A Most Remarkable Man

This is a picture of my grandfather, Fritz Boehm. It was taken in 1923 at a friend's home in Coburg, Germany. He sent it to my grandmother with the word Meine Liebe Martha (My dear Martha) written on the back. This picture is taped to the shutters over the windows in front of my desk, sharing space with notes from my children, the first dollar I made writing, and a fax from my husband that was sweet and funny. Most days I don't really notice it. The picture is part of my landscape. Then there are days like today when it catches my eye, and I find myself lost in the image and what it represents.

Grandpa came from a small village in Bavaria. His father drowned trying to save their cow from the river, his mother died of an ear infection.  He married above his station – my grandmother was the daughter of a chocolate salesman - and together they had two daughters. When the family came to the United States he opened a delicatessen. I remember so clearly the exotic fare on his shelves: chocolate covered bees, escargot shells, biscuits and tins of tiny hard candies shaped like flowers.  He wore a paper hat and a white apron and made his own sausage. He sold tongue and blood sausage. When I visited, he would walk me into the big freezer and give me a hot dog.  The freezer was  so cold and a little scary and I loved it. A visit to that store was an adventure, a thrill, a curiosity. This was how I knew my grandfather as a child.

But this picture reminds me that he was so much more than a shopkeeper. Look at the book he holds so respectfully. See how he is lost in the words he's reading. Note his suit. He is dressed like a gentleman even though he sits casually in a garden. The tilt of his head tells me he is thinking, considering, appreciating what he is reading. His posture tells me he is comfortable in his own skin.  I know, though, that he is not completely lost in the moment. If I were to walk into that picture, grandpa would close that book, give me a lovely smile, and invite me to join him.

Grandpa Boehm was not a mogul, but he was what every woman wants: a real man. He provided for his family, his business, and his community without fanfare. If he ever worried deeply, it was in private. He treated women like ladies. He appreciated the finer things in life but did not lust after them. He taught me how to properly hold a wine glass. He bent over a woman's hand with a slight bow when he greeted her.  He held doors and listened when people spoke.  He sang to me in German. At family dinners he would rise to offer a toast and it was always the same. "To old wine and young women," he would say as he raised his glass. There was always a twinkle in his eye – and that smile.

He died when he was very old, and I was a woman with a family. Today I can't take my eyes off this photo. He will always be in my heart, reading his book, making his toasts and offering me a smile that is mine alone.