Treasured Moments: Reflections on My Grandfather, Da

From the ages of seven to ten, my grandparents hosted weekly sleepovers on Friday nights for my sister, brother, and me. After spending the day at our school with a teacher friend, Nana would take us home on Friday afternoons. ​We were treated to some of the finest luxuries life has to offer a child: a crackling fireplace in the winter in the green stove imported from Ireland, catching lightning bugs in recycled peanut butter jars in the warmer months, Coke floats in the bathtub, and a pallet on my grandparents’ bedroom floor to sleep.​ Just before suppertime, my grandfather would arrive home from ​his​ job at a local trucking company where he worked one day a week. Before he could even change out of his work clothes, my sister and I would pounce, calling for “Treasures!”  

We rushed to their brown vintage dresser with double mirrors, stood on our tippy-toes, and eyed the treasure box. “Sit down at the table, now,” my grandfather would say. “Eh, ​eh​, eh, I’ll get the box,” he would scold us, waving us away. 

We ran to the green tin breakfast table in giggles, anxiously awaiting our grandfather to come from his bedroom. He emerged holding a small wooden chest that looked like it should be on a pirate ship, filled with small tokens throughout his life that we tirelessly pored over. In the box are things such as a Swiss watch that his mother gave him, a wooden ring he carved on a school bus ride home, his dog tags, his Vietnam and Air Force marksmanship military ribbons, and navigator wings. Week after week, my sister and I asked about every single item until Nana had to rescue our poor grandfather with supper. To this day, it is one of our favorite memories with him, and we still remember every item in that little box.  

When I was three, we ​lived​ two hours from my mother and father’s families. My father traveled often for work, leaving my mother with my one-year-old sister and me. Weary with a third pregnancy and two energetic young girls, my mother asked her newly retired father ​to visit. ​My grandfather would end up spending weeks away from home with us while my father was out of town. He drank from teacups plastered in Disney princesses and spun around the floor with us in our pink tutus. His nails were painted, and he knew every word of our songs by the Laurie Berkner Band and Raffi. When my mother called for him, she would call, “Dad!” Nearly two decades have passed since I was that three-year-old tornado, dancing around the room on my role model’s toes. In my little ears, I interpreted his name differently, and since then, his name has never wavered: Da. 

My grandfather earned his nickname just by being around, and that presence has never faltered in my 21 years. His nickname is used by more than just his grandchildren, and he adores that. Our friends, cousins, aunts and uncles from our father’s family, boyfriends, girlfriends, teammates, coworkers, even acquaintances on social media know him and call him by his nickname: Da.  

Da has taught me a lot about love and life.  

Da loves storytelling, his little dog, Max, who the rest of us despise for how much attention he gets, drinking sweet tea, and long rides on his tricycle down the greenway between our houses. Most of all, he loves his wife of 55 years, my Nana, Jill; his daughter, Leanne; and his three grandchildren.  

My role model is quick to love, quick to share, quick to serve, but slow to say those three words, “I love you.”  

“It’s because he grew up with it not being said,” my mother tells me. “It doesn’t mean he loves you any less by not saying it, it means he’s showing you his love differently. Look at the things he does for you.” 

I believe her, and I say those three words to him every chance I get. ​Just because that isn’t his way to show love doesn’t negate that it can be mine.​ I say those words to him after every phone call and visit.  

Some of my favorite keepsakes are letters and cards that Nana and Da have sent me over the years. While he may not be mushy in person, Da can write a letter. I am like him in this way: I would much rather send someone off with a letter of my appreciation and love than watch them experience it themselves in real time. Whether he signs it with a new phrase we’ve taught him, such as the “Savage!” era of my early high school days or “You will always be our princess” on a Cinderella Hallmark card, I never doubt his undying love. 

