Your papa fought in World War II. Came home. He was a mess. Used to go out every night drinking. He’d start at a bar and end up in the gutter passed out. I used to pick him up and carry him home, he said. Took him in my arms. Just like we were back in France. Wounded. Shot. Shrapnel in him. I carried him a long distance. It felt like a long distance, the old man lit a cigarette. I just remember telling myself not to fall, he grinned. Be careful where you step.

Guns going off. Tanks rolling by. Machine guns. The sound of machine guns. Guys crying out for their moms or girlfriends back home. Everything seemed gray. Sky was gray. Faces gray. The mud gray, he placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Your papa was gray. I didn’t think he was going to make it. And of course he did. Some guys didn’t. But he did. I did. Lucky, I guess. Or the grace of God. Not sure.

I don’t know what you think about your granddad. I know you had your problems with him. His drinking was probably hard on everybody. Rambling around from town to town. Not knowing where he was going to wake up. That’s hard on a family.

See. He was running from the past. It stuck with him. He didn’t run away from his family. He ran away from himself. Least tried to.

So give him a break. Forgive him. We never know what makes the man.