My grandfather, Bernard J. Deinlein Sr., died 45 years ago today, Dec. 19.
I was born almost nine years later, but my father and relatives have told me stories about him.
He was only 65 when he died, when my father was 19.
He had retired as a Baltimore City police lieutenant not long before that. He had been assigned to the Central District.
When my dad has told me stories of my grandfather, he always has himself and other family calling him "Pop" or "Pop Pop" or "Bernie." But when other voices in those stories speak of my grandfather, he is called "Lieutenant."
Silently, it conveyed to me the respect he commanded. And rightfully, so, as I'm told.
Dad once told me that when my grandfather was a teenager in the era of the first World War, he beat up a bunch of kids who were picking on his sisters because of their last name.
He was a husky 250-pound German who stood more than 6 feet tall when walking the beat on Baltimore's Pennsylvania Avenue. And he'd sometimes be treated to a warm meal or a drink from a tavern owner glad to have a cop nearby.
I've heard how he was involved in temporarily shutting down the city's first Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise under orders from the city health department. The event, apparently, was tied to a political battle that involved the father of a current U.S. congresswoman from California.
In more hushed tones, I also was told of my grandfather's 24-hour shifts during the Baltimore riots of 1968, and how he was almost killed by a rioter with a hatchet. His crisp white shirt and white cap, signifying his rank, were stained crimson, but the blood wasn't his.
Yet there's another, more interesting side to my grandfather. He was studying to become a Marianist brother at the University of Dayton in Ohio.
Yes, my alma mater.
I've heard the tale told several ways, but essentially, my grandfather was in his second or third year at UD studying and teaching mathematics when his father died. He returned to Baltimore to take care of his mother and two sisters.
He never returned to Dayton, instead working as a shoe salesman and a Western Union teletype operator before becoming a cop.
When we went to Ohio to scout out the school, my family and I spent several hours in Roesch Library, looking through old yearbooks. We found a few shots that could have been my grandfather, but yearbooks back then apparently didn't believe in attaching names to every photo.
If you look through some UD yearbooks from 1997 to 2001, you might find my mug without my name attached, too.
Perhaps it's a trait I inherited from him.
More likely, though, I inherited his poor genes.
Pop Pop had too many chronic illnesses to name. The biggest — diabetes — is what took his toe, then his foot, then his leg up to the knee.
It also took his life.
My father has inherited similar problems, though he's not lost any body parts due to diabetes. My brother, Nick, and I are not yet afflicted with it, but our youngest brother, Stephen, is.
Instead, Nick and I are dealing with other health issues that Pop Pop shared, such as high cholesterol, among others.
Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, maybe the four of us will be able to forestall the effects of genetics.
No matter my health, on this last day of fall, as the earth tilts its farthest away from the sun, I'm thinking of the man I never met, but without whom I would not be here.
Pop Pop, here's hoping you were treated to a warm meal and a drink by some folks glad to have a cop nearby.
