Grampy Meets His Match

Bernadine Ann - 1946

An important part of Grampy's life was and always will be his late wife, my mother in Law, Bernie. When I met her in 1971 she was 90 lbs., 4'10", and a red-headed spitfire, inside and out. The kids called her Grandma B. I called her "Scrappy". (But never to her face.) She was Grampy's perfect sparring partner. And spar they did. They couldn't have a simple conversation without eventually disagreeing and arguing—loudly. Even on a subject as innocuous as the weather. "It was HAWT in the Cah(car)" she'd say in her deep Massachusets accent " What the hell are you talking about old woman?" Grampy would protest " It's only 88 outside! " "Go to hell, Tex!" she'd shout " It's HAWT!"

Current view of the House that Tex Built in 1953

Grampy loved the country, Bernie loved the city. Grampy loved chicken farming and collecting lumber. Bernie loved slot machines and shopping. When he said tomato, she'd counter with tomawtta. For several years in the 50's they lived in a little house Grampy built in the middle of nowhere. A little pink and gray home with gingerbread trim in the California desert with their three young boys—as far from town as Grampy could get without hearing the threat of divorce. Bernie hated it, but she endured. Much to her disgust, Grampy raised and butchered chickens in the back yard. She endured. Grampy eventually let his alcoholic loud mouthed father come live with them there. She endured. The boys rode their bikes like wild Indians in the surrounding desert, often bringing home snakes and tarantulas just to torment mama. Bernie endured.

Endurance was in her genes. Grandma B. was born Bernadine Ann which is a perfectly lovely name For a girl, but it was nonetheless quickly shortened to Bernie. She was the baby in the family and the only sister in a brood of 9 brothers. They all lived in a tiny upstairs apartment on the wrong side of the tracks in Lawrence, Mass. Although her family was French/Italian, they grew up in an Irish neighborhood and so they thought they were Irish. Those boys were rowdy miscreants, known for bar fighting, gambling, and any other sort of mischief they could dream up—often dragging little Bernie along with them on their adventures. Her mother, God rest her soul, provided for those kids alone after her husband was gone. There was no government help in the early 20th century for widows. You just worked two or three jobs instead of one to make ends meet and that she did, leaving her children to raise themselves.

Tex and Bernie knew 41 years of holy (and I use the term loosely) matrimony. She fought and cajoled until Tex finally agreed to move them, in their later years, to Laughlin, NV. They bought a double-wide down by the Colorado river where she was finally content. Slot machines and Bingo games were just a hop, skip and a jump down the dirt road. But it was Colon cancer that finally delivered the knock out punch to my feisty mother in law. She put up one heck of a fight but died in the hospital in 1997, Grampy at her side. When she surrendered her last breath he was watching her like a hawk then climbed into that bed with her, holding her for as long as he could for the last time. In spite of their tumultous past, she was his soulmate and he loved her. That's how the nurses found them.

After the funeral, as we were sorting through and boxing up her things, he seemed to me so lost and defeated. My heart went out to him. "I don't know how I'm supposed to go on without her" he told me in a tiny voice as we were working. "Dad you just endure. You just endure. That's what Mama would do." He nodded his head. "Yeah, I know" he mumbled. He quietly stood up a minute later and pulled the cardboard flaps down on the box he'd been filling, looking around the room while he did— "Now where the hell did that woman leave the damn packing tape!"

Cats on the Porch

Ricky Ricardo circa 1955

The other day Grampy was over for dinner. He has three sets of clothing and one outfit for each set. His "Stay at home" patched jeans, white tshirt and old cowboy boots; his "Going out of the house but to nowhere special" outfit of a pair of newer jeans (turned up at the cuff), a flannel shirt and his old boots, and his "Puttin on the Ritz I'm going to a Party" outfit which is a brown polyester leisure suit circa 1983, turquoise bolo tie and his good cowboy boots. He even slicks back his hair for this. And if the weather is cool, wears his Ricky Ricardo jacket. You have to be really old to know what a Ricky Ricardo jacket looks like. And since some of you are whippersnappers,  I've posted a picture of him here.

Everyone that knows Tex, knows what he'll wear to any given occasion. So when he was over the other day, he brought some new jeans with him and I was flabbergasted. "You bought some new pants?!" "Yeah I went to the Goodwill and bought these but they have a hole in them". He handed them to me to hem and patch. He had actually ironed a large, dark, contrasting patch he'd cut himself into a funky shape on them and drew a dotted line around the perimeter of that gaudy patch so I'd know just where to sew. I've only been sewing for 40 years and he doesn't sew at all, so its understandable that he has to tell me how to do it.

