Tuesday, 20 May 2008
My Country Grandparents
By Richard Mims of The Foothills Opinion Post
I only had one set of grandparents. The ones on my Mom’s side of the family were both dead by the time I was born. It makes my memories of my Dad’s Mom and Dad all the more precious.
My grandparents lived near the small town of Verbena, Alabama. My Granddad was a blacksmith. I knew him until I was five, when he died, (the only time I ever saw my Dad cry) and knew of him for the rest of my life through stories from friends and neighbors.
Grandpa looked like a giant to me. He stood 6 feet 5 inches tall and weighed a good 250. He never seemed that old, just big, sometimes impatient and with a low voice that meant business.
I spent a summer with my Grandma and Grandpa the year before he passed away. They lived up in the country on a sandy dirt road a couple of miles out of town. The house had no bathroom, but it did have a shower out back by the shed, surrounded by bamboo. There was a two-hole outhouse that was also home to spiders that I looked for before using the facilities. The antique sleigh bed in my room off the kitchen had an old down mattress that slumped in the middle.
One thing I remember is the big live oak tree in their yard. I call it a yard, but it was really just sand and clay. Good ole Alabama red clay with white sand on the top; sort of like nature’s paving material. This tree was huge, ancient and shaded a good deal of the area beneath its branches. Here would reside the latest attempt at mechanical repairs by my Grandpa. Once a vehicle was driven under the tree it never left again under its own power. The man knew horses, but was death to automobiles.
In his day my Granddad was shy, strong and a hard worker. The automobile age made him redundant and he was feeling out place by the time I came along. I feel fortunate to have known him and sorry I did not have the opportunity to learn about his trade.
I knew little of my Granddad’s reputation till I came back from Vietnam in the early 70s. While visiting a dam on the Coosa River, I struck up a conversation with the guard. When I told him my name he said he knew my Granddad.
He told me of a day when a wagon came to my Granddad’s shop that needed a shoe for the lead horse. When the driver pulled in he had put the horse on the wrong side, away from the anvil. Realizing his mistake, he offered to take the team out and come back in the other way. My Granddad just smiled and told him to sit tight. He then picked up the anvil between his two forearms, walked around to the other side of the wagon and proceeded to reshoe the horse. The anvil must have weighed 250 pounds.
My memories of him are as sharp as those of my grandmother who outlived him by a decade. She was the one who made sweet cornbread for me and introduced me to "Squirrel Stew." She insisted I at least try a bit, which I did. I haven’t had any since.
Many a happy day was spent wandering the countryside around their place in later years; usually with a BB gun, slingshot or an old 22 rifle in hand. One or two dogs would accompany me as we spent the day in the yellow pine forests, fields of my uncle’s farm or down by the creek looking for arrowheads and buried treasure. I didn’t realize then that the real treasure was in the looking and not the finding.
When my Mom died three years ago this May, we buried her next to Dad in a small cemetery just outside Verbena. After the service we took a drive to have a look at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
It was barely visible from the road. The kudzu and briars had all but covered the entire structure. The shed had long since fallen down and the live oak tree was surrounded by pines and bushes. The folks who had purchased the property had built their new home just down the road, changing the look of the old place completely. I realized then that my childhood country experience was gone for good.
We now live in North Carolina, a compromise between the deep south and the wide open western cities we lived and worked in for 25 years. In my backyard, I’ve left a small portion of natural forest - perhaps a quarter acre or so. My wife and I have cut trails, made a fire circle for burning dead limbs and cared for this speck of woods since we moved here two years ago.
When some or all of my 13 grandchildren finally come to visit us here I hope to become known as their country Granddad. These kids have lived in cities all their young lives and maybe, just maybe, they’ll be able to understand and appreciate what a beautiful thing it is to go for a walk in the woods. Even if the woods are in your own backyard.
[The Elder Storytelling Place can always use additional stories. If you would like to contribute to this growing and important collection written by elders from around the world, the guidelines are here.]
Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post
Comments
This is such a great, heart warming story. I grew up a city girl and loved to visit the country grandparents. Who knew I would end up becoming a country grandma. Our eight grandchildren love to come here and I can see the memories forming in their eyes.
Posted by: Granny Annie on May 20, 2008 9:07:13 AM
A lovely story of days gone by. I am sure your grandchildren will have the same fond memories that you had of their Country Granddad.
Posted by: Darlene on May 20, 2008 10:19:55 AM
Excellent story; one that made me remember my childhood at Great-grandma and Grandpa's home in the country. Those were the days that made me what I am today and I miss them sorely.
(Ronni, why doesn't your site remember me anymore? I have to enter the info every time.)
Posted by: kenju on May 20, 2008 2:36:48 PM
Hello Richard,
Your story carried me back to my Grandmother's farm in St. Joseph, Missouri.
I was a city girl from Philadelphia and had never seen a farm until we went to visit my Mother's Mother .
I loved the place and spent every minute wandering around and looking at all the animals, but deathly afraid to touch them.
One day my Grandmom was milking a cow and told me to lean down and she would squirt the milk into my mouth. I did as I was told and when that hot milk hit my mouth I almost fainted. I ran away and spit the milk out but I will never forget that taste as long as I live.
Your story was so interesting and warm. I loved you looking for spiders before using the outhouse.
We never went back to that place again. Just that one Summer of 1933, but It's etched in my memory exactly like your Granddad's place is unforgettable to you.
Good story!
Posted by: Nancy on May 20, 2008 2:42:19 PM
A wonderful warm story. You can feel Grandpa's strength.
I only knew one of my grandparents, my Nana, and we never made out of Brooklyn together but our trips to sit in the park together are some of my happiest memories.
Posted by: Dianne on May 21, 2008 7:35:37 PM
