"The Measure of a Man"
By Joseph Ridgway
In 1910, at age 17, having only a second-grade education and no English language skills, my maternal grandfather immigrated to the U.S. by boat from his native Italy. He was destined to spend the balance of his 90-year life in Southern New Jersey working on the tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad.
His life, a study in simplicity and honesty, included a family of seven children, with the ultimate sacrifice of one son at Iwo Jima. His life was not filled with front-page accomplishments. His obituary was unceremoniously included in the local newspaper. He was not an inventor, political leader, artist nor athlete. He was just a retired railroad man, food grower, winemaker, storyteller, devoted husband, father, grandfather, and family provider.
As I watched the health of the only grandfather I ever knew rapidly deteriorate during his final days, I recognized his life to be representative of those many indistinguishable lives that formed the true backbone of 20th century America. He would not have recognized his existence to be an integral part of this nation’s strength.
His life had a clear and solid sense of purpose and priority, which was his family. More specifically, opportunity for his family and those who were to follow.
I will never forget his lesson to me during my senior year of high school, almost 50 years ago. At times I was an angry young man and consequently was suspended from school for some long-forgotten behavior. I was livid and convinced that the school’s action was somehow directed at me in a personal and unfair way.
I complained to my grandfather about the “injustice” and waited righteously for his show of support.
His response was in the form of a story about a man who was walking down a stone-littered street.
After stumbling several times, the man angrily ran to each stone and kicked them out of his path. When the man reached the end of the street and looked back, he discovered that all the stones remained, but that his shoes were worn out.
His end came rather suddenly, although the family had time to visit him as he lay crippled by a stroke. I told him that my fourth child would be born any day, but when my daughter entered this world, my grandfather was four days away from eternity and probably beyond the reach of my voice.
As the family visited him those last hot days of summer, they agreed to pretend that he would recover. But we all knew he would not, and so did his doctors.
So, in a private moment, I held his hands and lovingly invited him in whispered tones to fall asleep and to let go.
I told him that one day we would all be together again. I like to think that he heard me.
His life, a study in simplicity and honesty, included a family of seven children, with the ultimate sacrifice of one son at Iwo Jima. His life was not filled with front-page accomplishments. His obituary was unceremoniously included in the local newspaper. He was not an inventor, political leader, artist nor athlete. He was just a retired railroad man, food grower, winemaker, storyteller, devoted husband, father, grandfather, and family provider.
As I watched the health of the only grandfather I ever knew rapidly deteriorate during his final days, I recognized his life to be representative of those many indistinguishable lives that formed the true backbone of 20th century America. He would not have recognized his existence to be an integral part of this nation’s strength.
His life had a clear and solid sense of purpose and priority, which was his family. More specifically, opportunity for his family and those who were to follow.
I will never forget his lesson to me during my senior year of high school, almost 50 years ago. At times I was an angry young man and consequently was suspended from school for some long-forgotten behavior. I was livid and convinced that the school’s action was somehow directed at me in a personal and unfair way.
I complained to my grandfather about the “injustice” and waited righteously for his show of support.
His response was in the form of a story about a man who was walking down a stone-littered street.
After stumbling several times, the man angrily ran to each stone and kicked them out of his path. When the man reached the end of the street and looked back, he discovered that all the stones remained, but that his shoes were worn out.
His end came rather suddenly, although the family had time to visit him as he lay crippled by a stroke. I told him that my fourth child would be born any day, but when my daughter entered this world, my grandfather was four days away from eternity and probably beyond the reach of my voice.
As the family visited him those last hot days of summer, they agreed to pretend that he would recover. But we all knew he would not, and so did his doctors.
So, in a private moment, I held his hands and lovingly invited him in whispered tones to fall asleep and to let go.
I told him that one day we would all be together again. I like to think that he heard me.
Author’s Note:
I wrote this encomium in tribute to my grandfather and it was first published on June 15, 2014 (Father’s Day) in the Forum section of the South Jersey Courier-Post.
I wrote this encomium in tribute to my grandfather and it was first published on June 15, 2014 (Father’s Day) in the Forum section of the South Jersey Courier-Post.