The dictionary defines the word grandfather as, “the founder or originator of a family.” Grandfather, to me, means much more than the person who started the family.  It means the person who takes me to an ice cream shop for ice cream cones on a blazing summer afternoon, plays board games with me, and takes me on walks to talk about the old days. 

My dad’s childhood contained many father figures, yet none stayed long enough to become even more than just a shadowy figure.  My grandma had a hard time finding a good man to accompany her.  By the age of four, my father’s real dad withdrew out of his life.  Years progressed: birthdays, marriage, birth of children, holidays, came with the absence of his father.  For all my dad knew his dad may have been dead.  I never knew him.  I never knew the man who helped mold my father.  During my younger years, my dad vaguely talked about his father.  I only remember him telling me, “My dad has not been in my life for a very long time.”

“Why?” I would reply back in my adolescent voice.  My dad never provided me with an answer to that question. 
Two years ago as my dad’s birthday drew near, a present with a red bow, did not sound good enough.  I wanted to show my dad that he meant more to me than what I showed him.  I thought I would never make it a day without my dad in my life, let alone years.  My dad never talked about his dad, so that struck my curiosity.  I started hinting questions about his dad.  I inquired information about my dad’s father.  Fidgeting my fingers over the keyboard, I thought of a relative who could bring me closer to my treasure.  Stalking on social media resulted in not even an ounce of help because I didn’t even know one name to start my search.  I never truly worked up the courage to ask my grandma to dig up her dark, dreary past, so I thought I would turn to my great aunt, Laurie, for some knowledge.  She became the golden, rigidity key to the cherry red door that I desperately wanted to open.  I quickly scripted a message on Facebook Messenger to Laurie, asking if she knew anything about my grandfather. I started my list of questions with, “Is my dad’s father still alive?”  Since Laurie is always on Facebook, it took just a few short minutes of waiting to receive her response. 

“Yes! He is surely still alive and well in fact!” she typed back. 
Then I asked, “Do you still talk to him?” 
“Not as much as I should.  But once a month at the least,” claimed Laurie. 

Finally, I asked, “Do you have an email? Phone number? Address? Preferably all of the above!”  She provided me with my grandfather’s email but requested I advise someone of my intentions.  After I talked to my mom about all of my plans, she supported my decisions but became nervous for my dad’s reaction.  With her blessing, I sent my grandfather an email, explaining who I was and how I came across his email.  Days came and went, and a message finally appeared in my email.  Who is this? I thought to myself.  As I clicked on the email, the fog in my mind cleared, and I knew who sent it.  Oh, hey, I know who that is!  It’s my grandpa!  My grandfather claimed that he wrote with happiness to hear from his granddaughter but suggested that I shouldn’t be talking to him unless addressed with my dad.  Since it had been so long, he didn’t want to dig up the jagged past.  It accelerated to days before my dad’s birthday, but I didn’t want to tell him yet.  It was supposed to be a birthday surprise. 

His birthday finally arrived.  We all gathered around the aged, wooden dinner table as my dad opened his presents.  My dad never asked for anything or wanted anything in return for all his hard work.  With a look of dismay, he glanced up at me and saw I had no gift to give.  Frantically, I finally found the words to tell him that I discovered his long lost dad.  My face hot from the stress of not knowing what to think or say, I opened with, “I don’t know how someone could go through life without having a father, and I don’t know how you have gotten through life without yours.” As I continued on, a hurricane of salty tears surged out of his ocean blue eyes.  It has been a lifetime since he had seen or even talked to his dad.  That very night he sent his dad a long, heartfelt email.

Weeks passed and handfuls of emails were conversed back and forth.  Without my grandfather knowing, my mom and dad arranged a surprise trip down to the town of Caneyville, a tiny town in Kentucky.  During the six hours in the car, we had only brief conversations.

Pulling into the driveway, we went to the door of the quaint ranch house on the hill.  An elderly man, wearing suspenders and a black t-shirt with a miniature tool-kit and glasses in his shirt pocket, answered the door with a elf-like woman peering over his shoulder.  The second my dad stepped foot into the door of the petite house in the hills and laid eyes on his lost father, tears rolled down his face.  Facial expressions, beard shape with the hints of ginger and ash, the movement of their bodies when the laughter roared out, and the warmth they brought to a room: everything about the two portrayed them as twins.  That night, my dad and grandfather stayed up all night talking about all the memories each other has missed in their lives.  For finding him and bringing his song back into his life, my grandfather turned to me and said, “Thank you.” 

I wrapped my arms around his Santa like body tightly and mumbled, “You’re welcome!” as tears ran down my face.