My dad loves to yell. Not at me, anymore, but he got it from his mother - they used to work out their problems in the form of screaming matches. I remember early in my teenage years he would bring up, almost out of nowhere sometimes, that he never hit us. He was proud of that. But man oh man, he sure loved to yell at us.
I only remember my grandfather yelling at me, once. It’s not even fair to say “yelling AT me”, because he was yelling FOR me - I was a dumb kid and I’d left the front door open to go outside and play. Once I got in front of him, he explained to me - calmly, quietly, but firmly - why I couldn’t do that. I never did it again. I don’t remember him yelling before or since that moment.
I miss my grandfather - he’s the source of some of my fondest childhood memories and I can only hope I do him proud. Meanwhile, when my dad dies, I’ll be glad to be rid of him. So, you do the math.