He was talking to me as I got out the sewing machine. "Those damn cats are back again". "Huh?" I said. Cats? First I'd heard of it. "Yeah, there are two of them and they like to sleep on my porch and won't leave. Hell I hate cats. I stand at the patio door and bang on the door and shout at them to leave. They just sit there and look at me. Can't stand cats". " Do they have collars?" I asked "No. They are abandoned cats and they won't get off my porch!" "Hmmmm" I thought- (then it hit me) "Dad do you feed the cats?" "Of course I do! They're abandoned! No one else feeds them so I have to. Every day I cook up chicken and cut hot dogs up small and put tuna out there for them." This last part was said in disgust. I don't know if he's disgusted cause someone deserted them or because the odious task of feeding them has fallen on him. "Well dad, congratulations" I said. "For What?" he asked. "You are the proud owner of two abandoned cats". "Aw hell no I ain't" he insisted. "Yeah you are!" I couldn't let it go, it was funny. I had to laugh. Out loud. He got up and walked out of the room, practically tripping over my cat. "Hell I hate cats!" he ranted as he stormed down the hall.

Hobo Stew

Life really is just a matter of perspective.

A couple years before my mother passed away I went on one of my weekend visits to see her and we were sitting at her kitchen table talking about her memories of growing up during the Great Depression. You know —that period of time before you were born that your parents and grandparents refer to with awe in their voice. Awe and respect. They know how transient a stable economy can be and with uneasiness remember a time when everyone had so little but made do with what they had, and were none the worse for wear.

Mom grew up in a small town in Arkansas and was remembering how sometimes Hobos would come to their door. Grandma called them Tramps. They were looking for food and would offer to do work around the house for it. She said sometimes Grandma gave them work but more often than not, she just made them wait on the front porch while she went inside and made them a sandwich. Grandma never turned anyone away. She always said "The least we can do with what little we have is share it with those that have nothing." That made quite an impression on mom.

Mom also talked about the Big Celebration they had every fourth of July. She said it was the one day of the year when friends and family gathered at their house and had a feast. They had a family friend who worked for a Soda Pop company, and he'd show up with a huge tub of soda pop. She said all the kids drank pop all day and as many as they wanted while the grown ups were talking and laughing and not paying attention. What a treat that was! They always had a heaped tray of hamburgers for supper. Grandma made the absolute BEST hamburgers in the world Mom said. She could still remember how good they tasted. "Did you BBQ them outside on a grill? "I asked. She looked shocked "Oh No. Grandma would never have done that. She said 'that's how the hobo's eat, outside cooking on a fire. Why would we do that when we have a nice stove and an inside kitchen?!'"

Interesting viewpoint when you think about the hundreds and thousands of dollars people now spend on BBQs and backyard kitchens.

The next weekend after this talk with mom, we had Grampy over for dinner at our house. Grampy lives in the same town we do while my mom lived about an hour and half away. So Grampy comes over often. He and my mom are the same age but never cottoned to one another. We were sitting at the kitchen table and I got him to talking about growing up. "Oh yes...the Great Depression" (reverential pause as he gathered his thoughts) "When I was a young teenager, my little brother Willie and I ran away from home, heading east from Phoenix to Dallas and lived with the hobos along the way. We rode the trains with them and we camped in their hobo camps. They took us under their wings." Grampy paused again, fond memories tramping through his mind. "The Hobo Community took us in with no reservations or second thoughts. We were just kids but there were a lot of kids riding the trains.  We were all in the same boat and we all shared everything. Of a day we'd all go into town to scavange and come back to the tent camps in the evening. Someone would have onions they found, someone else a meat bone they dug out of a trash can. Everyone brought what they had and we cooked it all in huge pot on an outdoor fire. Mmmmm. It was Hobo Stew and the BEST food I've EVER had. I can still taste it now — how good it was!" He was patting his belly while he said this and I reckon he was telling the truth.

I told Grampy what my Grandmother had said about Hobo cooking. About her nice, inside kitchen and stove. He frowned, wiggled his finger in front of my face and said "Well that woman was a damn fool!" The next weekend I went to visit mom and told her Grampy's story and what he'd said about Hobo Stew being so good and all. She just laughed "Yeah" she sniffed (her nose a tad high in the air) "I expect Tex was always so hungry even an old shoe would have tasted great if they'd thrown it in a pot and cooked it. Hobo stew indeed!"

