The last time I saw my grandfather was a few months after Madelyn was born, in December of 2007. Now 83, he is noticeably more frail. I remember him being a very engaged and loving grandfather when I was a child but that he pulled away from our family after my grandmother died of Alzheimer’s and cancer when I was about 9 years old. Not long before her death he and I went on a road trip through the mountains and he loaned me a point and shoot camera to record our travels. I remember little of this trip other than returning home and getting the images back and seeing one photograph from Cades Cove, Tennessee that transported me back to that place and to the feeling of being there.  I was intrigued – art became a living and breathing thing and I wanted to create, to record, to remember. This single moment altered the course of my life and I can hardly write about it without my eyes welling, full of gratitude for his ability to unwittingly put me on the path that has led me to this point. 

His name is Henry Eugene Martin but his friends call him Gene. I am the oldest of his six grandchildren and we have always called him Papaw. He managed a Sears store for years and retired before I was born. He doesn’t own a computer and to my knowledge has never experienced the internet first hand. His hair has thinned into strands that he brushes over his scalp. A large knot protrudes from his forehead and I can’t even keep straight the stories he told us as children about it’s origin. Known for his sweet tooth, my mother always had to fight to get us to eat vegetables when we visited, much to our delight. There are so many things about him that come through to me in fragmented memories but I feel fortunate that he is still around, our last living grandparent. Melissa, Madelyn and I were able to visit him at the end of June, staying with him at his home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina for the weekend. For some reason it felt like the first time I was able to openly speak with him, more man-to-man. The morning after we arrived we walked into the living room where he was already perched in his usual reading chair, with the newspaper on his lap. “Did you know I passed away last night?” he asked, nonchalantly. Taken aback by the question we laughed awkwardly until he presented us with an obituary that bore his name, though this man who had passed away was nearly 20 years younger than my grandfather. The deceased’s birthday was the same as mine ironically, just a different year. Papaw clipped the obituary out of the paper, placed it in an envelope and told me to take it to my mother and tell her that “we just got there too late.” This sort of pranking sums him up pretty well. 

While in his house I record obsessively, either in photographs or audio or written words, not wanting to miss any of the details. The way he speaks or the slowing shuffle of his feet or the way he loves his girlfriend Ann, who he met not long after my grandmother’s death. She lost her husband the same week he lost his wife and they have comforted and supported one another for years now. She is likely the reason he pulled away from our family, to be with her and to give her his attention, but she is a wonderful woman who has doubtless added years to his life.

I am so happy to have photographs of my grandfather with his first great grandchild. They will serve as the key to Madelyn’s memory of him. Below a journal entry I found from the last time I saw my grandfather and a few photographs from that visit, nearly three years ago. Please forgive this self-indulgently loose edit of family photos. A scrapbook if you will.  

‘

12.27.07

My grandfather’s house:

Memories. The rocking horse in the basement (old jumper, my grandfather calls him), the pictures on the walls. My grandmother, her eyes nearly vacant years before Alzheimer’s had taken its toll. The nick nacks around the house. The tricycle in the basement and how fast it seemed to move as we rolled down the driveway. The bird house out back where we would pop squirrels with his pellet gun to keep them from eating his bird food. The lassie looking dog statue that sits watch in his front hallway. Its been years since I’ve been here and not a single thing has changed. its as if I stumbled upon a time capsule full of childhood memories. 

In the picture I make he sits in a chair in his basement, holding my daughter. She’s asleep and hangs limply like a rag doll. He holds her awkwardly, but happily. Not wanting to give her up when we decide to retreat to bed. 

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Matt Eich is a photographer who is based in Norfolk, Virginia.  His column, “In My Back Yard” appears every other Wednesday.  He is a Founding Member of LUCEO Images.

The last time I saw my grandfather was a few months after Madelyn was born, in December of 2007. Now 83, he is noticeably more frail. I remember him being a very engaged and loving grandfather when I was a child but that he pulled away from our family after my grandmother died of ...