Post by david on Sept 23, 2008 20:58:04 GMT -8
My grandfather got a bum rap and I’m the bum rapper who bumley rapped him.
I’m not talking about my Grandpaw Burke – he died when I was about six, but even during that short span, he became a crowd favorite. He was a fisherman with a boat, he smoked a pipe and he was a great playmate.
In fact, we Burke kids referred to Grandpaw Burke as our “nice” grandfather and the other guy as our “mean” grandfather. Ironically, the nice grandfather was married to our “mean” grandmother and vice-versa.
The mean guy, my Grandpa Whit, is the focus of this writing. He was born in the 19th century and lived to the ripe old (by his generation’s standards) age of 88. Unfortunately, he was already 65 when I was born; we had a somewhat formal relationship – based, at first, mostly on intimidation and fear.
My earliest memories of Grandpa date back to the early '50s. He and Grandma lived in Canton, Ohio and we Burkes were in Columbus. The two cities are about 130 miles apart and I recall making several visits.
Grandma usually greeted us with a gift of chewing gum. This might not have been considered special by many of my contemporaries; but in my life, chewing gum was a rare and wonderful treat. Best of all, she provided Chicklets, those wonderful, shiny, sugarcoated white pillows of sweetness.
Chewing gum and popcorn from the refreshment stand in the basement of Sears were more than enough of an incentive to garner the “nice grandmother” label of approval for Grandma Whitacre.
I don’t remember much about my grandparents’ house in Canton – except for the doilies. Grandma had these flimsy decorations attached to the arms of a couch and chairs in the living room and I couldn’t resist repeatedly removing and re-inserting the straight pins employed to keep them in place.
My strongest memory of that house was its geography. My grandparents lived on a fairly typical city block. The distance around that block was probably about a third of a mile. Around the first corner was a fire station; I remember nothing of the rest of the scenery.
Now it seemed to me that Grandpa Whit was not only mean, but also that he was also impatient. From time to time – occasionally when we were becoming noisy, but other times for no apparent reason – he barked at us: “You kids go walk around the block!”
At that time, and in that neighborhood, there were no safety concerns and it certainly provided a chance to get some fresh air and, possibly, to find some kind of adventure along the way.
So, I didn’t really mind; but it did seem as if Grandpa didn’t particularly like having us around.
When I was 8, we moved from Columbus to San Diego. About a year later, here came Grandma and Grandpa! They bought a house a little more than a mile from ours – as it happened, that house was on the route to the elementary, junior high and high schools I attended for the next nine years.
Before they found their new home, though, Grandma and Grandpa stayed at our house for a while. One night, during that visit, I received a signal that maybe Grandpa wasn’t so mean after all, and that maybe he kind of liked me – but didn’t want me to know.
It was probably about 9 p.m. on a school night. I was in my bed, but reading as usual. The rule was that I could read for a half hour only and then must turn out my light and go to sleep – at around 8 p.m.; but I often became so wrapped up in a story that I just couldn’t put the book down. This was such a night.
When I heard a hand on the doorknob, I immediately released hold of my book – it fell toward on my chest. I closed my eyes and struggled to appear to be sleeping.
I sensed the door opening, but had no way of identifying the intruder.
“Well,” the voice was unmistakable. It was Grandpa Whit – my mean grandfather!
“Here’s David with his book.”
That simple phrase doesn’t imply much. It’s a clear statement of fact. But the tone of voice – coming from the same lips that once commanded, “go walk around the block” – revealed so much to me.
I knew, in that moment, that my grandfather loved me, that he approved of me and that he had my best interests at heart. I discovered that stereotypes are not always good indicators and that a stern-looking old man can have a heart of gold.
Gentle hands lifted the book from my chest. Then there was a pause. I feared at the time that my fraud might be detected and that I might get in trouble for reading too late; but on reflection I came to consider that short pause to be an interval during which my Grandfather gazed upon his oldest grandson and contemplated the timeless wonders of the universe.
I was too busy getting started with my life to pay much attention to the end of my grandfather’s life. I walked, rode my bike and drove past their house many times without even thinking of stopping.
I was married and focusing on the next generation when he slipped on the sidewalk one day, while getting into the car, and broke his hip.
When I visited him in the hospital I couldn’t believe this formerly fearful man appeared so small and frail. He didn’t survive the complications resulting from his injury.
