An early memory of my maternal grandfather was hearing him ask me a question. Grandpa asked my sister and me a lot of questions, which I found interesting since most grownups ignored us after the initial greeting. When we were old enough, like our mother, Grandpa played board games with us. I learned to play backgammon and chess, his two favorite games, then mine. Grandpa lived several hours away by car. My memories of him are vivid because I only saw him on holidays or special occasions, but his visits left a lasting, positive impression.
My mother told the story of my jolly, happy-natured paternal grandfather who said to her with a twinkle in his eyes on the way to the hospital to “get” my older sister: “Bring home anything (meaning boy, girl, twins) except a redhead.” Papa was born with bright reddish-orange hair and one of his sisters had auburn-colored hair, complimenting her pretty face, but his hair looked comically garish in comparison, relieved when it turned gray with age. He was teased as a boy about his hair color, and he did not wish the same humiliation inflicted on his grandchildren. My mother delivered a redhead. Two years later, my mother said Papa laughed while repeating his speech to her on the way to the hospital to “get” me. Later, Papa wasn’t laughing when he said my sister and I had beautiful red hair. My sister’s hair was a dark strawberry blond and mine resembled sparkling copper pennies.
When we were old enough, our mother took my sister and me shopping in the city, promising us lunch in a large department store. Walking through the Tea Room to the special children’s section, my sister and I saw ladies’ heads turn, greeting my mother and us. Several ladies said what adorable little children we were with such gorgeous red hair, and they patted our heads. I was horrified by strangers touching my hair, but I enjoyed a delicious lunch seated in a booth decorated with nursery rhyme characters. On the way out, different ladies repeated the greeting and touching routine. I secretly cringed.
When we were little girls, my mother often dropped my sister and me off at relatives or friends’ homes to play with their children of our ages while she attended meetings or social events. One day I was dropped off at a home with a baby, the first one I had ever seen. The day was chilly with rain, trapping us indoors. It was not a pleasant playtime. That baby never stopped crying.
A few days later, Grandpa visited us and he asked me the question he would ask each time he saw me: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” My response that day at the age of three-years old was the same answer I gave every time Grandpa asked me that question: “I’m never going to marry and I’m going to dye my hair black!” I remember a look of surprise on Grandpa’s face upon hearing my rapid-fire response. Chuckling, he hugged me and said: “Oh, I think you will change your mind about that.”
The reason for my response was simple; marriage involved crying babies and my flaming red hair attracted attention like a neon sign. Yes, Grandpa was right. I changed my mind about marriage, but I dyed my hair dark brown once—and became invisible. Now with gray hair like Papa’s, I am invisible once again. I glance in the mirror and don’t recognize myself without my shiny red hair. I think I can hear my grandfathers’ laughter.
