My grandfather, William Mack Little, was born on a November day in either 1878 or 1879. There is no clear document to confirm the actual moment of his birth just as there seems to be no sign of his parents in a census or other official document. I simply know that he existed and what I know about him came from his own lips.

According to his story his mother died three days after he was born from complications. I’ve often thought about that because I was in hard labor for over eighteen hours with my first child. Later my doctor would almost casually note that I might have had a difficult time giving birth in an earlier era. In fact he conjectured that I might even have died without expert medical care. It was a shocking statement to which I only reacted years later when I thought about the implications and how I may have inherited certain problems from my great grandmother, Marion.

I have been haunted by the thought of this woman. I find myself wondering how old she was when her son was born. I try to imagine her having a difficult time during the birth and ultimately succumbing to death before having a chance to love her baby boy and watch him grow old. I have been unable to find any documentation regarding her existence and yet my grandfather is the evidence that she was indeed once alive and hopefully happy at the prospect of becoming a mother. 

My grandfather remembered his mother by naming his daughter after her. I wonder if he longed for his mama when he was a boy growing up somewhere in the backwoods of Virginia. Was the grandmother who raised him the mother of his father or was she the parent of his mother? These are questions that I did not think to ask when I had the chance. My queries came too late and somehow public records provide no clues as to this mystery. 

Ironically my grandfather lived to the age of one hundred eight. His mind was clear and brilliant until the final weeks of his life. He was a strong man who was still building things and remodeling the home where he lived when he was in his nineties. He was so sturdy that my brothers and I seemingly took for granted that he would always be with us. 

Grandpa’s stories of his boyhood in the nineteenth century were vivid and illustrated the hardships that the common people endured during that time. He spoke of the graft of presidents, the poverty of vast numbers of people, the depression that overtook the land. He vividly described the ravages of smallpox and the time when he was quarantined with his father who seemed to be dying from that dread disease. 

As a young adult Grandpa traveled the United States doing carpentry work. He marveled at the inventions that he witnessed in their infancy. He remembered the first time he saw a town lit up with electricity. He breathlessly described learning about the flight of the Wright Brothers. He spoke of the changes in the lifestyle of Americans that brought wondrous inventions into homes. He was alive at the time of invention of the first cars, the first movies, the advent of television, the astronauts walking on the moon. He understood without question that progress had made the world better and for him the idea of going back in time was ridiculous. He lived to see the nineteen eighties and to know that me and my brothers were doing well. 

Grandpa was a happy and optimistic man whose mantra was that “these are good old days.” The very idea that the world was better at an earlier time was ridiculous to him. He understood all too well how dark and difficult life had been for everyone in the past. He had lived through those times and seen the suffering including four wars. I suppose he realized that in the modern times his mother might have lived long after his birth and been able to love him as much as he loved the thought of her. 

Grandpa lost all of his money when my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer in the early nineteen sixties. There was no Medicare back then so he had to use his own money for her care. She was so ill that her medical treatments drained all of the resources that he had saved over time, including his house. He ended up in a rented room with a landlord who became his best friend. When he finally grew ill at the end of his life Medicare paid for his needs. He more than most understood how wonderful the idea of helping the elderly was.

I suppose that if Grandpa were alive today he would see a kind of return to the Gilded Age of his boyhood in which the so called robber barons held most of the wealth and power. I suspect that he would warn us of the problems that might occur when the guardrails that keep us healthy and secure are removed. He would worry about the incredible influence of the wealthiest among us who seem to be in league with our politicians. He was not just a student of history. He had lived it and in the process he understood that progress was not a bad thing but that turning back almost always is.