When I was in high school, I was fully immersed in a Methodist church where I had found a welcoming faith community. One night at Wednesday bible study, my group discussed the theory that “God has a plan.” I came away fully subscribing to that idea, interpreting it to mean that I no longer need to question why bad things happen because it’s none of my business. A few days later, I recounted this to my grandparents at dinner. ​Not ones to tell me how to believe, but instead to lead by example, they shared with me their own issues with that phrase.​ 

“My mom raised us to think for ourselves and to make up our own minds,” Da says. He will tell you that God did not protect him in Vietnam, nor did God protect his son, my uncle Hank, from dying on a hike in Ireland. Da will tell you that he sees God to be a loving parent, “one who would do anything for us including to go to the grave.” However, he will not tell you that God has a plan, or that God just needed my uncle in His heavenly band and called him home.  

Da will tell you that he has some questions for God when he gets up there. This line of thinking about why bad things happen to good people changed my outlook on God and religion. Rather than subscribing to attending church every Sunday, Da shows people love through bringing them a meal or providing a shoulder to cry on. These acts of love and service will always hold up when words fail in those devastating moments of loss and questioning, and I continue to see Da follow through with this line of service. 

When I was a junior in high school, I suddenly became interested in building projects. My first was a small table whose sole purpose would be to display houseplants as I collected and accidentally led them to an untimely death. Whatever the case, I immediately called Da to help, my first call for most things but certainly all construction and fix-it matters. Together, we set to work sketching outlines on scrap paper, measuring dimensions, taking inventory of what we could use from his garage, and buying goods from the hardware store. We measured, marked, sawed, hammered, and drilled, and the plant table I had dreamt of came to life on my grandparents’ driveway that spring. 

The best thing about those days in his driveway was not that they ended with something tangible to show for it, but rather the memories we made, and that he put his own life on hold to work on the project with me. It did not matter that his seasonal allergies were made worse by being outside or that he had his own errands to attend to. His granddaughter had asked him for help, and that was all he needed to hear. He has always been this way- dropping everything for someone who needs him. It is a rare form of love that I have not yet mastered.  

It is easy to see how Da’s childhood influenced the way he raised his own children and grandchildren. There is always a new activity to do with Da. Just last week, I drove the two and a half hours home so that we could put washer fluid in my car together. In August, Da and Nana drove five hours roundtrip to my college apartment just to hang up a curtain rod, buy me dinner and go home. 

During his parents’ separation, his mother moved him and his siblings to Palmetto, Louisiana to live with her parents. While they were rich in love, money was stretched thin. Da knows the value of a dollar, which makes it more special when he chooses to spend his. Da is quick to help others in any way he can, whether that be through sharing his expertise on hundreds of topics to donating his time or dollar. 

​​I will never forget on the way home from a college tour, which he and Nana made sure they attended, we stopped for gas on I-65.​ Through the car window, I watched a man come up to Da. After a moment of conversation, Da pulled out his wallet, handed the man a few bills, and walked away. It struck me that Da came back silently, started the car, and we pulled away. ​There was no excitement, no recounting of what had happened, no humble bragging.​ He was more than happy to give the man his money without any recognition.  

My grandfather is a storyteller. Some of my favorite stories are from the small, rural town of Palmetto, with a population of 400 at the time of Da’s childhood. Living with his grandparents, he learned how to be a generous father and husband by watching Grandma and Grandpa Keller’s lifestyle. Pillars of their community, Grandma and Grandpa were well thought of as proprietors of their store and the post office. Grandpa made it a point to spend time with his grandchildren and would take Da and his brothers hunting. Through Da’s stories, I can imagine him and his younger brothers traipsing through the swamps of Louisiana with their rabbit dogs and that brown Stevens 410 shotgun that now hangs above his closet entryway. Through Grandpa, Da learned to be a present grandfather, which he then put into cultivating his relationships with us. 

I was raised in Huntsville, Alabama; my house lies five minutes north of the Tennessee River and five minutes south of my grandparents' house. It is a town partially surrounded by several plateaus and large hills which we locals call “mountains.” Da, being a retired ​forester​, loves to watch the birds in his wooded backyard, and harbors a strong hatred for any creature that comes between him and his birdwatching. To protect the birdfeed, Da set traps to catch the squirrels and chipmunks. The cages are compact, grey, and rectangular, just big enough to hold the small rodents. When my siblings and I were younger, we noticed the traps as we ventured through the magical backyard. We asked my grandfather where the squirrels would go when they were caged, and after some thought, he responded, “to their grandparents’ house, of course!” 

