Art.

My grandfathers’s birthday would have been this week. We used to celebrate our birthdays together, and each year there is a hole in me at this time of year. We blew out many candles together and when some of our big birthdays collided we had even bigger cakes with both of our names on them, and had bigger celebrations.

Throughout his life he was known as "Arthur" or “Art” but his birth name was actually "Archibald" which was chosen not by his parents but by an aunt who liked it better and had the hospital change it unbeknownst to them. He didn't know about this until he signed up for the Merchant Marines and needed his birth certificate. He was 17. This sepia toned photo is from his Seaman's Certificate.

He toured Europe and was stationed in Germany in 1929. As a Greenblatt, with that name embroidered on his uniform, he found himself smack dab in the middle of the rise of the Nazi's. He had to snuff out his cigarettes and hide with his back turned in shadowy doorways as the evil marched down the streets.

This man was and is one of my heroes. One of the smartest people I have ever known, he was educated as an engineer at MIT, he spent time working in a goldmine in Alaska, he was a world expert on antique and modern paperweights and coin silver. He was a metalsmith and made giant flowers and vines and sometimes sterling jewelry for me and my grandmother. And he treated that very difficult woman like a queen.

When I bought my house he took me shopping for kitchen things. He wanted to stock my kitchen with the best equipment we could could find. He threw all kinds of stuff into the cart. I still have a big fat hamburger spatula that he picked out. And a giant pair of tongs that he forged himself.

He was an incredibly kind man, with empathy for everyone, and the single most encouraging person for me personally when it came to being an artist. He always pushed me to do more, make more, do the next thing. Even in the hospital in his last days as he was examining my artwork with a magnifying glass, he studied the date on the signature and with a wistful smile he asked what had I done lately.

He lived just past his 90th birthday, when I was pregnant with Dylan. I was able to tell him, teary eyed that he would be a great grandpa. Sadly he didn't live to meet him, as they would have been best pals. But Dylan bears his name - the one we all knew him by as a middle name.

I miss him today. I miss him every day. He was one of my soulmates. Love you grandpa. And thank you. For everything.