Tonight my sister kidnapped my mom and took her off downtown for a movie in a museum theater. My dad had a quandary- he could just sit at home and enjoy watching an old movie, or he could meet me for dinner. The salad and bread sticks appeared to win the day. I met him at Olive Garden after work, and it was nice to just sit and talk together for a while.

My dad reminded me tonight that his father was the only one of five siblings to not attend college, back in a time when college attendance was more a privilege than a natural expectation. My dad’s dad got out of high school in 1929- just at a time where possibility and affordability went out the window, and one’s future as a young person would depend on a fair amount of luck and grit.

Grandad ended up lucking into the pictures business, finding his way in time into theater management in several theaters in small towns across Kansas. And, eventually, he created a good enough life for himself and his family. It was not always an easy life. When his youngest son was shot in a gun accident at age 3 and paralyzed from the waist down, hardship became a permanent lodger in his household. There would always be doctor’s visits and bills, and accommodations to handicaps and heartaches.

I was given my paternal grandfather’s first name for my own, which, at times during my younger years, left me uncomfortable in roll call situations, particularly at the start of new school years in new class rooms. Checking on student names, I was always “William” at first, hostage to my formal full name written on some list of administrative organization, until I could correct the new teacher. “It is Bruce.”

I suppose I tried somewhat to bury that name for myself throughout my younger years. At times, I thought it sounded too highbrow or too stuffy for the likes of myself, a person of average stature and presence. When I grew older, at times I considered what the impact on my life would be if I just changed my name one day, and just switched over to William, or, like Mickey Rooney in the TV movie, called myself “William, Bill for short”, not unlike my brother did after college. William has a regal tone to it. Bill is a nice name, and fairly unique. Bill’s are low key nice guys. I could just become William, or Bill.

But no- I never played that one out.

My uncle, the child shot and paralyzed who became a man I briefly met and never really knew, was a Billy. My Grandad was William, but known around town as Bill, and that name always seemed to suit him well. Despite his trials in life, I just remember him as a pretty happy man, interested in whatever was around him, always ready with a chuckle and friendly words, at times pensive, quite frequently in memory in a white A frame tee with a cigarette dangling from his lips or wedged between two fingers on a hot and humid summer morning, eyes drawing in my entrance as a kiddo entering his kitchen, a warm smile spreading across his face. He introduced me to grapefruit juice, and to Grape Nut Flakes, which I forever tie to my childhood vacation days spent at their gigantic house on B street.

He was my Grandad, my father’s dad. Billy was my father’s brother. I, carrying on the line, became my father’s son, the third William.

It was a nice casual dinner. I am always glad to hear stories from Dad about his family and his background. His background, after all, is also mine, and I am always appreciative to hear another nugget or two about these people who permitted me to be brought into this world.

I guess I could always try out Will sometime. Bill. William. So many options.