Tales Of My Grandfather

My grandparents were always up with the sun, if not before.  The radio in the kitchen would erupt with the farm report, and that monotone voice would slowly permeate the entire house along with the smell of freshly percolating coffee.  My grandfather would dress in his coveralls and boots as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, and then he was off without a word.

Rain or shine, the farm came first; the animals fed, the cows milked, the grain harvested.  Grandpa would disappear into the machinery of the farm until lunch time, slipping into the house in his stockinged feet to eat lunch with his visiting progeny in silence.  If he was asked a question, the answer was usually muffled monosyllables, punctuated with grunts.  My grandfather usually was not coherent until after he had a nap in his favorite chair, his snores softly surrounding him.  This pattern, this first part of the day, was as consistent as the sunrise, as far as I knew, for the first twelve or thirteen years of my life.  Each summer my family would visit, and my grandfather's routine never changed, and neither did his silence.

And then one day, we arrived to find a porch swing.  It was unbelievable to me that such a frivolous item would appear; my grandparents were practical, farmer types.  Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I parked my behind on that swing as soon as I could.  A light breeze was blowing as I dangled my foot and pushed off, my book open and ready to read.  The sound of all my relatives talking was usually too much for my teenaged brain, so being alone was a rare treat.  Except on this day, my grandfather came out on the porch, a glass of water in his hand.  He didn't say anything, but I sat up and scooted over, so he could share the swing with me.  Grandpa sat down next to me, and we rocked together, the fireflies beginning to flash in the twilight.

I wasn't really sure what would happen.  I wasn't sure what to say, or if I was supposed to say anything.  My grandfather had been so taciturn my entire life that he'd taken on some sort of mythological status; many of the grandkids were outright terrified of him.  So I just sat there with my Grandpa.

Suddenly he began to talk.  He spoke about his childhood, how he and his brothers rode horses to school or pulled a cart.  He talked about driving a school bus.  He spoke about the farm, the animals, the fields that needed combining.  He talked about how he met my grandmother at a picnic for the local orphanage. He didn't really ask me any questions, and I kept my mouth quiet, encouraging him to continue with a nod here and there.  We sat there like that, my Grandpa and I, until the sky was full of stars. 

The next day my Grandpa was re-enveloped in his customary silence as he went about his day.  This time, however, I knew better than to think the wall of silence he had built around himself was permanent.




Prompt:  Something your grandfather told you.

Old Make Way

Prompt:  And now, on to our Trifextra.  We want you to choose one of the pictures below and give us a 33-word response to it.  Your responses will be judged by the community this weekend.

I have had such a horrible week that I completely forgot about the word limit for Trifecta this past week.  It was in the back of my mind, but since I usually write when I'm half asleep, and since the story was going so perfectly, I called it a night when I was able to get it under 500.  In the light of day, I am glad, for the story's sake.  However, I will endeavor to remember the rules in the future. I will even write them down on a post-it and place it on my monitor, where it will stay until the cat eats it.  

This one's for you, Grandpa. 


My grandfather's pride,

Which once turned the rich, raw earth

Now sits on fallow ground,

Sadly covered in dust.

Time passes.

Old must make way for the New

Yesterday's strongest steel becomes rust.

VinothChandar / Nature Photos / CC BY

Source: trifectawritingchallenge.com via http://www.flickr.com/photos/vinothchandar/6853341070/

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RemembeRED: Smoking

Note: Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see this ashtray full of cigarettes. Keep it under 700 words, please. And remember...Memoir means memory. It's all about you and your life. First person. NO fiction.

My grandfather smoked. Two or more packs a day, I remember hearing someone say. He also drank more beer in a day than most people can tolerate. This was back when cans of beer had pull tabs, and my grandfather had a beer tab chain that he hung as a garland all over the first floor of his house. My grandfather died in 1976, and to this day I wonder what happened to that beer tab chain. No one in my dad's family has ever admitted to having it or taking it to be recycled.

I can remember that my parents smoked, especially my dad. (No beer tab chain, though.) He smoked until we moved to Washington D.C. My mother had quit, and she didn't want any smoking in the house, so my dad had to go outside to smoke. Once the weather hit below forty degrees, my dad decided that he needed to quit smoking. And he did.

But he needed something to do instead, and he asked me to teach him how to crochet.

At the time, my father was working two jobs and going to school to get his masters. He rarely had time for much else. In addition, I was in the Surly Teenager phase of my development, ready to take offense at the slightest raise of a parental eyebrow.

Never mind that I had just learned how to do a granny square a couple of months ago and didn't know much else. My dad was actually asking ME for something!

We sat on the couch in the family room, each of us with our crochet hooks and our yarn. It was slow going, because I didn't really know what I was doing well enough to actually teach anyone. It was very frustrating for me, trying to show him and tell him and direct him to make the chain, loop it, and 'post'. Fortunately for him, my dad had already learned how to crochet from his mother many years ago, and just needed a refresher.

He didn't tell me that at the time, however. Instead, he let me feel a small measure of pride that I had "taught" him something, and for that my self-esteem is eternally grateful.