“We will ready the presidential suite right away, Mr. Wilson!” said innumerable hotel front desk staff to my grandfather, Woodrow Wilson.
“That really won’t be necessary,” he’d reply.
“Oh, no Mr. Wilson! We insist!”
“You’re very kind, thank you…”
And my grandfather and grandmother stayed in many presidential suites, in hotels all over the US and Europe.
My grandfather was named after his mother’s favorite president, Woodrow Wilson. His name was technically Thomas Woodrow Wilson, but like many Southerners of that time, he went by his middle name. He was Woody to his friends, Buddy to his closest friends. Hotel staff didn’t realize that President Woodrow Wilson was long dead by the time my grandfather checked in.
Grandaddy was a Reagan Democrat who turned into a Republican as he saw his country start to hate the small business owner, the self-made man. His prejudices were a product of his time and place, but so were his strengths: the true Protestant work ethic, love and respect for family, valuing education, and proud that his children and grandchildren were well-educated and successful.
T. Woodrow Wilson grew up poor on a farm in Western North Carolina. He left home young and didn’t finish high school. During the the Second World War, he became a Western Union boy. He was so good that he was spared the draft, and worked his way up, doing jobs that were deemed essential to the war effort.
Eventually he became a photographer and a painter. He was the society photographer to the big tobacco families of Winston-Salem, like R.J. Reynolds, photographing their weddings, funerals, and all big moments. He also did advertising photography.
Grandmother and Grandaddy loved to travel. Paris was one of their favorites. Their other favorite activity was dancing together, which they did at every opportunity well into their ninth decades. It was no surprise that when they returned from dinner to their hotel in Paris and came upon hundreds of people dancing in the large hotel ballroom, they simply joined in the dance.
A man got up and began to give a speech in French. They’d crashed Prime Minister Charles DeGaulle’s party! My grandparents had a gift for being in the right place at the right time. They loved to dress up, and never attended dinner in less than a suit. Grandaddy, when asked by his table companions at the retirement community dining hall what he’d like for his birthday, replied, “For the men to dress properly for dinner.” The men returned on his birthday in suits and ties.
Grandaddy was guilty of many of the sins of his time and place. He was racist and hated unions. When I marched with Jesse Jackson at my college graduation, in protest of Yale’s treatment of the unions, my grandfather said it wasn’t me, even though I was on the front page of most newspapers in the country, arm-in-arm with Jackson. My father wouldn’t allow me to tell my grandparents that I was a union organizer. I worked for “a nurses’ organization,” for 20 years. True, on some level. He thought they’d no longer speak to me if they knew the truth. I suspect he was right.
Like many Southern families, mine existed on half-truths and polite lies. I was angry back then, but now I see a lot of people doing their best to keep a family together. We could use more of that in these times of #nocontact.
My grandparents weren’t perfect, but they were extraordinary. They taught me to believe in the American Dream because they lived it. Grandaddy never knew that I was a union organizer. I wish he were alive now to know that I am running for Republican Committeeman in my little ward. My father would’ve been horrified. He was cremated, and his ashes are in the backyard of his home with Pretzel, a rescue dachshund who went before him. What a turnaround. I could’ve told my grandfather about my politics now, but not my Dad.
Some would hate my grandfather now because of all he represented as a self-made, white Southern man. I feel sad for those people. They’ve thrown away the American Dream. Rest in peace, Grandaddy. Your granddaughter is a Republican.