My God! Why was Grandfather's secret so tardy to my ears? Why was it not spoken from his own lips? I was in a state of sadness, agitation, isolation, and shock as overwhelming feelings of betrayal preoccupied my thoughts. I had been wrestling with the revelation of his secret for a little over a month, as I was about to celebrate my sixty-fourth birthday and witness the births of my first two grandchildren within three weeks of each other. Rationally, I knew I needed time to allow more clarity to evolve, placing the secret in proper perspective. I had already been given objective insight and comfort from two special, trusted, and endearing friends whose support I had relied upon for countless occasions over the years. Even though I was told it was for my "protection," I allowed my insecure feelings of pride and a false understanding of a betrayal of trust to haunt my better judgment.

Fortunately, my thoughts drifted in a more pleasant direction while walking down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, observing the decorated stores, Rockefeller Center skaters, the familiar bell of a Salvation Army worker, and the first snow flurries of the season.

It was exactly seven days before Christmas of 1965, a time of wonderful memories in my life, and I needed to snap out of this fog, if even for a few special moments, to remind myself of the blessings of the season.

The bells of Saint Patrick's Cathedral rang out gloriously, signaling the start of a new hour. I felt a temporary tranquility as my thoughts shifted to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Christmas Bells." The poem had offered a beacon of light and hope amidst the gloom of senseless death and suffering in the winter of 1864 during the cruel Civil War:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

I must have walked off the curb to cross the street when a taxicab's horn startled me, bringing me back from my reverie to the harshness of hurt feelings. Those laboring thoughts taunted me further while I tried to get home. I barely remembered going through Central Park, passing the Dakota building and my house on Seventy-Third Street. In my careless dismay, I accidentally knocked over the vendor selling chestnuts at the corner of Seventy-Fourth Street and Central Park West.

I was embarrassed and concerned about the poor fellow.

He looked up at me with a smile and said, "Oh, Dr. Waterbury. I didn't recognize you at first. Are you okay?"

I looked at this man curiously as I helped him to his feet and then smiled. "Yes, but what about you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Doc, I have to thank you again for the medicine you gave me for my wife last year. You made her feel as good as new. Here, have some chestnuts to take home to your family. God bless you. Merry Christmas!"

This man was so gracious to me after I knocked him over. Frankly, I didn't remember him until he reminded me of the medicine.

As a matter of fact, I didn't remember anything along the way from Fifth Avenue to that corner of Seventy-Fourth Street and Central Park West. As time proceeded, my senses refocused, and I went back to Seventy- Third Street. While walking up the stairs, I looked next door, where Joel Spingarn and his family lived while I was growing up. They were such good people and great friends of my family.

As a child and through the years as a young man and adult, I understood the Spingarn family's sense of community responsibility. They gave their financial, personal, and emotional support graciously to promote human welfare. In their home, they were simple and genial, offering the wealthy and poor visitors equal hospitality and regard. They cherished the ideals of democracy and remained quite puzzled at how America could go forward if any contributing segment of its population were left behind; they embodied the true spirit of Christmas and Hanukkah.

I opened the door, and while walking in, I could hear little Sallie Ann crying. I took off my coat and was about to enter my library when I heard the bathwater running and my daughter Elizabeth speaking down the hallway. When I peeked around the door, she was giving little Charlotte a bath. Her eyes were open wide, and the peaceful expression on her face was sobering. I went to touch her dainty little hand; it reminded me how Grandfather used to hold mine so gently, as though he was stroking a treasured heirloom gem.

I left and returned to the library. As I slipped into my overstuffed chair, my thoughts were redirected to the secret hidden in my grandfather's memoirs. I had vivid memories of Grandfather writing in that old, yellow- paged journal when I was twelve years old and telling me that it contained "important information" that would be valuable to me when I became a grandfather. He said, quoting the poet John Burroughs, that "time does not become sacred to us until we have lived it." Now, in my sixty-fifth year, and still feeling somewhat betrayed, his words carried a prophetic meaning. The secret itself created an obvious omission to my identity, but after it was recently revealed, I thought I would have accepted it — even at the age of twelve.

The story in his writings was verified by the only living person who knew my grandparents and father intimately — my governess, trusted friend, ardent supporter, and guiding light, Soulange Micheaux, who at the age of eighty-four, was still spry and clear-minded. She explained why the secret was kept from me. She assured me that it had nothing to do with betrayal or lack of confidence in my ability to accept the truth. It was a practical decision for me to learn who I truly was by my own definition, and not by the judgment or misperceived opinion of others. I felt deep empathy for Grandfather's plight, but it took time for me to realize he was even more of a man to be idolized, respected, and emulated.

After reviewing what Soulange had said, I returned to my immediate thoughts, surrounded by the portraits of my grandfather, grandmother, and father on the walls, and the framed pictures of my close friends and extended family members on my desk. I reread his memoirs, trying to comprehend and appreciate the greater meaning of his life — his sacrifice, his tireless effort, and his pursuit of fulfilling his own mother's vision and dreams. I took Soulange's words to heart as I pondered the births of my two grandchildren. In time, they needed to know this great testimonial. Little Charlotte was born on my birthday, November 28, and little Sallie Ann was born on December 13.

I also reflected on the conversation I had with Hope Lightener two weeks ago. She has been my confidante, friend, and spiritual soul mate — a pillar of strength over the past twelve years. Her husband had recently died, and I had flown to Paris to provide support for her. While there, I spoke about Grandfather's secret as well. She...