Yes, Ron, you're right. "Grandfather" needs some explanation. Mr. Marton,
my "grandfather" and my grandmother were both employed as professors at the
same school. They began dating. Mr. Marton was fond of the booze and
according to my grandmother, an alcoholic. One night, they went out, he got
drunk and insisted on accompanying her home. She wouldn't let him in as she
lived in a boarding house and didn't want to upset the other boarders. He
started to make a fuss, however, and so she finally let him in. He
continued to make demands and I guess forced himself on my grandmother. In
the end, he created so much noise and commotion that the entire boarding
house was in an uproar and they threw him out. My grandmother never dated
him again and never told my mother who her real father was. She lied and
told her it was her ex-husband, the father of her first child. Years went
by. WWII ended and they immigrated to the US. At age 35, my mother wrote
to the man she thought was her father and received a letter which was read
at the dinner table. Expecting either a welcome or at least a hello, I can
still remember the shock on my parents' face when the letter brought a
vehement denial of any parentage whatsoever. So then my grandmother came
out with Mr. Marton and what we think is the truth, although my grandmother
may have lied about this too. So you see, I don't really know what to call
Mr. Marton, "grandfather" seemed the nicest.
An interesting addendum, my parents went to Slovakia and tried to visit Mr.
Marton. They bumped into one of his students on the street who told them
that he had died in 1996 and that he left behind a wife and several
children; one of the sons had become a professor.