My maternal grandfather was born in May but was named August. In full, August Heinrich Emil Rahn, which is a stately mouthful of syllables.

However, he felt August was too starchy, which is richly ironic because he was a gentleman who, according to my mom and aunt, would come home from the office and mow the lawn in his tailored wool suit and polished shoes.

Lest you get the notion of excessive genteelness, were it a hot summer day in the suburbs of Chicago he would remove his suit jacket. If very hot, loosen his tie. And on truly sweltering occasions, off came the cufflinks with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

All of which seems like August should have rightly gone by the even more formal variant, Augustus. Instead, even as an executive in the boardroom of Field Enterprises, Inc., he went by Auggie. I think that is extremely cool.

What is not so cool is that I have zero memories of Grandpa Auggie because he died when I was quite young. Today – August 4 – is the anniversary of his death, which made me think I should write about him. After all, I have often done so about my other grandfather, Grandpa Ansel, a small-town physician who, by the way, authored a number of medical journal essays.

But truth be told, if there is DNA in my family tree responsible for me becoming a writer it comes from Grandpa Auggie. For starters, at Field Enterprises he was responsible for putting out The World Book Encyclopedia which was The Google of All Information in its time. Too, he oversaw limited editions of myriad other books featuring sheepskin covers and special color illustrations and linen pages and so on.

And so, thanks to Grandpa Auggie, I grew up in a home filled with his volumes, from A to Z encyclopedias to an exquisite edition about Afrika (not Africa) to a handsome collection of Mark Twain’s works.

Most important of all, Auggie raised my mom to love books. Hence, she read to me when I was little; took me to get a library card before I was in kindergarten; and later encouraged me to become a writer.

While he published books instead of authoring them, Auggie had a gift with his own written words. This I know from my inheritance of a handful of his letters written to my mom, their prose nothing shy of elegant. One is a Robert Frost-worthy poem, in rhyme, for her 21st birthday and another missive shortly before her college graduation contains a passage that is an inner North Star to follow:

“Above all things, Audrey, resolve to be yourself; be fair; be just; always be sure you know the facts; never take things for granted; exercise patience; be tasteful; be kind to other folks and you may be sure the world will be a better place for those who are near and dear to you; learn to develop and use your abilities for your own happiness and the happiness of loved ones.”

Moreover, proving to be a down-to-earth Auggie rather than an austere August, he concluded: “Such has been the philosophy of my life. I may not always have achieved to the fullness I desired. The degree of my accomplishment in this direction I must leave to the judgment of others. My acceptance of this fact is a constant challenge to do better.”

I may not have known him, but I know this: Grandpa Auggie remains one of my greatest role models – except when it comes to mowing the lawn.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.