3 Gifts From My Grandfather: Part 2, A Way With Words

Ramsey Belanoff
Aug 22, 2017 · 4 min read
A Way With Words by Stitcher

“Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.” -James Baldwin

I was third in line to speak. Everyone else had prepared a statement; they relied upon those pieces of paper as they stood and conveyed a message. Everyone was organized, steady. The speaker before me had moved us to tears. No matter; I’ve got this, I thought to myself. There was no need to prepare. It was all in my head already, what I would say and how I would say it. My time spent in tourism had gotten me over the discomforts of public speaking. I could explain history to folks from next door to Japan and back again. It was a joy being relatable. Only, I hadn’t addressed a group since a workshop last year, which I did seated, with a migraine.

My hands shook. I was sitting in the middle of the pew, with my grandfather’s portrait less than 10 feet away. My mother had arranged burnt orange flowers on the altar, the same color my sister wore to the service. It was his favorite. The church we were in was his favorite project: he was the architect and a charter member. He was everywhere. He was difficult to get over, and maybe we weren’t supposed to.


My sister had typed her statement for the service. I am the oldest; I had to go first. I had no piece of paper. “My name is Ramsey, and I’m Clayton’s oldest… grandchild.” Oh no. My voice went. Tears fought their way through. I attempted to steady myself and gazed at the crowd. “Many of us remember our first memory. Or, at least we think that we do.” I struggled and quaked through what was in fact my earliest memory, at 18 months, of being held by grandfather while we played I’ve Got Your Nose! together. It was a routine of our visits. It beat out my memory of feeding ducks at the lake when I was 3. I, who’d simply grabbed his nose in response in that game, had gotten his French hook nose after all. Plain as the nose on my face.

I, who was supposedly good at words, wasn’t mastering them on that pulpit. The fact that my gift for gab, right down to my extroversion, had all come from the man who had left me alone for the second half of my life, and these truths had hit me like a train. The stories each speaker, family and friends, recounted his way with people and his way with words. Hadn’t I observed this? Why did it seem so new, and yet so old, and so terribly too late to recognize?


“When I turned 40, my brother told me to remember that my life begins at 40- I am not sure what we are supposed to make of that. Perhaps, just to be happy, to have the expectation of many great life experiences to come.” Clayton wrote this sentiment in a birthday card he sent to my husband last year. I will be 40 soon. There have been several moments, days, and even a month or two where I believed that an early midlife crisis had begun. My expectations have often been too high. My reality was like a ship’s anchor, pulling me down swiftly to the ground. I hadn’t done enough of this or never tried that.

One thing Clayton seldom did was guilt me. He didn’t care for me feeling badly unnecessarily, any more than he wanted me to call him while I was driving. He always understood. He could see my efforts better because he knew who I was on the inside. I came into his life when he was 49. He’d been an uncle for decades, so he had plenty of practice befriending children. They say it takes an artist to understand an artist. My sister recounted this in her words during his memorial. “Not too many parents are excited when their child tells them that they want to be an artist,” she said, and the congregation laughed, “But his reaction was one of delight.”

My grandfather always encouraged me to try. Attempt it, try it, give it a chance. Be brave. Set your mind to it. He believed in my writing, and saw me through school learning and blossoming as a creative writer. I wasn’t so great at what is now called STEM. Art was intoxicating to me. I only became an extrovert after years of angst and frustration, when I came to understand that people are fascinating and that life is always one miraculous day at a time.

I could always express myself with words, and spoke early. It is a natural inclination. It is a gift.

#make2017better #ladywriter #not_a_mr #livetoday

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Ramsey Belanoff

Written by

Writer, Comedienne, and Mom on a journey. There will be drama.

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