For many years after his passing, I remained busy and never really missed my grandfather.
But, I miss him now.
I’m not talking about my Grandpaw Burke – he died when I was about six, but even during that short span, he became a crowd favorite. He was a fisherman with a boat, he smoked a pipe and he was a great playmate.
In fact, we Burke kids referred to Grandpaw Burke as our “nice” grandfather and the other guy as our “mean” grandfather. Ironically, the nice grandfather was married to our “mean” grandmother and vice-versa.
The mean guy, my Grandpa Whit, is the focus of this writing. He was born in the 19th century and lived to the ripe old (by his generation’s standards) age of 88. Unfortunately, he was already 65 when I was born; we had a somewhat formal relationship – based, at first, mostly on intimidation and fear.
My earliest memories of Grandpa date back to the early '50s. He and Grandma lived in Canton, Ohio and we Burkes were in Columbus. The two cities are about 130 miles apart and I recall making several visits.
Grandma usually greeted us with a gift of chewing gum. This might not have been considered special by many of my contemporaries; but in my life, chewing gum was a rare and wonderful treat. Best of all, she provided Chicklets, those wonderful, shiny, sugarcoated white pillows of sweetness.
Chewing gum and popcorn from the refreshment stand in the basement of Sears were more than enough of an incentive to garner the “nice grandmother” label of approval for Grandma Whitacre.
I don’t remember much about my grandparents’ house in Canton – except for the doilies. Grandma had these flimsy decorations attached to the arms of a couch and chairs in the living room and I couldn’t resist repeatedly removing and re-inserting the straight pins employed to keep them in place.
My strongest memory of that house was its geography. My grandparents lived on a fairly typical city block. The distance around that block was probably about a third of a mile. Around the first corner was a fire station; I remember nothing of the rest of the scenery.
Now it seemed to me that Grandpa Whit was not only mean, but also that he was also impatient. From time to time – occasionally when we were becoming noisy, but other times for no apparent reason – he barked at us: “You kids go walk around the block!”
At that time, and in that neighborhood, there were no safety concerns and it certainly provided a chance to get some fresh air and, possibly, to find some kind of adventure along the way.
So, I didn’t really mind; but it did seem as if Grandpa didn’t particularly like having us around.
When I was 8, we moved from Columbus to San Diego. About a year later, here came Grandma and Grandpa! They bought a house a little more than a mile from ours – as it happened, that house was on the route to the elementary, junior high and high schools I attended for the next nine years.
Before they found their new home, though, Grandma and Grandpa stayed at our house for a while. One night, during that visit, I received a signal that maybe Grandpa wasn’t so mean after all, and that maybe he kind of liked me – but didn’t want me to know.
It was probably about 9 p.m. on a school night. I was in my bed, but reading as usual. The rule was that I could read for a half hour only and then must turn out my light and go to sleep – at around 8 p.m.; but I often became so wrapped up in a story that I just couldn’t put the book down. This was such a night.
When I heard a hand on the doorknob, I immediately released hold of my book – it fell toward on my chest. I closed my eyes and struggled to appear to be sleeping.
I sensed the door opening, but had no way of identifying the intruder.
“Well,” the voice was unmistakable. It was Grandpa Whit – my mean grandfather!
“Here’s David with his book.”
That simple phrase doesn’t imply much. It’s a clear statement of fact. But the tone of voice – coming from the same lips that once commanded, “go walk around the block” – revealed so much to me.
I knew, in that moment, that my grandfather loved me, that he approved of me and that he had my best interests at heart. I discovered that stereotypes are not always good indicators and that a stern-looking old man can have a heart of gold.
Gentle hands lifted the book from my chest. Then there was a pause. I feared at the time that my fraud might be detected and that I might get in trouble for reading too late; but on reflection I came to consider that short pause to be an interval during which my Grandfather gazed upon his oldest grandson and contemplated the timeless wonders of the universe.
I was too busy getting started with my life to pay much attention to the end of my grandfather’s life. I walked, rode my bike and drove past their house many times without even thinking of stopping.
I was married and focusing on the next generation when he slipped on the sidewalk one day, while getting into the car, and broke his hip.
When I visited him in the hospital I couldn’t believe this formerly fearful man appeared so small and frail. He didn’t survive the complications resulting from his injury.
For many years after his passing, I remained busy and never really missed my grandfather.
But, I miss him now.