This is a story I started writing several years ago but never finished until yesterday. With yesterday being my mother's birthday I thought it was the perfect time for me to get off my ass and finish this tribute to her dad. I posted it on Facebook as a Note in addition to printing it on fancy paper for mom. I thought I should probably post it here as well so it will be permanent. It's the longest post I've ever made on any of my blogs. It starts with the following paragraph:
This is my attempt to celebrate my grandpa Arlie, and to recall memories from the all too brief period of time where our lives crisscrossed. I will attempt to tell the things that—to me—are the definition of grandpa. As a matter of fact, from here on, I will capitalize the word Grandpa. In my mind he deserved it.
The Gap of Generations
One of the great frustrations in life is the difference in age between a boy and his grandfather. It’s almost as if a cruel joke has been played on us by the very nature of human generations. The scale of time between the two generations is very non-linear. One week of a young boy’s life is more like one year of a grandfather’s life. When you're a little boy he is a man you look up to, both literally and figuratively. When you are in trouble with your parents you can always seek solace and comfort with Grandpa. It is the span of time between the ages of you both that creates the comfort zone in the first place. A grandfather is kind of the anti-parent.
When you're a young boy Grandpa is there for you. He’s a teacher, a confidante’, a story teller, and a friend. You like spending time with Grandpa—watching him work, asking him questions, and occasionally helping him with something. Then time goes by, and you find yourself a little older. You start discovering girls, cars, or any number of important new things on the adolescent horizon. The whole world is at your doorstep! You find you don't have much time to spend with Grandpa any more. The years go by and you find yourself a little older, but unfortunately your Grandpa is a lot older. He has the stories to tell, but his activity level just isn't there any more.
Then, tragically, Grandpa is gone.
Wait, you cry--I wasn't ready! I want to learn stuff from him; I want to listen to his stories again now that I have an adult ear. I want to share my stories with him. You feel so sad at all the things you wish you could have done together. You think of all the things you did do together but might have been even better if you were just a little older at the time.
But it's too late. Grandpa is gone.
Big House, Little House
Growing up in Algona we lived in Grandpa Arlie's "little house." It was the house that he originally built for himself and Grandma Carol to live in while he built his dream house next door. It was a little house all right; the living room, kitchen, and dining room were all one space, and it had one bedroom, and a bathroom. My mother was the only child born to them. Oddly enough, my dad was also an only child. When they got together they decided that they were going to have a bigger family than they each had, and ready or not, the plan was set into motion. I spent my childhood years in that house, and because of the proximity to Grandpa, he was a major part of my young life.
The Man
Grandpa Arlie was the hardest working man I have ever seen. He was smart too—able to figure things out on his own without much trouble. He was a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician, a mechanic, a cement mason, a bricklayer, a tree-trimmer, and probably a host of other things I have no memory of. Never idle until later years, he possessed a tremendous work ethic. I think he felt that if he was idle something was being neglected. There was always something to be fixed, something to be painted, something to be built, or something to be done somewhere. My mother also inherited that work ethic. It seems to have skipped me.
I remember him as a quiet man when he was working. He seemed to possess a great deal of patience, because I don’t ever recall him blowing his top when things didn’t go his way. As any little boy, my head was filled with questions when I watched him work, but if they were silly he never let on. He always answered them. Maybe he was just that way to me… I don’t know.
He always wore overalls when he was working. He didn't wear the blue denim kind; he always had the gray & white striped variety. In the winter, he had a flannel shirt under them, and in the summer it was just the overalls with the top of his boxer shorts peeking out. Another thing that was always worn was his pull-on Romeos. Those were his work shoes around home. (To this day I still think of him when I see those shoes for sale in a store.) I also picture him in several different kinds of hats. I seem to recall a nice, Fedora hat for special events, and any number of the stiff-front baseball cap variety with a company logo on it (actually more commonly known as farmer’s caps now.) He always had certain things in his pockets too. His overalls always contained one of those funny-shaped woodworker's pencils in the front bib, he always had his pocket watch, and he kept his change in one of those little plastic things that pop open when you squeeze them.
He had a little thing he always said when he explained things too: “Whatchacallit” or “whatchacallum.” Not whatchaMAcallit or whatchaMAcallum—his word only had four syllables. I remember that word being used an awful lot during conversations. I can still hear him say it.
I loved his laugh too. He had a slow, easy “hee hee hee” that was all his. That is one thing that I will never be able to describe, but I can still hear it. I hope I never forget it.
The scents of Copenhagen and Old Spice were two other things I remember about Grandpa Arlie. He liked his Copenhagen. I remember the perpetual bulge in his lower lip from the stuff, and the spit cans that were everywhere. There was always a spit can next to his easy chair in the house, one in his car on the floor next to the seat, and in multiple places in his garage. I think he always smelled like his Copenhagen, and in the mornings he smelled like Old Spice after shave. Yep, that's Grandpa all right. Even now if I ever smell Old Spice or Copenhagen I’m instantly transported to thoughts of Grandpa.
I remember Grandpa loved watching westerns. If he had a choice there was always a western playing on TV when I was there. I also remember Lawrence Welk being on their television a lot too, but I suspect that was something both of them loved. The soft, comfortable recliner chair parked in front of the television was his luxury item.
