Lately my grandfather has been on my mind.
On weekend mornings I almost always have either toast and jam or waffles, liberally covered in butter.
Butter is one of the things in my life that I will not compromise on. It has to be real butter. No “I can’t believe I’m eating this stuff”. No crown magically appearing on my head. Even when the Medical community was spouting their drivel about how bad butter was for you, I persisted in demanding the real thing. Of course they eventually decided that the crap they had been pushing was worse for you than butter.
At any rate, when I was 14 or 15, I was making toast and jam for breakfast. I was liberally spreading butter on the toast. Grandfather was walking by, stopped for a second to observe, and said “I see you like a little toast and jam with your butter.”
So every weekend when I am spreading the butter on my toast or waffles or flapjacks, I remember that remark. It was typical of his dry sense of humor. If you would glance up, you could see the twinkle in his eye despite the deadpan look. He looked like he had posed for Grant Woods’ famous painting American Gothic: My Grandmother could have done the other half of the pose. But if you looked a little closer you could see the twinkle in his eyes and the spark of a remarkable intelligence.
Although he was not an educated man, he had educated himself in all sorts of things: Botany, animal husbandry, bee keeping. Gardening and farming. His was a quick mind, and I never saw any deterioration right up until his death. He was the heart and center of our family while I was growing up.
Every evening after dinner we would go for a walk. The farm was on a short quarter section of land. Approximately 80 acres of pasture, 100 acres of hill covered with timber. He pointed out all of the different plans, told me what they were good for. We foraged whatever was in season. I learned a lot from him. When I was in college, my Botany Professor was amazed at how much I knew with no formal training.
After our evening walk we would either listen to the radio or get out the phonograph. Grandfather was legally blind, and he belonged to the Lighthouse for the Blind. They sent a phonograph that was geared down to like 7 & 1/2 rpm. They provided a catalogue every month and you could order books and magazines on records. He would order all kinds of stuff. I remember one winter we were working out way the through the works of George Bernard Shaw. We had just listened to “Joan of Arc” and had a lengthy discussion about whether Joan was listening to God, or listening to a different kind of voices.
We lived out on the Coast, and they lived in Northern Idaho. Every summer we would take vacation when the haying was on. We would help with the hay, go fishing and Huckleberry picking, help with the milking, whatever needed to be done.
As soon as I was old enough, I started spending my summers on the farm. I loved it over there. The best summer of my young life was when I showed up in June, and Grandfather handed me a fishing rod and stringer, and told me “Your major chore this summer is to fill up the freezer with enough fish to last the family all winter”. I was just the kid for that chore.
We lived within walking distance of some of the best trout water in North America, and that summer I fished every inch of it. After morning chores, I would go dig some worms, and off to the streams I would go. I was usually back home for dinner with a bunch of trout. I don’t remember ever coming home emptyhanded. There were four good streams within walking distance, and we varied where we went. There were a couple of kids close to my age a mile or so up the road, and a lot of times we would get together and go fishing.
Sundays the whole bunch of men would take off and go on a fishing expedition. There was always a contest between myself and my Uncle Fred to see who could catch the most fish. Sometimes he won, sometimes I did.
The summer I was 15, in addition to the fishing pole, Grandfather handed me the .22 and a couple of boxes of shells.
It seemed a family of ground squirrels had invaded the pasture, and one of the cows had stepped in a burrow and broken it’s leg. The cow had to be put down. Part of my summer job was to get rid of them. They were threatening the family income. So part of my morning and evening chores was to go set up in the field and take out a ground squirrel whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was also a very good opportunity to sit there and daydream.
Although I do not take a great deal of pleasure in killing things, it was a chore to do, and it was my responsibility. There is a different attitude on a farm. You raise a steer from birth, and when it is time, you slaughter it and butcher it and eat it. Same with chickens and hogs and once, turkeys.
Grandfather and Grandmother had been married over 50 years when she died. Everyone was afraid that we would lose him shortly thereafter. He started kinda wasting away.
We went over to the farm and kidnapped him. Kept him busy doing things he had never done before. He had never seen the ocean before, so we took him to the coast. Although his vision was limited, he was impressed with the sound and feel of the place.
