- My paternal grandfather died years before I was born, and I only knew him through photos.
- A few years ago, I started looking into genealogy to understand my family better.
- I learned so much about my grandfather, and while I won’t know him in person, I’m so proud of him.
I never met my paternal grandfather, but he’s always been a larger-than-life figure in our family. Known affectionately by my older cousins as Grandpa Louie, he was born in 1919 and died in 1987, only a few short years before I was born. I’ve often felt robbed of a relationship with him, though stories and photos fill in some of the holes left by his absence.
Sometimes, If I try hard enough, I can almost imagine being the butt of his silly jokes, playing made-up family games with him in the front yard, or asking for tales of his life as a truck driver and his work with the Teamsters in Flint, Michigan. It helps a bit that my dad and his six brothers share many of Grandpa Louie’s physical attributes (baldness chief among them), but the sense of loss remains.
When I decided to dive into family genealogy a few years back, my goals were simple: I wanted to uncloud the path that led my family to Michigan from abroad. I knew more about my paternal grandma’s backstory but not so much about Grandpa Louie’s. I signed up for Ancestry.com and dove in, unsure if I’d find anything interesting.
I never expected how it’d make me feel.
I found so much
Within days of starting my quest, I’d unearthed treasures. There were photos of my grandpa I’d never seen alongside military documents displaying his signature. I calculated his age at every turn, finding context for family stories and drawing comparisons with my life. Years earlier, I’d sorted through a box of sweet love letters exchanged between Grandpa Louie and my grandmother while he served overseas. These felt like a nice introduction to Grandpa. Genealogy brought me even closer.
I dove into my grandpa’s younger years by perusing newspapers from his tiny hometown, feeling giddy when I’d find mention of him or his loved ones. The marvelous mundanity captured my imagination: There were descriptions of egg deliveries and farm trades for “fine hogs” among my great-great uncles. A frequent theme in the paper was reporting on the latest injuries and ailments afflicting my great-grandmother, Louie’s mother. And perhaps most adorably, I stumbled upon a published letter to Santa Claus written by Grandpa himself at seven years old.
I felt closer to him the more I found
The deeper I dug, the closer I felt to this man who is such a part of me but whom I’ve never looked in the eye. Through photos, documents, and newspaper clippings — some of which had never been seen by my dad or his siblings — I felt like Grandpa Louie, and I were working on a secret project together as if he’d left me clues to unearth throughout his life.
Even more incredibly, I tracked Grandpa’s maternal line back to Ireland through my third great-grandmother, Sabina, who left Achill Island during the potato famine. Only 22 years old, she made the dangerous journey to Canada by boat and migrated to the Midwestern United States, where she settled, married, and continued the family line that allowed me to exist.
Obituaries discovered during my genealogy journey included locals’ accounts of Sabina’s warm demeanor, hardworking nature, and penchant for sharing stories of her life in Ireland. Because she lived into her 90s, I was lucky enough to find two photos of Sabina — such treasures and unexpected bonuses in my quest.
As I continued to trace Grandpa Louie’s life through the birth of his 10 children and his proud career as a truck driver, I inevitably arrived in 1987, the year he died of complications from leukemia. There were obituaries listing the basics of his life and death, yes, but there were also newspaper articles paying homage to his work.
A piece in the Flint Journal described him as calm and good-humored, even quoting a few of Grandpa’s jokes. I don’t know what his voice sounded like, but reading his words is a gift. Other pieces posthumously lauded his dedication to union work, describing him as an “institution.” I didn’t know feeling such pride for someone you’d never met was possible.
It didn’t bring him back
My dive into the world of amateur genealogy has not brought my grandfather back, nor has it fully eased the pervasive sadness I feel that our paths never crossed. But it has given me the gift of knowledge and the ability to connect with my grandfather as every version of himself—from the little boy writing letters to Santa Claus to the young military man to the driver and dad with a larger-than-life personality.
There’s peace in knowing that the seemingly mundane things we leave behind might matter to those who come after us. The documents we sign, the photos we pose for, the quick quotes we share with local reporters, the yearbooks, and the letters. These small slices of personal history create a portal between us and our family members.
It will always be true that I never met my Grandpa Louie. No amount of research, photographs, or glowing articles can change that. But I take comfort in knowing that so many pieces of him are still here, very much alive, tucked safely into my folders of genealogical finds.
