Judging our forebears

 Today would be my grandfather’s 150th birthday. My sister and I find it remarkable that we lived with someone born in 1875, when Grant was president, Victoria was queen of England, and the electric light bulb hadn’t been invented.

I have been struggling to write this column about Fred W. Gee, because I have mixed feelings about him, as many of us do about our forebears.

He was a nice, amiable gentleman but wasn’t “warm and fuzzy” or tremendously accomplished. I never thought his English reserve and understatement served him well in the raucous colonies. Blame him if I am not gregarious myself and don’t smile often.

A tailor by trade, he left England for this country at age 17 without telling his mother. When he returned for a visit many years later, she scolded him about it right away.

When his wife died in 1922, his three children, including my mother, were farmed out to relatives and there is no sign that he saw them often. Today that would seem cruel, but I am not so sure that was unusual by early 20th century standards.

With frequent dizzy spells, he was quite dependent on my mother and her brother, taking turns living at each house.My father, his son-in-law, resented this.

I remember my grandfather making high-quality coats for me as a child. I was the best dressed kid my El Cerrito, California neighborhood.

He was a decent baby-sitter, making me stop shooting rubber bands at my sister, Milly.

As a past Master Mason and member of the Sciots, he did have a number of friends but was certainly no extrovert. I was honored once when he took me to one of their gatherings to hear an Oakland newscaster talk about world affairs. I still have the ancient typewriter he used, perhaps an inspiration for me to write.

I’m not sure I ever forgave my grandfather for selling his Walt Disney stock. I was fascinated with the Mickey Mouse drawing on the envelopes. A share in 1957 would have been worth $2,700 today.

I have a few fond memories of his later years: In his nursing home, the man he shared his room with appeared to have bad dementia. Was that a problem for him? “I am my brother’s keeper,” he responded with a “stiff upper lip.”

At Christmas in 1968, his last before he died at age 93, he was fascinated with Liverpool photos on a Beatles album someone received as a gift.

Two things I remember him saying often: “I’ll give you what you want when my ship comes in” and “Don’t get old, Mike.” Well, too late for that.

(Hm. I wonder what my grandchildren will say on my 150th birthday?)