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Why Grandpa Came to Visit
Takes All Kinds, Variety is Spicy

I don’t know anyone who could recall with certainty the last time they heard my mom’s mother speak, nor could they remember when last she recognized anyone. It could be we all prefer to remember her in her better days: sitting at the organ, her stool rocking with the rhythm of the spirited pumping of the bellows. She would sing with her head held high, and would lean back, turn her head and give you a quick smile as if she were dedicating the tune to you! Among the favorite vignettes would probably be the image of her manning her station in the kitchen, paring knife in hand, holding forth over a pile of potatoes or apples to peel. Those were the last of her good days. In the best of her last days, I remember once seeing her rise from her bed and walk to the kitchen; I didn’t go with her but told an adult who helped her get something to eat, then helped her back to her bed. When someone is thus with us, but in so many ways gone from us, it would be natural to think it would affect the depth of the grieving process when they slip the bonds of this life and waken in the next one. However, watching someone who must go through it, I don’t think any relief is derived, or severity lessened, but instead, an intensified sense of loss is felt over the years that were stolen by this insidious condition.

My mother had been through several crises which would have been cause enough for her to come completely apart, and no one would have faulted her for it. Up to now, she had staunchly stood her ground and steadfastly remained in control of her emotions. The phone call in which she received the news of her mother’s passing was her complete undoing. I would not, nor will I try to describe the emotional state that overtook her in the days before we arrived for the funeral, or the effect that it had upon me, other than it left a fear and foreboding, and a dread of the day that I might lose either, or both, of my parents.

We had extracted a promise from Grand-dad, not an easy thing to do, that in the waning days of summer, with the hope of cooler weather, he would join us in Memphis, and stay for a week or two, or as long as he wanted. He kept his promise and showed up with a grand-daughter traveling companion, Maxine, one of Mom’s sister’s kids. Max was bright, lively, and the spark-plug of her high school basketball team. If laughter is good medicine, Max’s goal in life was to keep us all healthy! It had cooled off enough that Mom could bake her cornbread in the oven once again, making supper less labor-intensive. This was a good thing considering there were two more mouths to feed. West Texas was not Grand-dad’s idea of a vacation destination; hot and dry, it was short on fishing holes. We were doing good to get him to come for a visit. We would have to do better to get him to stay. I’ll never forget his words as he decided he needed to depart for Pryor to make sure his garden hadn’t “burned up”, “I can’t see why a body would want to live out here in this expletive deleted place; every expletive deleted thing has a thorn on it! Even the expletive deleted lizards have thorns!

There were three French Canadian fellows, cousins from Cottonport, Louisiana, by the name of D’Cote, on the crew, and their favorite thing to do was to show off their culinary skills. Each one had a specialty and the three teamed together could really put a meal together. They went by the names of Flute, Spec, and Pete. They would do their cooking in the cool of the evening, in the city park on Coleman stoves and it seemed like we never ate before an hour past my bedtime, but they couldn’t be rushed, and it was worth the wait! They had one of these Friday night feasts planned and the menu included Filé Gumbo. Filé powder, also called gumbo filé, is a spicy herb made from the dried and ground leaves of the North American sassafras tree, and is used for seasoning, but also as a thickener. Usually a fat hen is the meat found in a pot of gumbo, but the preferred ingredient is some variety of wild game bird, though not always available. A chicken is used out of expediency, and if game birds become available, the more the merrier! Doves were in season so they became the ingredient of choice, but they are known for their elusiveness, darting and diving in flight, and are anything but easy to acquire. When the fellows returned from their foray, the game bag also included some suicidal ducks. True to form, after an unbearably long wait, the gumbo was delicious!

The days had cooled to the extent that Mom and Mrs. McCauley could sit comfortably behind a sewing machine, or pin up a pattern on a table without a fan blowing everything out the back door. This was critical, because there were four youngsters that needed school clothes, and these two ladies were taking Dan River yard-goods and turning out short sleeved shirts, with pockets, and interfaced, stiffened collars, in three little-boy sizes, and pretty pinafores for Paula. It was finally time to go back to school!

This would be my second try at the first grade. The administration listened patiently as Mom related to them my academic history and furnished the pertinent paperwork, but since I had never completed the first grade, that is where I was assigned. Even though I felt completely  out-of- place, I began getting familiar with the place; the first-graders seemed awfully tiny and immature to me, but at least I didn’t see any of them that I thought would try to beat me up. That’s usually one of the first things that has to happen in a new school; the word gets around that there’s a new kid, the bully hunts him up and knocks him down! The classroom routine seemed very similar to what I had encountered in other schools, and I had no need to buck city hall, so I simply tried to do as I was told, keep an eye out for anything I should know as matters of protocol, especially if they had separate drinking fountains for boys and girls. Some schools did, and believe me, that is a breach of protocol you don’t want on your playground history.

I was coming under close scrutiny in the reading circle. The class I was in had moved beyond the number-writing exercises, so, so far, so good on that issue. My teacher asked me if I had one of the reading books at home, had seen the reading book before, or if someone had been reading to me from the reading book, and I would respond, “no, no, and no, Ma’am”. The teacher, a dead-ringer for Dennis the Menace’s neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, invited another teacher to observe our reading circle. She took a seat nearby, and after a while, when it became my turn, she offered the book she had in her hand, and said, “Try this one”. She had opened the book to part way through, and I began to read. When I stopped, the two ladies were looking at one another. The second lady stood and asked me to follow her. I looked at my teacher, she smiled and nodded. Our next stop was the principal’s office. I read for her, and was reassigned to the second grade. I liked that! The reading book was more interesting, the students were more my size, the desks were a little bit bigger, and then there was Sharon ( pronounced the West Texas way, Shay-ron), and the twins, Janine and Janelle. 

We had one more visitor while we were in Memphis. Maxine’s older sister, Jean, had spent summers with us since she was thirteen because there were few employment opportunities in her rural hometown. Sometimes she had to settle for babysitting, “nanny-ing” for Rosie the Riveter types, and one summer, she worked at Ann’s Bakery before we left Tulsa. She had finished school now and was making decent money waiting tables. A highlight of the evening for Wes and me was waiting for Jean to get home so we could count her tips. The kid was raking it in! Dad decided we needed to take advantage of the tourist attractions the area had to offer, so we managed an excursion to Palo Duro Canyon, now a Sate Park, south of Amarillo.

We were just beginning to enjoy the decent weather and look forward to the approaching holiday seasons, with the possibility of being close enough to drive up to Mayes County and get our feet under Grandma’s table. You know she will be serving some of her home-made Concord grape juice for breakfast on Christmas morning. Some of the other siblings and their families will probably be there, too; just like old times! We were just beginning to, and then, orders from headquarters!

Continental Oil wanted the entire crew to relocate to Red Deer, Alberta, Canada. We should be in Tulsa November 1st, there was a whole convoy of brand new vehicles waiting for us and the client wanted photographs made of the whole string in front of their corporate offices in Ponca City, with all the executives in hats, coats, and ties for the industry publications. We had a red Jeep, a Dodge Power Wagon with electric winches, and three bright yellow Willys Jeep pickup trucks, all pulling trailers. No personal vehicles would make the trip. Dad would have to sell his truck. Wes and I would have to find something to do with our brand new short-sleeved shirts. By having to report to Tulsa before taking the nearest route, we will be adding miles to the trip, making a total of 2170 miles directly into the probable winter storms one could expect to encounter this time of year. At least they speak English up there! Well, sort of.

Jean, standing on a ledge overlooking Palo Duro Canyon, now a Texas state park south of Amarillo. Not a good view of the canyon; google it if you want to see it in color.