| Granddaddy |
| As I sat in that church pew in the little southern town where I grew up, I fought to hold back the memories, to keep my emotions and dignity intact. For I was there, surrounded by old friends and family, to bury my grandfather, the Henry for whom I am named. I was not mourning for Granddaddy; he had lived a long life, well into his eighties with sound mind and body until he died instantly of a heart attack. No, I was grieving for myself because my beloved grandfather was gone. |
| The first years of my life interwined that of my grandparents. My widowed mother, an only child, and I lived in a small garage apartment located adjacent to my grandparents' home. My most vivid childhood memories involve my dare-devil escapades timed to elicit an animated response from my over-cautious namesake. Grandaddy, who owned and operated the local saw mill, drove into our graveled driveway at exactly five minutes after the noon mill whistle blew. At the last blast of the whistle, I set up my act--a daring swing over the top of the jungle gym, a hand stand on top of the front yard fence, or a dramatic hanging by my heels from the lowest branch of the sycamore tree that shaded the front yard. |
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| My feats always brought the expected reaction from my grandfather. "Oh, my God! Viola (my grandmother), that baby's going to kill herself, hear!" My grandmother, busy setting the noon meal on the table, rarely paid any attention to either of us, so I was slow in completing my performance, usually managing a flip in the air as the grand finale. However, if Barbee, the cook said, "Miss Pud (my nickname), you'd best wipe your feets on the grass before Miss Viola sees those dirty tracks on her sidewalk and porch step," I beat a hasty retreat. Messing up my grandmother's clean house called for greater punishment than my gymnastics. |
| In all of my years growing up in that small town, I never lived over two miles from Grandmother and Granddaddy. Their daily routines were ingrained in my life. Grandmother awakened before daylight to read the Bible, make homemade biscuits for breakfast, and clean her house. With Barbee's help, she always prepared the big Southern meal, cooked all morning, for noon. Grandmother took an afternoon nap after reading the Shreveport Times and then, more often than not, lady friends would stop by to sit on the screened front porch to share coffee, pie, and gossip. As much as I loved my grandmother, I had not felt the overwhelming loss that I felt at Granddaddy's funeral when she died a year-and-a-half before him.. Grandmother, trapped in a body incapacitated by strokes, had been confined to a nursing home, an intolerable situation for such a strong-willed and proud woman as she. My concern at her death had been for Grandaddy, because he had loved my grandmother totally for all those years. |
| I remembered her, old but not yet invalid, standing in front of her kitchen stove with a bright ribbon in her hair and looking deceitfully young and and pretty, and me, carrying my own marital scars, thinking how lucky she was to be so loved by a man like my grandfather. But, now they were both gone , and I thought about how we shaped each other's personalities and lives. My grandmother, tolerant of my grandfather's fearful nature, babied him and went to great lengths to humor his worries. Yet, I received much |
| youthful pleasure from aggravating that side of him and all the attention it brought me. His anxiety about my acrobatics only spurred me on to bolder feats. He encouraged dancing and piano lessons, while I insisted on Jersey calves and Bantam roosters. He never understood why I would go way off to become an animal doctor when I could go to the Chapel-On-The-Hill, his name for the nearby Baptist college, and become a school teacher. But, he was always proud--of the 4H ribbons and the professional degree. One of my grandfather's friends stopped to chat at the church. "Pud, you don't know how much we enjoyed Mr. Henry. He ate lunch with us at the Senior Citizen's Center, and he always talked about you and your brother. He was so proud of y'all. He brought your articles from The Saturday Evening Post and that Milwaukee newspaper to show us. We will all miss him." Granddaddy liked people and being with people. He was generous and unselfish, and his neighbors responded in kind at the time of his death with food, flowers, pats, hugs, and stories about Mr. Henry. They came in multitudes, young and old, black and white. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I realized what roots really mean. I had always thought the small town atmosphere was narrow and restrictive, and I couldn't wait to leave. Yet, I sensed a yearning within myself for those ties of family and friends that I thought I didn't need. I have been blessed with a close and loving relationship with my grandparents, and it was no small blessing. Now, I am a grandparent myself. The relationship I have with my grandchildren--seven, with the possibility for more--is different. My grandchildren all live in different states from me, and I am often overwhelmed by their numbers and ages (the oldest just turned five). Of course, that may be just an excuse. I like to joke that I have failed grandparenthood. I hope that's not true. I hope that I have something to offer the little guys, and that someday, they'll remember fondly their Grandmother Henry. |
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| H. Ellen Whiteley, D.V.M., All Rights Reserved |
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