Grandpa was a man of simple pleasures. For example, he loved his peanuts. He always bought the Planter’s Cocktail variety. (Those also ended up being spit cans, and the containers he used to contain screws, nails, and other hardware in his garage.) He also liked crackers and milk. I remember thinking how weird it was to just put saltine crackers into a bowl of cold milk, but in retrospect, how different is that from enjoying them in a bowl of cream soup? Not much. I’d like to think he is where I got my love of crackers from.
One of my memories was when I started calling him Pop. I don’t know what prompted me to do it but I did. He responded by called me son. I still remember the exchange that took place all the time: “Hi pop!” “Hello son!”
Like many people of his era, Grandpa was a resourceful man. He saved and reused everything that was possibly reusable. His garage was evidence of that. In addition to the peanut cans I mentioned before, his hardware was also contained in recycled baby food jars and coffee cans. His homemade flagpole in the front yard of his house was topped by a painted toilet tank float.
I remember how he loved to make a snowman with us. I don't know if he was doing it for us or for him, as I was way too young to read people's motives back then. I just know that he built big snowmen.
Every Christmas he seemed to take great pride in decorating his house and his carefully-manicured holly tree in the front yard with lights and decorations.
Grandpa’s Haven
Grandpa’s garage was a special place. Appearances didn’t count in Grandpa’s garage. It was his space—a place where he could spend time without worrying about whether or not he was going to get something dirty. Now that I think about it, maybe that was the whole plan—to make it so unappealing that people chose not to venture in. I think the whole building was built from cedar, and I don’t think there was paint on any of it. I don’t know whether they were stained from age or just perpetually dirty, but the colors on the bare wood ranged from dull reddish brown to dirty black. It had a wood floor too, and it seems like I remember it creaking when you walked on it. The outside of it was all split cedar shakes; roof and walls. Apparently cedar was cheap back then. I remember it as a dark, dirty, and smelly place, but it must’ve been his getaway—he spent a lot of time there. It was a place filled with his ingenuity.
Almost everything in that garage was homemade. There were no hardware superstores back then, so if you needed something you had to build it. He made his own shelves, drawers, tables, handles, brackets, hooks, and any other items he needed. There were homemade handles on his files, his hammers, his axes, and everything else. He made anything that was possible for him to make. His table saw started life as an actual kitchen table at one point. It was carefully slotted and had an old washing machine motor beneath it to drive the blade. The table saw was a luxury to Grandpa though. He could cut as straight with his hand saw as most people can with their motorized saws. He had a very precise and methodical action to his arm when he was sawing. I know because I remember watching him a lot. His bench grinder was built the same way as his table saw—from a cast-off washing machine motor.
There is a smell that comes to mind when I think of Grandpa’s haven: Heating oil. His garage was only 3/4 of the whole building, and sharing a wall with it next door was the room that housed the heating oil supply for both houses. It was no pretty place. I’m pretty sure it just had a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling with a pull cord on it. The floor was hard-packed dirt, worn smooth over the years and was probably totally soaked with stray drops of heating oil. The dirt floor and the heating oil both gave the building its unique aroma. I have no idea how big that tank actually was, but to a little kid, that above-ground tank was huge and looked like it held a million gallons.
Concrete
Grandpa Arlie was a concrete man by trade the whole time I knew him. He worked at other jobs in his past I’m sure (stories of the railroad come to mind), but I remember him and concrete. He knew concrete. Back then you didn’t go to the store and buy a bag of “ready-to-go” concrete mix; you had to buy the ingredients and mix it yourself. He knew exactly how to mix the cement, the sand, and the gravel. He knew when you had to add different ingredients, and he knew how much. I can still remember him mixing concrete with his hoe, lovingly pushing and pulling it back and forth in his homemade mixing trough or his wheelbarrow. To this day whenever I’m around someone mixing concrete with water in a wheelbarrow Grandpa comes to mind.
Epilogue
I really don't remember what my earliest memory or Grandpa was. I remember so many little things but it's so fragmented. It frustrates me. I feel that I should have been writing everything down, carefully noting and remembering every little thing about him. If only I would have had a camera of my own back then!
I remember going to visit Grandpa in the hospital shortly before he died. He was still in reasonably good shape for an old man, but was mentally exhausted I think. Grandma had died several years prior and he had been on his own for quite a while by this time. He had voluntarily given up his driver’s license a few years prior because he no longer felt good enough about his driving. Little by little he had been losing his ability to do the things he wanted or needed to do on his own. I remember him sitting up on the edge of his hospital bed, and he said to me, “I’m tired. Nothing works any more. I’m just tired.” Within days after that he was gone.
When Grandpa’s few possessions were carefully divided among us after his passing, I ended up with two things: His homemade bench grinder and his ball-peen hammer. I used that bench grinder for years and years. I was sorry when I finally had to part with it out of space considerations. I felt like I was betraying his memory somehow. I still have his hammer though—its handle worn smooth and colored dark from years of his use. I had it at work for a few years, but finally brought it home. I always called it Grandpa’s Hammer. It will always be called Grandpa’s Hammer.
Someone once asked me several years ago, “If you could spend time with any person from history who would it be?” At that time I really had no answer. I remember thinking about it several times over the years since then. Who would it be? Thomas Edison has come to mind, as did Henry Ford, and Ben Franklin. I have decided though, that it would have to be—without a doubt—Grandpa Arlie.
I miss him still.
