Old Blue Eyes

Britt Bell February 19, 2009
Old Blue Eyes

When I think of my grandfather, butterscotch candies hidden in flannel shirt pockets come to mind. I can place myself as a young girl in my grandparents’ dining room, sunlight streaming through the blinds as little particles of dust and Rush Limbaugh’s booming voice swirl around the room. The smell of fresh baked bread on Sunday afternoons haunts my nostrils.

Stephen Pietrowski was born on February 8, 1918 to Polish immigrants in Brooklyn[1]. As one of seven children, Stephen did not have time to receive a formal education and began to work full time upon graduating the eighth grade. When the country went to war, he followed and received the Bronze Star medal for repairing a downed communication line, once managed to sleep through the bombing of a neighboring field, and stormed one of the beaches on D-Day.[2]

In 1945, he and Adeline Darlow, a spunky eighteen-year-old neighbor, eloped.[3] They had two children, Stephen and my mother, Margaret. My grandfather worked three jobs, and by the time my mother was ten, the family moved out of a coldwater flat to a home of their own in Flushing, Queens. My grandparents enjoyed going to polka dances held in Maspeth, although my grandfather would not dance, preferring to observe instead. The only song they ever danced to together is Strangers in the Night.[4]

My grandfather was a quiet man, but his words were memorable. For instance, my mother’s marriage to my father was her third, and as my grandfather walked her down the aisle he whispered two phrases into her ear: “You don’t have to do this” and “Next time, you’re paying for it.” The second line was delivered with a smile, my grandfather’s characteristic sense of humor. He didn’t make jokes often, but the ones he did always broke whatever ice needed thawing. His keen insight was chilling, however. On the day before his death he was held up in a hospital bed. He told me that the important papers and his wallet were in his nightstand, that no, I would not see him tomorrow, and I should take out twenty dollars to spend on myself before giving it to my grandmother.

Even though he never even attended high school, my grandfather was a self-educated man, always working on the crosswords and reading. He told me he was proud of me and kept my little handwritten stories in a manila folder. His favorite book was Arundel, which, as far as I know, tells about Benedict Arnold and the Battle of Quebec. Although he would have been able to tell you the number of casualties and names of weapons used, I cannot even tell you which war it was. His fascination with historical tragedy might have been to distract him from the trauma of real life. The 1960’s gave birth to an era of familial turmoil. My grandfather’s only son, my uncle, began a lifelong addiction to heroin.

Three decades later my grandfather developed colon cancer but beat it at age 81, living through two years of remission which involved burying his son and witnessing his daughter’s painful third divorce. And how did my grandfather, the war hero and cancer survivor, die? He fell out of bed. He would probably have laughed and said life is like that. He left me: a worn dictionary, his Bronze Star, and a million questions I should have asked. His grave says:
Stephen V. Pietrowski 1918-2002
Beloved husband, father, and grandfather
Forever in our hearts

If I could talk to him once more I would say: “I promise I won’t screw up like everyone else so you can be proud, and I forgive you for listening to Rush Limbaugh.”
[1] I believe their names were Czeslaw and Helen; unfortunately my grandfather rarely spoke about himself aside from his involvement in the war, and most of the details of his life are a mystery even to my grandmother.
[2] The family has differing opinions on this, but my great uncle swears it was Normandy, and I am apt to take a veteran’s word on a veteran.
[3] Theirs was a classic love story of families who did not want them to be together, but my grandfather would never speak of their elopement.
[4] The Frank Sinatra version, of course. A hobby of my grandfather’s in retirement was recording songs from his record collection to make mix tapes.