I only knew one of my grandfathers. He was a shining example of quiet confidence. He was filled with wisdom, and intelligence; two vastly different things, but when combined in the right person, those around them learn something every time there is a conversation.
John Coleman “Coke” Miller and I became closer as he aged, and I got to know him more intimately in his eighties than all of the other decades that I had the pleasure of being his grandson. He passed away in early in the 1990s.
I should make it clear, his nickname was Coke because he loved Coca-Cola, and I suppose it’s a name that could have easily been written in marker on the tags of my tee shirts, too. That’s neither here nor there. I love Coke; don’t scold, I don’t cotton to that.
I never met my grandfather on my Dad’s side. He passed in a tragic accident in the New Hampshire forest in 1952. I’d never even seen a photograph of him until I found one in a box in the attic of my parent’s apartment when I was clearing it out a couple of years ago, right after I retired.
It was never displayed anywhere in my grandmother’s house, but she’d remarried and I suppose that might have been the reason, but I’ve heard there were others.
No offense to my grandmother’s choice in men, but her second husband doesn’t bear mentioning. He was into the sauce as well, but I know he didn’t lay a hand on her due to four rambunctious sons who made it clear that there would be repercussions. Trust me on this, Ed didn’t stand a chance.
The photo of my grandfather was never displayed in our house either. It was kept in a box, stored away in a corner, underneath many other photos of happier moments.
My father called him Daddy when he told me stories, but he only told me the good ones. By all accounts, I know there were some bad ones.
My old Man never told me even one. I have to give him props for that; I never considered asking. I think I just knew, you know?
I didn’t ask.
I suppose it’s better that the brunt of the bad stories were never part of the picture— pardon the pun. I am sure my father kept those from me for a reason, and I’ve heard enough rumor and innuendo to know that while he was missed by all five kids, he wasn’t always a good person.
Liquor will do that.
My grandmother, Irene, was probably the sweetest, kindest woman I have ever met. She went to work in the mill after Ray Cotton died, almost the quintessential story befitting of a television movie about a Maine widow. Certainly not a Hallmark worthy story, but Irene never let on, and had never seen a Hallmark movie anyway. She handled her situation admirably.
I miss her spice cake.
I’d like to thank my niece’s husband, Matt, for finding this story, filed in the Portland Press Herald on July 30th of 1952. It was a Wednesday, probably rainy, a lot like today.
Matt has been digging through archives for nuggets of family history, and I appreciate his diligence, as I never would have thought to do it.
I digress.
All of this reminds me that our history doesn’t define our future.
I still would have loved to meet Ray, but I have his picture, and in it he’s smiling. Proof that even when pieces are missing from a puzzle, you can still clearly see the picture if you squint a little and use your imagination.
Art Cotton, Ray’s son, my father, stopped drinking alcohol when he was twelve, about a year after his father died. He told me that a bunch of times, maybe as a warning to heed our heritage of alcoholism, and also to let me know starting early wasn’t a good idea.
Art found Jesus in spite of having not seen a sign of him at his house for a long time, married my mother who in turn provided me a grandfather who I remember fondly on this rainy day on the Jagged Edge of America.
That’s all I’ve got today. No sunrises, no sunsets, just some thoughts that cropped up early.
Be well.
TC
*For my BuyMeACoffee supporters, thank you, again, for allowing me the opportunity to write for a living. You know who you are, and you are appreciated. Thanks for the follows, subscribers, and readers. I appreciate all of you. tc