Happy Birthday, PeepEye

My grandfather, Jack Burtnett, and I were not close. It's wasn't intentional, but distance kept us from being as involved in each other's lives as I would have liked. It seems impossible that today, January 19, he would be 100 years old.

I called him "PeepEye," probably from a peek-a-boo game that stuck in a child's mind. My cousin, Laura, called him "Poppy." When either of us speaks of him, we use our special name, and the other knows who she means: John Harrison Burtnett, Jr., who we used to visit in the summer and on Thanksgiving at his house in Ashland, Kentucky.

He died on November 14, 1992, when I was just a teenager. So many things went unsaid, so many questions unasked. PeepEye appeared old in my mind, yet now I realize how young he had been. How many times did I have him at my disposal during all those visits, yet never thought to get to know him as a person, and not just as my grandfather who played golf or who yelled at the Mountaineers on TV when WVU fumbled the football?

I am blessed to have various mementos from his life in my possession. Here is a stunning page from his baby book, now one hundred years old:

Jack Burtnett was the son of Harry "Pop" Burtnett and Nellie "Mama Nell" McIlhany Burtnett. She was an excellent keeper of chronicles and newspaper clippings, as evidenced here. The writing at the top of the page is in Mama Nell's hand. Notice the signatures of the doctor who delivered PeepEye, as well as his nurse. Extraordinary!

Baby Jack Burtnett, 1916

PeepEye grew up in Charleston, West Virginia. Once, when I was around 14, I asked him, "Did you have a job when you were my age?" His sober response was, "Many grown men didn't even have a job when I was your age." I understood the reference to the Great Depression, and that gave me some perspective. Oh, to have asked him to sit down and pour out all that he remembered about that era!

Gammy and PeepEye had moved to Ashland, Kentucky, in the mid-1960's, where he worked for Ashland Oil. I remember going to his office once as a child. During one trip over Thanksgiving when I was in ninth grade, I had a dreaded science project, with no idea what to do. I did not inherit my grandfather's love of physics and engineering. I'll never forget the thrill it gave him to help me build a pulley system. Back then, I felt the relief of an assignment completed; today, God allows me to see something greater: the love of PeepEye, and something he and I did together. 

In fact, what has saddened me over the years is that I just don't have many memories of PeepEye. There are bits and pieces, like the time everyone on "Wheel of Fortune" won some money, and I remember him remarking, "I like it when all the contestants go home with something." I'm glad to have that glimpse into PeepEye's kind heart, yet there has been a type of void all this time, a longing to have really known him, this man who could lose it over a football loss, yet show quiet grace to me.

Then I thought of the album:

After Gammy died in 1996 and the house in Ashland was cleaned out, my Dad brought this book to South Carolina and eventually presented it to me. I have spent the past five years or so flipping photos, reading names, piecing together who is whom, locating long-lost descendants of the people in its photos, and yearning with all my heart to have my grandfather back so I could go over the album with him one more time.

See, this is the exact thing that PeepEye and I used to do, only I was too little to piece it all together. A child cannot fully comprehend the tapestry of a family tree, and of living relatives who one day will be no more. The photos were interesting and "cool" to look at, but the McIlhanys and Burtnetts ran together in my mind already filled with the preteen preoccupations of makeup, boys, and what to wear. 

A photo from the album: a young and dapper PeepEye
with his sisters, Nancy and Jane.

The older I get, the more the passage of time amazes me. Even greater is the longing to have just one more moment with those dear older folks from my past whose presence I took for granted. One night when this was weighing heavily, I had a dream. It was simple, yet profound: I was the age that I am now, yet PeepEye looked as I remember him. The album was open and the two of us sat looking at it. He said, "I'm glad you have the album." I can't recall if I answered, but the sensation of satisfaction and joy was evident.

PeepEye would be glad I have the album. Greater than that, after hearing my prayers about missing my grandfather and wishing I remembered more, the Lord enabled me to realize that the album was something that he and I shared. During my visits, PeepEye would take it out of the cabinet in the living room with the green carpet, then deliberately pause at every photo and describe the person or event. To think, the information I so desire has been heard by my ears before! He loved that album and the people in it. I do, too.

Me as a baby with PeepEye, 1977

Another sweet memory I've been able to have is of PeepEye asking me, "Do you know that PeepEye loves you?" On his birthday, I have gifts that I hope demonstrate my love for him, too. PeepEye, I will make sure that our album is well kept and appreciated. I promise to pass along a love for the people in it to my children, and we will spend time learning more about them. I will maintain this blog of family stories to be enjoyed by many. I will preserve your letters, books, and other special belongings.

Today I will make time to look through the album. Thank You, Lord, for bringing a baby boy named Jack into this world one hundred years ago. Thank You for our album and the love and joy it brings.