Grandad in 1970, with Don's dog Gretchen
Dad's dad, Grandad, was a smart, contrary and quick-tempered man who knew more about bad times and hard work than any of us will ever know. In his younger days, he was someone you wouldn't want to cross -- a fighter, a hard drinker and as opinionated as they come.
My dad told me stories about Grandad taking him to the place where moonshine was made and where many of the big shots in the local towns also made their surreptitious appearances, publicly declaiming the sins of alcohol but privately consuming it. Grandad wasn't a hypocrite, at least, and I'm sure he did he share of imbibing, which is probably what got him into trouble more than a few times. I think my grandma took the brunt of his abusive behavior, which is why they were divorced, but our dad was often on the receiving end of whatever Grandad struck out with. I guess he had to be a fighter at the time the mines were in turmoil, with some wanting unions and the owners hiring thugs to stir up fights and kill some of the workers. Coal mining can make even a weak man tough.
Dad was proud of his dad in the mines, though, claiming Grandad could mine more coal than anyone else, and when he was making two cents a ton and giving a good part of it to the company store, he had to work that hard to live.
The Grandad I knew was softened a little with age. He had two failed marriages behind him by the time I was old enough to remember, and he dated a soft-spoken woman named Louise, spending most of his days with her but coming to our house to sleep to protect her reputation. We didn't see Louise very often, but I think she loved my grandad, and I know that she died soon after he did, maybe from grief.
Grandad was usually railing about the state of the world, swearing up one side and down the other while my momma clenched her teeth. He used to sneak up behind me and grab my ear, saying "Grandad's gonna' clean your clock," as he gave it a twist. But he was affectionate in his own way, and he was very fond of Don's dog Gretchen. We always had a bed for Grandad, and John had him for a roommate for a long, long time. Poor John: That man could snore like a wounded moose.
My memories of Grandad include seeing him drive around town in his old, white Ford Falcon, his head barely visible above the wheel; watching him pull his own teeth with pliers, pour a cup of strong, black coffee and drink it cold; and read the newspaper thoroughly, moving his lips as he read. He was a storyteller, telling the same stories over and over, stories I now wish I'd listened to more closely.
My grandad was a character, that's for sure, but beneath all of that hellfire and brimstone, there was a soft spot. Momma told me that after I married and moved away, Grandad said he missed all of us kids, but he guessed he missed me the most, because I was there the longest and, he said, he always knew I was upstairs doing my studies like I should. I actually think he was proud of all of us. He just didn't know how to show it.
3 comments:
I think Dad learned to be "the dad" by the time he was 10 when he would hide behind bushes watching the bar his dad was in. Once, he told me, he saw a fight start, and it wasn't Grandad's fight, but next thing Dad knew, Grandad was in the middle of it. When he came out, Dad (age 10) asked him, "That wasn't your fight! Why'd you get in the middle of it?" to which Grandad replied, "I had to even it out."
And when Grandma took Uncle Boze, who was a little guy, and left Grandad and went to Michigan, Dad left school to follow to make sure she was doing O.K. That's what I remember his saying, anyway.
Our daddy had a very hard childhood, but I never heard him whine about it. I think his home was the opposite of Momma's with all of the yelling and fighting. He must have felt scared and insecure.
Or as likely, responsible for his mother and little brother, and, it seems, his dad. That's why he was so determined to NOT be like Grandad and give us a good family life.
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