Before there was a famous musician named Ozzy Osbourne, there was my grandfather.
His name was Albert Jackson Osborne, but everyone called him Ozzie. He lived in Shawano, Wisconsin, and he ran a lumber mill. He was a businessman, a leader, and from everything I’ve ever been told, a man who was deeply respected in his community.
I never really knew him.
He died when I was about four years old, which means my memories of him are more impressions than moments. The clearest one I have is his funeral. Even that is hazy. I remember a lot of people. I remember quiet conversations. I remember sensing that someone important was gone, even if I didn’t yet understand why.
Most of what I know about him has come from stories.
Stories from my mother. He was smart. He worked hard. He cared about people. He built something that mattered.
One of the few physical connections I have to him is something that hangs in my home.
It is an old wooden thermometer and barometer that once hung in his office. After he passed, my mother kept it for years, and eventually it was passed on to me. I don’t remember seeing it in his office. I don’t even know how old it is.
It no longer works.
The needle is frozen. The numbers never change. It permanently predicts yesterday’s weather.
Still, I have never been able to part with it.
It reminds me that there was a full life before mine began. I often wonder how my life might have been different if I had known him.
Would I have approached things differently?
Would I have learned lessons that cannot be found in books or classrooms?
Would I have spent summers on Lake Shawano, like my mother described, listening to stories and learning simply by being present?
There is no way to know.
Time does not wait for children to grow up before it moves on.
By the time I was old enough to ask meaningful questions, he was already gone.
So instead, I carry pieces of him.
Stories.
Objects.
And names.
My grandfather’s middle name was Jackson. I gave that name to my oldest son, even though I never truly knew the man it came from. I gave it to him because I wanted a connection to the past, something that reminded us that our family story did not begin with us.
Now my youngest son has named his son Jackson as well.
The name continues.
Four generations linked by a single word.
When I told my aunt about it, she was thrilled. The name Jackson reached back even further than my grandfather.
That means my grandson carries more than a name. He carries a story still being told.
When we are young, none of this feels important. Names are just names. Family stories are background noise. History feels distant.
The past feels like something you can return to later. Until one day, you realize that later has arrived.
At some point, you notice you are no longer looking only forward. You are standing in the middle of generations. You are connected backward and forward at the same time.
You begin wondering how you became who you are. You start paying attention to the threads that brought you here.
Suddenly, that old instrument on the wall matters.
Suddenly, a middle name carries weight.
Suddenly, you wish there would have been an opportunity to ask questions.
The hardest part about losing people young is that you do not just lose the person. You lose the chance to know them.
So I can’t go back and ask him what he believed, what he learned the hard way, what he would have wanted us to carry forward.
But I can refuse to let the rest of my family history disappear the same way.
I can be the one who asks the questions while there is still someone here to answer them. I can be the one who writes it down. I can be the one who turns names into stories.
Because a name is a thread, but not the whole fabric.
And someday, someone will wish they could ask me questions too. I want to leave them more than a hazy memory in a crowded room.