on his pals (especially a guy named “Curly”) and the bus. He was also big walker.   I love these photos of Papa holding my hand as we went for walks. If it were a really lucky day, he’d share his Rolaids with me. Yes, gasp away, young moms: he gave us Rolaids as a treat once in a while. Not often, just occasionally. (And we survived.)

Could this be Easter? I think this was on Portland Ave. near the house in which Papa and Mama. That’s my mother, who was quite the fashion plate in her youth, and Papa was her father. They were best friends. And those are my siblings. By the way, my mom worked three jobs to buy the house for her parents, or so says family lore.

Papa died when he was 78 and I was 28. It was a loss I felt deeply. I still think of him all the time. The thing about grandparents is that they don’t have to worry about things like discipline and preparing a child for life. They just need to love her.

And in that regard, my Papa was a great success. ♥