Scars Of Suicide

The shot that ended his life was not heard around the world but it did and does reverberate through at least three generations. At the time of his death, he wounded his wife, his sons, his siblings and his extended family. His aged father was not told of his death, but by some parental instinct, some fey connection, he knew and mourned.

None of his grandchildren were born when he died by his own hand but we were affected. Grandpa Otto - as we called him with posthumous respect - was a benevolent, loving figure that we revered. We heard stories about him, I had his dark blue eyes, and we had a few treasured photographs. He was a master candy maker and we had his handwritten receipts for the candies that delighted thousands, made in his copper kettles at the candy company where he worked.

Each May we carried flowers to his grave and lovingly brushed dirt away from his grey, World War II era veteran's stone. My dad, youngest of the three surviving sons, would tell how his father had always asked that vegetables, not flowers be brought to his final resting place. His gardens - victory gardens in the last years of his 52-year-old life - had been his pride and more than once my dad brought homegrown tomatoes to place near the headstone.

The manner of his death was never discussed and by the time I was eight or nine, I was well aware that was odd.