The Simple Things

Grampy raised his three boys by his cardinal rule “Do as I say or find yourself on the wrong end of my belt”. Period. Of course this was in the 1950's and 60's when spanking your child was perfectly OK and Child Protective Services was just a twinkle in the government's eye. Oh the stories I've heard of Grampy chasing one of the boys down the desert road they lived on, waving his belt over his head, cussing at the top of his lungs. His boys learned early on how to run and run FAST. Two of them won medals on the High School Track team. You could say they were motivated to succeed. He taught his boys to fight, be strong, work hard and to do anything for your family, even if they are no account idiots who never appreciated their parents. He told me once many years ago (when he had been drinking) that being a father was not his best accomplishment. D'ya think? He looked sad and forlorn when he said it. I felt badly for him. Or maybe his eyes were just glazed over from the tequila. I don't know. 

Tex has been my father in law for almost 39 years now and he's the only parent we have left. The others were too nice to last that long...Grampy's just too honery to die. I told him once he's going to out-live us all just to spite us. He got a little twinkle in his eye then took out his teeth and started preaching to me about flossing and brushing. He did that at the dinner table one Easter Sunday when we had all the kids, grandkids and “company” over as well. I consider “company” people who don't know us well enough to discern our dysfunctions yet. They still think we're pretty normal. And especially people who have never met Arthur Ronald Victor B. He pulled out his dentures during dinner, wanting to show his great-grandkids what happens from a lifetime of not brushing your teeth on a regular basis. (hobo's don't have toothbrushes don't you know) I saw the wide-eyed, horrific stare from our "company" sitting across from him and quickly re-routed Grampy into another conversation, desperately trying to steer him, and us, away from the precipice of utter social doom. Our "company" has politely declined any further invitations to dinner. 

Tex has taught me many things that are check-listed on the hard drive of my memory. He's taught me to “look before you leap” and the pitfalls of jumping to erroneous conclusions, making a fool out of yourself in the grocery story when you raise a commotion at the check stand, swearing the carrots are on sale only to be calmly shown they aren't. He's taught me not to take life too seriously when, at that same check stand, he has no reservations about pulling up his threadbare, flannel shirt to show the astonished cashier the scar from his quadruple by-pass surgery. That's quadruple he says to emphasize the fact that his surgery was one better than triple. He's taught me that the acquisition of money is not the end-all to our existence and that the simple pleasures in life are not bought but they are enough. Watching the western channel with a good dog and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn on your lap is as good as it needs to get. It's enough.

Grampy lives in a single-wide trailer in a Senior's mobile home park, pretty close to us. He calls Mike (My husband, his son, his caretaker and lifeline) on the phone at least once a day. He leaves angry messages if it goes to voice mail, wondering why the hell Mike's not answering. Then he calls me. I think I'm the next best thing. Oftentimes I'm in a meeting at work. I always take his call. "Hi dad, what's up?" "Well I forgot—what day is it today?" "Tuesday Dad. It's Tuesday". "OK thanks". click. Or, more importantly, "I pressed the wrong damn button on this clicker here and now all I have is snow on the TV and Touched By An Angel. I'm missing the Rifleman and I don't even like Touched By An Angel!" So I step out of the meeting and talk him through the buttons on the remote control. 

I like to think he needs us, that we are his raison d'etre. And maybe it's true. He would say "Ray zone du et! What the hell kind of language is that?" I have experienced enough parental loss to realize he won't be around much longer so I try to savor and even enjoy him while he's here. He makes us laugh at his eccentricities. He tests our patience and makes us better people. And every once in awhile, every once in a blue moon when his defenses are down, he'll come over to watch Bonanza with Mike and when he leaves he'll give me a hug, call me darlin' and tell me he loves me. And that makes it worth it. That's enough.

Chili Dogs and Other Mutts

Grampy is almost 86 years old and not too happy about it. He doesn't like the kinks, jabs and irritations that come with living inside an 86 year old body. He told me he looked in the mirror the other day and wondered who that old man was. But then, Grampy's not too happy about anything and never has been. As long as I've known Grampy he's been a whining, foul-mouthed cantankerous old goat—and that's when he's in a good mood. But I sure do love him. 

