I was born in Arkansas and lived there until about 1956 when I was about 13 years old.
The last time I remember seeing my father was when I was about 5 years old. We briefly touched base two or three times between 1956 and 1971.

I knew that my father had a mother and a father, but I did not even know their names as I never met them during this time.

Growing up in Detroit during this time was rough. My mother lacked a formal education and so finding work that paid a decent wage was exceedingly difficult.

At age 17, I joined the US Air Force and sent money home every payday. This helped a little bit, but not that much.

When I got out of the Air Force, I was able to go to work in the Chrysler automobile plant working on the assembly line.

Right away things improved as I was working overtime each day and on Saturday as well.
Automobile assembly plants were notorious for laying people off before they could join the union, and sure enough I was laid off several times and recalled, which meant starting over from scratch. I was eventually forced to seek other employment.

I finally settled in with the City of Detroit, Streets and Railways Department. I basically worked as a custodian in the facility where the city run busses were repaired.

In 1971, we got word that my maternal Grandma Emmaline was terribly ill, and a short time later she died.
My middle sister, her husband and their son who was a toddler by this time, my cousin Pete and I, rode together to Arkansas for the funeral.

The trip took about 8 to 10 hours and when we got there, we stayed with relatives in a house so crowded, Pete and I wound up sleeping on the floor.

The following day we were visited by my mother and my father. 'What?"

My father invited me and Pete to stay at his house which had plenty of room.
After we settled in, I met this older woman who introduced herself to me as Josephine, my paternal grandmother. "Wait. What?"

She asked me how my mother was doing, and I said I thought she was ok, as my maternal grandmother's death was not unexpected.

As we begun to get acquainted, I told her I was gainfully employed by the city. I was buying a nice house in a genuinely nice part of the city; I had just started dating a nice young woman and we were getting along just fine.

She then asked me what I was interested in otherwise, and I told her I had recently started writing poetry.

Shocked, she asked me who my favorite poet was, I answered without hesitation, Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Unexpectedly she became teary eyed, and I immediately asked what was wrong. She explained that she and her sister Allie wrote poetry as well and that her favorite poet was also Paul Laurence Dunbar.

I found out later that my mother and my father's mother had not cared for each other since I was a mere infant, and primarily that was why I did not know my grandmother and had never been a part of her life.

Things came full circle as I was able to take a book that my grandmother wrote back in the 60s, hand typed and mimeographed. The book was crumbling and deteriorating badly, I transcribed it into book form and had it published and made available for sale on Amazon.

Many of my relatives had never seen the book, now they are able to not only read it, but they also have a keepsake written by our grandmother in her own words.
Needless to say, I am immensely proud.