No, he didn't say much; but he worked hard, paid his taxes and lived his life the best he could. Unlike my other grandpa whose authoritative presence and hawk-like eyes often frightened me, this grandpa was more like a shadow skulking around in the background.
Other than serving as a medic with the AEF in France during World War I, I doubt he left the area of Kansas where he was born. He was button-busting proud of that military service, rightly so, and a member of the American Legion his whole life.
He smelled like diesel engines and Prince Albert. Pipe smokers make their own entertainment—cleaning, packing, lighting, puffing, tapping, relighting, puffing. That pipe was his constant companion, until the effects of it took his life at 72.
The wheat fields of Kansas were planted and harvested by machines he kept operational. Every morning, neatly dressed in his dark green mechanic's uniform, he sauntered off to work, a short walk up on the main street of their blink-and-you've-missed-it farm hamlet. We visiting grandchildren kept our ears cocked for the noon whistle when we'd run out to the street to watch for his return. Lunch and a smoke, and he headed back to the garage.
The day before he died, he pulled my grandma to him and whispered, “I love you Marie. You've been a good wife.” He knew when to say the words that mattered.
Well-spoken words bring satisfaction; well-done work has its own reward. Proverbs 12:14
I don't remember him speaking either. But I do remember his favorite song - The Tennessee Waltz. I'm glad he told grandma he loved her because the words to that song always made me wonder who the friend was that "stole his sweetheart" from him.
ReplyDeleteSpeaking of words - look at that old phone on his ear.