How Did Grandpa Die?

It would seem like an easy enough question to answer. Or i s it? What happens when family members give different answers to what seems fairly straight-forward? 

Leo Hilburger, unlike Michael (above) would not attain the success of his father.

My siblings posed this very question about my paternal grandfather, Leo, one of seven children of German immigrant Michael Hilburger, who arrived in the U.S. in 1833.

None of us kids met our grandfather, as he was deceased before our births. His son, Leon (my father) died in 1966. I don't know if my dad ever discussed his father, but when we asked other relatives about Leo's death, we received various answers.

He died of heat stroke while mowing lawns.

He had a heart attack.

He had a tumor.

How could there be so many different answers? Was this outright deception, or misinformation unknowingly passed down? The answers given simply added to the mystery and conjecture.

 My eldest brother finally got a copy of Leo's death certificate. Passing in the mid 1920s, at the age of 47, his cause of death was listed as heart failure, with a secondary, underlining condition of "chronic alcoholism." As he died in Buffalo in December, the story about mowing lawns and heat stroke was particularly amusing, but cast him as hard-working, which may have been the point.

Also unknown is the length of time my grandparents spent together before his death. There was strife in the marriage, according to my mother, which may have been largely due to his drinking problem.

I don't know if he was much of a provider either, as my mother said my grandmother worked in restaurants, and as a wet nurse for well-to-do families to support her four children. In a time before the safety net of Social Security, if she didn't work before, it certainly became a necessity after her husband's death.

In stark contrast, Leo's father, Michael was a Buffalo pioneer, an immigrant from Bavaria who, according to his obituary in 1907, "superintended the building of many large buildings including the larger East Side breweries." An exempt fireman, Michael was widely known in the community, taking an interest in public affairs.

Two of Leo's sisters married into the Lang family, who were wealthy brewery owners as well as having other business interests.

As I discovered more about Leo's family, I began to "fill in historical blanks" with my own possible answers about who Leo was and what he had become. This, of course, is totally unreliable, but allowed me the luxury of completing his story.

I pondered whether Leo was the "black sheep" of the family. Did he find it difficult or impossible to measure up to the success of his father and/or brothers, sisters or in-laws?

In addition, why didn't his wealthy siblings provide help needed to feed his hungry children (Dad allegedly ate only oatmeal for an entire month as a kid). On the other hand, did they help Leo financially, discovering only that he had wasted the money?

My grandfather's occupation would be listed as "painter" on his death certificate. In the end, his legacy wouldn't be measured by worldly standards, but instead by his progeny as he had five children and many grandchildren. Two of his sons had seven children. Above and beyond his siblings, Leo ensured the family surname would live on.

This leads me to consider what we decide to share with family members and what we keep to ourselves. I fully understand the reluctance to cover up a harsh reality with a more palatable picture, especially for posterity.

When relating information about ourselves or family members, when do we decide on greater transparency? Can we be truthful while not hurting others? These are all important questions to consider.

As much as we are drawn to stories of success, we are also captivated by others' vulnerabilities, as we may share some of the same weaknesses or struggles. A fuller picture will also answer family questions such as how am I like or dislike this person? What can I learn from how they handled adversity or success?

There are many reasons to record individual and family histories. Sometimes it's to teach, set the record straight, inform future generations about our experiences, or provide a glimpse into how we managed the circumstances of life. In the end, no matter how you "tell" it, your story will still provide a valuable picture of your life and memories.

But I'm convinced that when we put aside pretenses and forgive ourselves and others, we can then truly reveal our most compelling selves, providing a real human side to our story. Instead of adding mystery and conjecture, transparency will bring clarity to the picture of our lives, a true gift for future generations