Grandpa

Grandpa Waters was a man of contradictions—someone who could charm a crowd with music one moment and retreat into moody solitude the next. His life began on the Isle of Man, a place steeped in legend, with a history that ranged from pirates to tax havens. This unique backdrop colored his worldview, giving him a sense of mystery and grandeur, which never fully reconciled with the life he ended up living.

He started his career as an English Bobby, walking the streets with pride, his nightstick in hand. I imagine his back straight and his chest slightly puffed out—a man proud of his role, even if it wasn’t the grand stage he may have envisioned for himself. There was always something about Grandpa that seemed like it didn’t quite fit into the confines of the ordinary. It was as if he was born for a life bigger than what was handed to him. Perhaps that’s why he sought out moments where he could shine.

At home, he had the comforting, familiar smell of pipe smoke. He loved his solitude, finding peace in his woodshed, tinkering away on small projects made from scraps and coconuts—things that may have seemed insignificant to others but held meaning for him. Fishing was another of his great solaces. I can relate to that—the simple joy of being alone with your thoughts, letting the world fall away. But just as easily as he embraced his solitude, there was another side of him that craved recognition. He would put on a kilt, play the bagpipes, or blow into his harmonica, gathering an audience wherever he went. Those were the moments when Grandpa truly came alive, basking in the attention, commanding a crowd with his music and antics.

He was a man who, when at his best, could captivate anyone. I’ll never forget how much he adored performing. The sparkle in his eye when people clapped—it was as though in those fleeting moments, he was exactly who he wanted to be. He wasn’t just a man; he was a spectacle, a performer, someone people wanted to watch. He even dabbled in poetry, though, as a child, I never gave it much thought. Looking back now, I wish I could read his words again, with the understanding and appreciation that comes with age.

But Grandpa’s life wasn’t all about crowds and creativity. He had a deep desire to help others, especially the young. He formed youth groups, taught kids skills, counseled them, and made sure they had a role model to look up to. It was one of his many gifts—the ability to reach out and connect, especially with those who needed guidance. Yet, for all these shining qualities, there was a darker side to him, a side that often made itself known.

He marched to the beat of his own drum, sometimes oblivious to how his actions affected others. He assumed what was good for him was good for everyone else. I remember one particularly unforgettable moment when I was 11. My brother Joe and I were out ice fishing with Grandpa. The fish weren’t biting, and like most kids, we quickly grew bored and hungry. When we asked if he had anything to eat, Grandpa casually mentioned sandwiches in the car. We rushed to the bag, expecting a comforting meal, but instead, we found thick horseradish sandwiches. To say we were shocked would be an understatement. I spit mine out in a panic, cooling my mouth with handfuls of snow. But that was Grandpa—he couldn’t understand why we wouldn’t love the same things he did.

Grandpa also wrestled with manic depression. When he was on an upswing, there was no stopping him. He was charismatic, lively, and full of energy—especially when he was performing. But when he slipped into a low, he became someone else entirely. His anger and impatience surfaced, and during those times, we all knew to keep our distance. As he got older, these episodes became more frequent and more severe.

His illness was a weight he carried his entire life, and it only worsened with time. I know his childhood was rough, marked by abuse from his father. That pain shaped him, driving him to achieve, but his mental health kept pulling him back down, like an anchor he could never cut loose. That struggle for control, for success, for greatness—it consumed him, and it’s something I recognize in myself as well.

Grandpa’s relationship with my father was another complicated chapter in his life. In their younger years, they were close—camping, fishing, and hunting together. But when my father’s career took off, when he started getting public attention for his work in the inner city, something changed. My dad was in the papers, admired by many for his optimism and energy, and this was something Grandpa couldn’t handle. What might have been pride for another man turned to jealousy for him. He dismissed my father’s achievements as attention-seeking. I see now that it wasn’t about my dad at all—it was about Grandpa’s own disappointments, his own unmet expectations.

In many ways, my grandpa was a wonderful man. He overcame so much in his life—abuse, mental illness—and still managed to bring joy to others. He helped young people, shared his love for music, and taught me lessons I still carry with me today. But more than anything, I admire him for how he faced his battles. Living with a debilitating disease like manic depression is no small feat, and he did so with as much grace as he could muster.

Even with all his flaws, I love him and will always respect the way he kept fighting.