Being so hale and hearty for most of his life, old age has fiercely walloped him hard and completely taken him by surprise. He finds his life revolving around doctor visits, prescription pills, Gunsmoke and naps, leaving less time for his favorite past-time—lunch at Der Wienerschnitzel. He used to take his little dog to Der Wienerschnitzel every day to get chili dogs. One for him and one for Mugsy. They'd go park the car in the shade by Longs Drug store and eat their hot dogs. Only he had to lick the chili off Mugsy's dog as the puppy didn't like chili. In all my infinite wisdom, I finally told him one day “Why don't you get yourself a chili dog and that dadburned dog of yours a mustard dog, hold the mustard?” (I used to work there. I know the lingo). He stared at me for a few seconds like I was a complete idiot then shouted “Hell no. I LIKE licking the chili off!” But now that his little dog is gone, even during a good week some of the charm has worn off and Der Wienerschnitzel visits are sporadic and farther between. 

Grampy was born with four names, the first three being Arthur Ronald Victor. Everyone calls him Tex. Quite a handle for a man who is 5'3” and weighs 120 on a good day. A strong wind could blow him over and we are careful to keep him inside on windy days. He is French Canadian which he's very proud of and speaks a strange dialect of French I don't understand and one they never taught me when I took four years of French in High School. So he'll come over in the summer and walk through the front door proclaiming it's hot outside “Ill faw fret!” He says. I told him his French doesn't make sense and that's not how I learned it. He told me the nuns in my high school were damn fools and lesbians and that they never lived in France. Well he's got me there.

He ran away from his violent, abusive, alcoholic father and none-too-happy home at the tender age of 13, taking his little brother Willie with him. They traveled from Phoenix, Arizona to Dallas, Texas in search of kinfolk in Dallas who they were hoping would take them in. This was 1938, during the Great Depression. Two boys could travel with the hobos, jumping trains and sleeping out in the open around campfires without being bothered by the police. But they weren't scared of the police. They were scared to death their father would find them and really kill them for good. He didn't. They made it to Dallas. At 18 Tex was drafted into WWII which he refers to as “The war to end all wars”. I told him “No. They actually called WWI 'The war to end all wars',not WWII”. (Wikipedia Dad, it's called the Internet) He didn't buy it. He gave me that long, hard stare and none-too-gently reminded me again of the mentally deficient, wayward nuns who taught me a whole crap load of nuthin' in school. He's got me there. 

Grampy Drinks the Koolaid

Grampy is old as dirt, a widower and lives in a senior mobile home park a couple miles from us.  He's lived long enough to be bitter and honery and get away with it. He's 5'3" tall, and loud; cranky as an old rooster with a hangover. But he's the only parent Mike and I have left so we do love him and patiently tolerate him, knowing first-hand that parents only come once in life and don't last forever. And we also know that our adult children are watching us and getting clues on how to treat their aged P's (parents). 

     Grampy has 27 great-grandchildren. Every time a new one is born we sit down together and count them all up again. We start with the oldest and name them all down to the new one. He never remembers how many he has. He just knows he has "too damn many." "Well" he says "At least most of them are boys. Girls are trouble. I never wanted girls". (He had three sons) Seeing the illogic behind that reasoning and having had two daughters of my own who are and were NOT trouble (well not much) I just nodded my head and changed the subject. I used to argue with him. I don't have the energy anymore. He's as stubborn as dried egg yolk on a fork sitting three days out in the sun. Unlike God, who changed His mind about destroying the golden calf-worshiping Hebrew children when Moses beseeched Him not to, Grampy does NOT change his mind.

Grampy got first hit on the pinata.

     We had my grandson Jared's 8th bday party here at my house, weekend before last, We had a piñata and all the kids got cellophane treat bags with all kinds of candies and prizes that fell from the piñata, plus other goodies Sarah (Jared's mom) stuck in the bag. Well Grampy came to the party. He says there are too damn many kids underfoot so leave him out of the parties...But he comes over anyway. Nevertheless he had a swell time, even took a whack at the piñata, entertained us with stories of his youth, and was the last to leave.

     Mike (my husband) gave one of the leftover candy-filled treat bags to Grampy as he was walking out the door. Grampy came over this weekend shoved the treat bag he'd received in my face and said "Your husband tried to kill me with this candy" There was no candy left in the bag - he'd eaten it all. There were only two balloons and a small yellow bottle of bubbles (the tiny kind with the wand in the lid) "What?" I asked eagerly, knowing I was going to get a great reply and gearing up for it. "Yeah!" he continued, pointing to the cellophane bag "I tried drinking that yellow lemonade and it tasted like soap! I hope none of them other kids got sick on it!" Well I had to hahaha in his face and that only made him spittin' mad. He stormed out of the room in search of Mike to give HIM an ear-full. How on earth did that man make it to 85 years?