For my paternal grandfather, there was no such thing as a bad day. “Beauty-full day!” he’d say just like that to anyone within earshot, as he puffed on his unfiltered Camel cigarette. With glasses and a thick mustache, he always sported a ratty beige cardigan sweater, even in summer. I don’t remember him wearing anything else. Above, Jiddu, in his later years. Top, Esper in his 20s. More than 100 years ago this month, Esper John, my father’s father who was known as Jiddu (grandfather in Arabic), fled Damascus, Syria. He had his reasons. From the many stories passed down through the generations, Jiddu mostly wanted to avoid being conscripted…