Missing out on a chance to hear wonderful grandfather stories

I had three grandfathers, although I really only got to know one of them.

First was Charles, my first paternal grandfather. He died before I was born, and his son disappeared from my life for good before my third birthday.If I ever think of either of them, which is seldom, it's like I hear a mental policeman in my head.

"Nothing to see here, folks. Move along."

Paul, lower right, on his wedding day in 1920

Second was Paul, my maternal grandfather. He was nearly 60 in my first memories of him, and he was one of the key figures in my life until he died at age 89. I know he was a flawed man, but I loved him very much and I still miss him nearly 30 years after his death.

I know a great deal about him, largely because he loved to tell stories about his life. He taught me that the most important pitch any pitcher throws is Strike One; I'll never forget his expressions of disgust when we listened to Cleveland Indians games on the radio in the early '60s. Indians pitchers always seemed to be behind hitter 2-and-0.

He was essentially a blue-collar guy, but he loved to read. He watched some television, but other than baseball games, he rarely even turned his portable radio on. The only music I remember him enjoying was "Lawrence Welk."

My third grandfather was Morris, my second paternal grandfather. I first met him in 1957, and he died just 12 years later. His son Norman was the only man I ever really knew as a father. He was my dad for more than 50 years. He died six years ago and I miss him more as each year passes.

His father emigrated from the Ukraine, came through Ellis Island and settled in New York City. He was the only real entrepreneur our family ever had. From the time my dad was growing up through most of the time I knew him, my grandfather owned a neighborhood grocery store on Ditmas Avenue in Brooklyn.

Not Morris or his store, but one very similar.

The store in the picture isn't his, and the man isn't him, but I couldn't resist running the picture since it was almost certainly within a block or two of his location.

He was open six days a week -- closed for Shabbos -- and usually at the store from before sunrise till well past sundown. I doubt I ever had another relative who worked as hard for as long as he did.

I remember a conversation with one of my sisters about how hard he worked. She told me that the reason our dad never wanted to have his own business was that he saw his own father grinding out a living working far harder than he would have needed to work had he been salaried.

I don't recall ever having a conversation with my grandfather. I was sort of intimidated by him, and I never really had many opportunities to talk with him alone. He died fairly young -- when I was just 19 and when my father was only 43.

The thing is, I never had many conversations with my dad about his life either, and he died when I was 58 years old. There was so much I would like to have known about the time and place where he grew up. I've read Chaim Potok's wonderful books, and of course seen the Woody Allen films about growing up in Brooklyn during the same period.

But I missed my chance to get first-hand stories, and I will always regret that.