And so, a new tradition was born. Da would load the three of us into his red Honda Pilot and hitch up the wooden trailer he built with the squirrel safely packed inside. We would ride the ten minutes through South Huntsville and over the Tennessee River until we reached the magical land of Morgan County, where the grandparents of these squirrels happened to reside. After unloading each of us from our car seats, we ventured out. After sniffing out the perfect spot as if we were hunting for the perfect pumpkin, we would stand back to watch Da release the frightened creature into the woods.  

​​It would be years before we found out that the fun expeditions to deliver the squirrels to their family home was just a story made up on-the-spot by Da to dodge the horrifying news that the squirrels were typically just shot with an air gun and thrown into the ditch behind their house for a hawk’s lunch.​  

Da’s brain works analytically: he memorizes facts and how things work like no other. He has been likened to an encyclopedia by friends, family, and strangers that we meet in the aisles of Trader Joe’s. He can grant you a hefty education on things from the air conditioning unit to why my car made that one weird noise once. To celebrate his logical brain, here are some statistics on my Da’s life: 

Years married to my Nana: 55 

The average number of times he laughs at his own jokes per day: 4. 

​​The average number of times he laughs at his own jokes per day spent with a grandchild: 11.​

​​Years spent as a forester: 30.​  

Dogs owned: 6. 

Cars driven: 10. 

Miles biked outdoors since 1984: 38,000. 

​​Age when his father died: 12.​ 

​​Age when his son died: 52.​ 

Days in Da Nang, Vietnam: 345. 

Years lived in Japan: 2. 

​​Missions flown in Vietnam: 252.​ 

My grandfather prefers to show love rather than profess it.  

I have cramps; he goes to the store and shamelessly buys me what I need.  

I am sick; he brings me hot apple cider from the coffee shop and baked potatoes from the barbecue place.  

I am sad; I pull into the driveway and there he stands on the front porch, expecting me. He walks out to meet me at my car door, and I fall into him. I begin to wail, shaking with grief of the last hour and month and year and years of my life. He holds me tightly, silently, and soothes my sobs. He renews my trust in men again and again. Only now am I safe.

I am comfortable crying with Da because he is comfortable crying with me. A man can be strong and tough and cry when his PTSD becomes too loud. He spent twelve months flying missions against enemy targets into North and South Vietnam dressed in his flight suit washed in Agent Orange-infested waters, flying high above the Ho Chi Minh trail. He earned the Distinguished Flying Cross, awarded to any officer of the USAF who shows “heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in an aerial flight.” 

He came home alive but tells us that “War is hell when you’re there, and after you come home.” He marches on.   

Da shows me that life must go on, even after someone else’s doesn’t. At age 12, Da buried his father. At ages 28 and 37, he buried his nephews. At age 52, he buried his only son. He keeps the memory of his son, Hank, alive by sharing him with the nieces and nephew who never met him. Da plays Hank’s songs for us, tells us stories about raising him and our mom and the problematic child that Hank was. ​Da does not romanticize raising his kids; he was not perfect, and he will never claim to be, no matter how often the people he’s raised claim it about him.​ He tells me that you must allow yourself the pain and keep living. He marches on.  

I continue to say those three words to him at the end of every phone call and visit and lately, I hear them repeated back to me. Quietly, almost in a whisper, but softly, they come. 

Da is interwoven into every thread of my life: he is my first call when a light comes on in my car or when I do not understand something financial. ​​​When I cannot pull myself out of bed in the morning, I repeat to myself the phrase he would always yell at us to get out of bed for school: “Ain’t callin’ one, ain’t callin’ two, callin’ that whole trash can crew, now roll out!” And ​​​I can still hear the rattling of the trailer and feel the gentle lull of that red Honda Pilot crossing the river as I fall asleep at night. 

Written for EN 305: Creative Nonfiction Writing at The University of Alabama, Spring 2024.