I have a clear memory, from when I was about 4 years old, of an errand with my mother to The Bon Marché, a department store in Seattle, where I grew up. A friendly saleslady asked me my name. “Arthur,” I replied, at which she burst out laughing. Apparently, a little boy being named Arthur seemed discordantly funny to her—like naming your dog “Steve.” My mom was not amused. “He is named after his grandfather,” she answered dryly, as we hurried away.
Actually, I am named after both of my grandfathers, Arthur Hansen (a Dane, whom I therefore called “Bedstefar”) and Charles Brooks (a good old-fashioned American “Grandpa”). Bedstefar was a joker; he had a bumper sticker custom-made for his Buick that said, “Be Alert! The World Needs More Lerts!” Grandpa was a serious man: a preacher and an academic.
I have positive memories of them, even though, despite both living within three hours of us, I didn’t see either very often: a couple of times a year at most, for maybe a day at a time. If you asked me to tell you the biggest life lesson they gave me, I’d have to think on it. I think one of them taught me the rules of croquet.
Much the same could be said of the relationship between my three kids, who grew up on the East Coast of the U.S., and their grandparents in Seattle and Barcelona. My children’s memories of the old folks are happy, but hazy: Sometimes they saw our parents at Christmas or during a summer trip, but not often enough to establish any sort of intergenerational intimacy.
