The singing Magpie: Remember the ones you lost

This particular column was inspired by blogger BC Woods (dunceuponatime.com) and his post titled Grandpa's Hands. This is kind of my response to his post, I suppose.

I remember fearing my paternal grandfather when I was very small. He had such staggering authority in the eyes of a small girl.

I wonder if it is ingrained in our culture to be fearful of patriarchs, or if it was just me.
He had this one look that meant impending doom. I don't remember if we ever actually received said doom, but we did steal a lot of peanuts from his bar. If he knew we were coming, he would always buy an extra container of peanuts, just in case.

One time he wiggled his eyebrows at me and I was so afraid that I ran off screaming in search of the protective arms of my parents.

It was only through a letter that my grandmother wrote to me last year, that I found out his look was the very same look he gave Nana on the night he met her. He died 14 years ago.

My grandfather on my mother's side had that same power over me. Except he had a pipe and that always fascinated me.

He would always pretend to be mad — at a game of cards or something on the news — but, again, I didn't realize until I had grown up that he was just doing it for fun.

He was funny! I remember following him outside and watching him as he sat in the sunroom or on a lawn chair doing crosswords.

One time, he blew bubbles with me. That meant so much to me.

He died 8 years ago of Alzheimer's.

He knew how he was going to die and it's amazing how much courage he had during that whole ordeal.

I wish I could hug him. He had nice hugs.

Since they both died before I got to know them as an adult, I feel like I never understood them, as I should have. 

I lost out on having that experience that I have had with my grandmothers. 
For my grandfathers, I only have clips of memories.

If there is an afterlife, I want to meet them again. I want to know how they lived before me, how they met my grandmothers, how terrible my parents were as children.

I want to know what they thought of me. I want to know if they understood that I was just a child and didn't know how life worked or that they didn't have much time left. I want to tell them that I miss them terribly.

I wish I had known them better.

I wonder if my nephews will feel this way about Dad someday.