GRANDFATHER TALES

This past weekend I was talking with some of my cousins and we were remembering some of the good times we had with our grandfather, my mother’s dad. He was a good man and a memorable character who died a long time ago at a ripe old age. He enjoyed doing things with his grandchildren and more than once led them into situations that could have been perilous. But we survived and had a good time doing it.

Sometimes Grandpa would take a bunch of us on little excursions to pick berries as they came into season. He was a berry picking machine. We’d pile into his car, which he drove with wild abandon totally ignoring all the laws and other drivers. He was prone to sudden starts and stops and was one of the main reasons that seat belts are worn in the US today. He would drive way out in the wilds of the Northern Adirondacks to his secret berry picking places and we’d get to work. If you’ve ever picked wild blackberries, blueberries or raspberries then you know the discomfort associated with the task. The bushes will scratch exposed skin and create a torrent of flowing blood. The blood attracts flies and mosquitoes large enough to carry off a small kid. Even in the far reaches of the Adirondacks temperatures can rise from mild to extremely hot in a matter of minutes. Or they can drop thirty degrees and be accompanied by freezing rain just as quickly. Grandpa ignored all those natural wonders and couldn’t understand why we were such whiny little sissies. He would urge us on as he filled pail after pail with nature’s bounty. Some of us would slip away to a nearby stream or pine forest to escape the incessant toil. When we would get back to the berry bushes they’d be picked over by Grandpa and the older kids. Back at the car he’d look at our meager few ounces of berries and shake his head as he lit a cigarette. But he didn’t make too big a deal about our poor performance.


One time when some of us were teenagers Grandpa decided to take four or five of the boys to visit my paternal Grandparents who lived in a little mining town down in the mountains. All those grandparents were on good terms, though somewhat formal in their conversations. It was Mr. and Mrs. Bourey and Mr. Messier. First names were not used. So four teenage boys were loaded into the car and we were on our way. Somehow, along the way, one of my cousins talked Grandpa into letting him drive. My cousin had his permit and he convinced the old fellow that he really needed the practice. This cousin was considered responsible although those of us who were close in age knew better. So Grandpa pulled over and my cousin took off. The weather wasn’t bad but there had been a light rain and the road wasn’t dry yet. My cousin’s experience on wet mountain roads was non-existent. But he wanted to show his skills to us and he was hitting the gas pedal pretty heavily. Grandpa was hollering away trying to get my cousin to slow down. As the car went over a ridge and down into a very steep curve it began to hydro-plane. The road had just enough water on it to provide a nice slick surface. My cousin tapped the brakes. Nothing happened. We were through the curve but the momentum of the back end of the car caused it to start fishtailing. The fishtail turned into a spin. We were spinning, fairly slowly, down the center of the road as the mountain gave way to a flatter area. Fortunately no cars were headed towards us and no cars were behind. We didn’t catch the edge of the road which could have flipped us over or tossed us off the mountain. Grandpa was murmuring prayers we had never heard before. As the car settled to a stop facing up hill, the way we had just come from, my cousin very calmly did a nice three point turn and headed on to the village which was just ahead. Grandpa gave up on his hollering and his praying and we went on to have a nice visit with the other old folks. There was never another word spoken about the incident, except among us teenage boys who thought it was one of the coolest things that happened that summer.

Grandpa had been a widower for a long time when he got himself a lady friend. Some of the relatives weren’t too happy with that turn of events, thinking that he was too old and it was not too dignified a thing for senior citizens to be dating. (Although they didn’t call it dating. It was “keeping company”.) But the teenage kids in the family didn’t disapprove. In fact we would cover for him when he would sneak out to play cards with his girlfriend. We would say that he was taking us to a movie at the drive-in or to a ball game up at the other side of town. For our complicity we would get rides, cigarettes and the occasional small loan. Although when it came to the smokes we gave Grandpa more than he got from us. He was always supposed to be quitting smoking but he couldn’t seem to give it up completely. Those were the days before the government pronouncements of the health risks of smoking. For a time Grandpa even rolled his own on a little machine he bought. We thought that was very cool because we could sneakily make up a bunch of cigarettes and he wouldn’t even notice that the level of tobacco in his can had gone down.

Playing cards was a big part of Grandpa’s recreational regimen. He was always trying to get a few kids to join him in a game of Canasta or Five Hundred. The problem with those games was that he hated losing. If he started to fall behind in the score he would try and distract us so that we would make a bad move. Sometimes I think he might have even cheated a little. But it was a big kick for us to hear him start his inventive version of cussing when he was losing. He could say a lot of words that came close to the real curse words without actually committing the “sin”. We all laughed at him but it was affectionate and loving laughter. And I think he did a little performing just for our sakes.

Those are a few memories of Grandpa M, some of the best stored up in the old brain. Some days they help me to get perspective on life. I hope they help you…

Have a fine day.