by Richard Seifried
Signal Hill Musings
May, 2006
John Two-Hawks recently wrote about the demise of his only remaining grandparent. His eloquent phrases brought to mind my intention to write, once again, about my mother’s father, my Grandpa Carey.
From the time I was a little boy until his death when I was in high school, Grandpa was my hero, my special friend, the one I wanted to grow up to be like. When I recall those goals in life, I sort of wonder and am relieved that I didn’t turn out exactly like him.
Like him, I have five children.
Although I possess considerable restrained wildness, I never quite duplicated Grandpa’s accomplishments. His wife, Grandma Carey, used to tell me, when I was but a child, how her husband, before their marriage, drank to excess. He would end up sleeping in doorways, even in cold, rainy weather, and she said that was why he was all crippled up.
Well, gee whiz, I slept in a cemetery on South Bass Island, Lake Erie, on a damp, cold, misty night and didn’t seem to notice the inconvenience. I now have arthritis. Could Grandma be right?
Grandpa chewed tobacco, a filthy habit, and in his last years, he dribbled the stuff all over the towel-covered arm of his upholstered chair. His “living spot” reeked with the odor.
Suffering from a bad heart, Grandpa would become bored with Grandma’s nagging and would sneak downtown to his favorite saloon. “Hi, Bill!” would be his greeting. The boys loved him and I don’t think he ever paid for more than one drink, the first one.
One summer evening Mother took me over to my grandparent’s house. There was a crisis. She, her two sisters, and Grandma were all a dither. Grandpa was MIA, missing in action.
Pretty soon, he came staggering in, apparently intoxicated. The women went wild, with much yelling and crying. My hero plopped on a wooden chair that he placed right in the middle of the dining room, crossed his legs, and acted like he was ignoring their rantings.
The noise was so disturbing, filled with accusations and condemnations, that Grandpa growled obscenities at them. Real bad stuff. “Oh, shut up!” “Stop your damn yelling!”
“Oh! Oh! Talking that way in front of little Dickie (me)!” Louder crying and exclamations.
While each was engrossed in her own lamentations, Grandpa, facing me, got a silly grin on his face and gave me a big wink.
His performance was as good as anything that Richard Burton ever gave. I smiled back.
“That’s my Grandpa.”
I think of him every Easter season. As far as I know, except for weddings and funerals, he never went to church. I suppose the family was ashamed of him and appreciated that fact. Yet, every Sunday, when we went over for dinner, after church, Grandpa would be sitting in his tobacco-stained easy chair, right hand up to his deaf right ear, singing along with the music on the radio.
“The Old Rugged Cross.”
“Rock of Ages.”
His deep, soft voice was wonderful to my ears. Grandpa loved God.
He didn’t steal, lie, or harm anyone, and was, in old age, liberal in beliefs and seemed to lack any prejudice toward others.
He loved to talk to pretty girls and drink good whiskey. His real love was baseball, always listened to over the radio. I don’t know that he ever expected more out of an elderly life that must have been domestically disappointing.
Oh, and Grandpa loved animals. He spoiled them. He’d give Boze, their old Rat Terrier, his chewed wads of tobacco. I think Boze was sort of like Grandpa. He loved tobacco so much that he’d stomp out cigarettes so that he could eat them. I used to watch him do that. Finally, when the dog’s hair started falling out, Boze was cut off from his bad habit, but Grandpa kept sneaking him an occasional cud or so. Boze died at age 19. Grandpa died at age 83.
My pioneer grandfather taught me much about life, all by stories of his life and by example.
Grandpa Carey. My hero.
