My grandfather was a great man. His name was Delbert. His friends called him “Slim.” I called him “Pop-pop.” I’m not sure why my mind is on Pop-pop tonight. I guess I just like sharing with others my memories of him.
My mom and dad moved from Indianapolis when I was three years old so that I could grow-up next door to granny and Pop-pop. Although I lived with mom and dad, I spent almost every waking hour next door at grandpa’s house. I was magnetized to him. I had a really good relationship with my mom and dad, but at every free opportunity, I was by grandpa’s side. No disrespect intended to my dad, but grandpa was my “father figure.” Pop-pop walked me to the bus stop most mornings. He taught me how to play baseball and how to hammer a nail. We worked in the garden together. We built my tree house together. He took me fishing almost every weekendr. And on evenings when mom and grandma would go shopping, grandpa and I would have “parties” that consisted of Spaghetti-Os, root beer and dry Golden Graham cereal for dessert, all while watching an IU basketball game or the latest episode of Hee-Haw.
Obviously, I am a little biased, but looking back he was fascinating. He quit school in the eighth grade to take over the family farm when his dad died…eighth grade. The responsibilities he had must have been overwhelming. But as the oldest of five children, he was the man in the house. “And my family needed fed.”
Grandpa was not an educated man, but he was one of the brightest people that I have ever met. He had a special way about him. He could do anything. In his life he was a farmer, an iron worker in a factory during World War II, a bulldozer operator, an electrician, and a supervisor for the Indiana Highway Department.
He loved to tell stories! I’m not sure if they were all true, but it didn’t matter. I would sit on his front porch with a glass of iced tea, rock in rocking his chair and listen to him tell stories. Sometimes, it was the same story I heard just a few days before. But it didn’t matter to me.
One of my favorites was a story about him riding his horse to school each day. After he got to school, he would smack his horse on the rump and the horse would run home into the fence and his mom would go shut the gate. I always wondered how he got back home from school.
Or the story of him running to the next town (from Martinsville to Plainfield) after working all day on the farm, just to spend a few hours with his girlfriend…who turned out to be grandma. I always wondered why he didn’t just ride his horse.
And with the mom of a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, he had great stories of being taught to live off of the land…how to fish and track animals by his Cherokee uncles…how to find the best mushroom hunting places…and when to plant pumpkins to allow them to reach their potential.
And I loved hearing stories of him hunting “with my best buddy, Sally.” Sally was an Irish Red Setter. He talked about how, while hunting, he would sometimes lose Sally. Trying to sneak up on quail, she would sometimes disappear into the woods and wouldn’t come when he called to her. “Finally, I’d find ole’ Sally and like a good ole’ girl, she was still on-point, showing me to a whole load of quail.” He loved that dog! “Besides your grandma, she is my best gal.”
He always had such colorful sayings too. When I was obviously trying to convince him that something that may not have been the best choice, he would say, “Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”
When I tried to get away with something that was clearly a bad idea, he would smile from ear to ear and hold up his fists pretending that he was going to punch me and say, “Boy, the next thing you know, you won’t know nuttin’” or “come here boy and let me box your ears.”
And yes, he was my hero too. Once, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he literally saved my life.
I was six years old at the time. My uncle worked nights, so each morning that summer grandpa and I would go feed Uncle Dick’s coon dogs. One morning, “Charlie” unexplainably attacked me. It wasn’t a normal dog bite, but rather a full-scale attack. I don’t remember anything that happened prior to me falling to my back and trying to push away the dog as he was biting my face and head. He was on top of me without any time to react. I remember trying to get up and crawl out of the reach of the dog’s chain, but every time I tried I would be knocked back down and get bitten again.
I recall vividly looking up and being blinded between the combination of the bright sunlight and blood clouding my eyes, hearing the growls of Charlie and trying to fight him off. Everything seemed to be running in high speed. Then, I realized the sun wasn’t in my eyes anymore. And I was not being bitten, although I could still hear the sounds of the dog.
I remember trying to open my eyes and seeing the silhouette of my grandpa standing over me, blocking out the sun. He was straddling Charlie, who was still going crazy, trying to continue his attack. I remember thinking it was odd seeing grandpa put the dog in a headlock with one arm, while frantically searching his overall pockets with the other. Then came a loud yelp and I realized that the attack had stopped. He had cut the dog’s throat with his pocketknife.
I remember him running through the woods, carrying me in his arms until we reached his old, beat-up truck. I was losing a lot of blood and going in and out of consciousness. Until that point in my life, I don’t ever remember seeing him show any emotion. But I remember being scared that he was crying as he was driving me to the doctor. He never forgave himself for “allowing that accident to happen.”
The only other time I remember realizing that grandpa was upset was the day his Sally, died. I woke up early one morning and asked mom if I could go to grandpa’s house for breakfast.
While walking next door, I found Sally curled up underneath the window sill to my bedroom. I bent down to pet her and realized that she was gone. I ran in to get grandpa. He asked me to stay inside the house and he left to get her.
After a few minutes, I slipped outside and watched him finish digging the grave. Trying not to show emotion, he carried Sally across the pasture, and laid her to rest. After kneeling and saying a prayer over the grave, he walked into the tool shed, grabbed a gas can, doused Sally’s doghouse, and lit it on fire.
He sat watching the flames, trying to hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. I walked up to grandpa and put my arm around his waist. “Why are we burning Sally’s house, Pop-pop?” “Son, when you are fortunate enough to have an old friend like that, you know that they can’t be replaced. And since, I won’t replace her, there’s no need to keep her house.” He continued to watch the doghouse until the flames turned to embers.
Grandpa tried to continue to try to fight back the tears. But I’m not sure who he was trying to convince that he wouldn’t miss ole’ Sally. Him or me?
cowood18
