My father was born in rural Louisiana on August 1, 1931. He was the first of four children to be born to his young parents. His father was a carpenter and his mother was a housewife.
His early life was shaped by the lean times of the depression. While not prosperous by any means with store bought goods few and far between, his family never starved because they had a willingness to work and a few acres of land which included a pond, a couple of cows, and a handful of chickens.
My grandfather was a hard man and his marriage to my grandmother was not a happy one. I do not claim to know the particulars of their circumstances, but have heard from multiple sources over the years my grandmother was a faithless wife and on more than one occasion was dragged back from one dalliance or another and beaten back into submission.
Not by way of any excuse for his behavior, but different people have revealed my grandfather dearly loved my grandmother and his actions were the result of jealousy. I have heard the stories of him as a younger man falling in love with her the instant he first saw her and making great effort, before and after they married, to seek her favor and garner her approval and being met with nothing but scorn and ridicule from her.
My grandmother has only been gone for a little over a year. She was a hard worker and always very active; however, hers was not a gentle heart. Never a kind word from her did I ever hear spoken of anyone.
My father told me once when he was a boy he was commissioned to sort a pile of nails in my grandfather's workshop. Paw Paw had a sawmill with something of a lumber yard. Daddy was probably seven or eight at the time and was sorting the nails while sitting on a floor and reading a book. Paw Paw was furious when he saw what Daddy was doing and promptly nailed his book to the floor.
Another time Daddy thought he had broken his leg. For whatever reason, Paw Paw did not think the injury was serious and told Daddy to get up and go on to school. My grandmother quietly intervened and told Daddy to get up and make his way to a ditch along the road and hide there when it came time to leave for school. Only after my grandfather went to work, my grandmother collected Daddy and took him to town to see a doctor. That doctor set his broken leg, applied wooden splints, and loaned him a pair of crutches.
I only knew my grandfather as a small child after he had suffered more than one stroke. I remember him as a giant of a man, but a very quiet giant. He wore denim overalls and tended to his garden and his cows. I do not recall a smile ever gracing his face, but he was gentle with me and without words I found comfort in his presence. I sat on his lap often and watched him braid the twine from hay bales and roll them into balls for later use. In the afternoon, he sat on the back porch in a rocking chair and whittled until it was time to feed the cows.
Milking time was in the morning. If I was up and around before breakfast, he would nod his head slightly and I would follow him to the barn. He had a galvanized bucket for the milk and a small, three-pronged stool on which he sat. He always put the milk bucket down first before kicking the stool over to where he wanted it. Often, he picked me up to sit on the cow before he settled down to milk her. If I was not perched on the cow but crouched next to him watching his hands, he would squirt me with a brief stream of milk.
When Christmas or birthdays rolled around, he would motion for me or my sister to come to him. As we stood before him, he would reach into the pocket in the bib of his overalls and pull out a small dark brown leather coin purse. From this he would extract a quarter. Very deliberately he would take my hand and open it palm up and gently place that quarter. Then he would curl my fingers around the coin, nod, and pat me on the head before sending me on my way. For years my father had an old cigar box next to his recliner. In it was that coin purse.
In his day, my grandfather was a well-respected man. He was elected to the police jury and served with pride.
Back in my early childhood, my mother had not yet learned how to drive and it was Paw Paw who took us to Piggly Wiggly to shop for groceries and Ben Franklin's for other goods. He would even take my mother to the beauty shop once a week to have her hair done.
At each store, he would sit outside on a bench with newspaper folded in hand. I do not believe I ever saw him read a paper. He really did not have the time because everyone who walked by stopped to shake his hand and exchange a few words.
I have no memory of the sound of his voice.
I believe I loved my grandfather.
As an orphan, my mother loved my grandfather and doted on him. He was very patient with her. A recent immigrant from Vietnam, she hardly spoke any English at all.
Because we lived next door, they spent hours together every day milking cows, collecting eggs and vegetables, and doing all the things that needed to be done.
My older sister was in school during the day and I spent my time traipsing behind both my mother and my grandfather.
On a hot late spring afternoon when I was five years old, I saw my mother running from the barn screaming for my grandmother and help. My father had been out of town and was expected to return that day from a trip to Washington, D.C.
As I think back things moved at a snail's pace, almost frame by frame.
My grandfather had been tilling the ground adjacent to the barn when he collapsed. My mother was with him when he went down. As his eyes were closed, she could not get him back up or awaken him. She panicked and began running for help from the house.
My grandmother came to the back door just as my father drove up in his car.
I remember standing in the middle of the yard as my father got out of the car with a suit jacket in one hand and my mother pulling on the other. He had on dark slacks, a white shirt, and a thin black tie. It was 1973.
He listened intently to my mother's hysterics and when she finally made herself clear he was instantly in motion.
He ran to where my grandfather had fallen and immediately began CPR. I heard my grandmother yelling into a phone to the operator she knew by name to send help.
My mother crumpled to the ground in a heap of body convulsing sobs.
My next memory was standing barefoot in the dirt of what was to be the watermelon garden that year watching my father alternately pumping my grandfather's chest and trying to breathe for him.
A few feet from where they were was the tiller, still running, but on its side. Its wheeled prongs turned in vain.
I do not know how long I stood there and watched my father desperately trying to save my grandfather, but by the time an ambulance arrived my father was soaked in sweat and covered by muddy dirt. With my father still working on him, the medic checked for the vital signs of life.
There were none.
Gently at first, then more forcefully, both medics pulled at my father's arms to cease his relentless efforts. "He's gone," they told him. Then one of them stepped over to the tiller, shut it off, and righted it.
After giving my father a moment or two, they lifted my grandfather onto a gurney, strapped him in, and then began negotiating the dirt and uneven ground to the ambulance.
As they rolled him passed me, my father finally stood and woodenly followed.
Before lifting him into the back of the ambulance, a sheet was produced to cover him.
My grandmother never stepped out of the house.
The day of the funeral, it was my mother who was inconsolable. My grandmother had nothing nice to say about anyone, least of all my grandfather. My father simply had nothing to say.
From the cemetery, my grandmother took to her bed for a few days. When the visitors finally stopped calling and bringing food, she abandoned her bed and went about daily life; however, she never missed an opportunity to bad mouth my grandfather.
A couple of weeks passed and my grandmother finally decided it was time to take a trip into town. On her way, she heard a loud
POP, lost all power in her vehicle, and began to smell something burning.
After she was collected from the side of the road and her car towed to a mechanic's shop, my grandmother told my father again and again what happened. Evidently, it had scared her.
Before it was towed away, I heard the mechanic tell my father it was probably a short-circuit in the electrical system; however, I specifically recall my father told my grandmother the car had been struck by lightening. He elaborated by adding: "It was Daddy telling you to be nice."
I never heard her speak ill of my grandfather after that.
