Old Wooden Ear 190613

      This is a story about my grandpa.

      When I was just a boy my grandfather was still working at the post office. The workers at Wade Station in Saint Louis had a club. They got together once a month to play cards. Each club member would in turn host the card party. One summer it was my grandfather’s turn to host the event. He had never been able to host it before because he lived with our family and didn’t have a home of his own to use, but he and my Father had bought a clubhouse on a slough off of the Mississippi and being half his, he was happy to host the party. He employed me as a runner. I was to get drinks for the players. We had several ice chests and they were filled with all kinds of beer and mixes for whiskey. I didn’t know much about mixing drinks, but the club members were more than willing to tell me how to mix their favorite booze. My grandfather told me it would be fun and that the players would tip me some change for getting them drinks. I didn’t mind doing it because I liked being around grownups and hearing their stories. As memory serves, the post office workers were more than a little tight with their change going for tips to a young boy, but Grandpa did a lot for me and this was my opportunity to pay a little back. I was busy the entire afternoon running to the ice chests for beer for those guys. It was fun until late afternoon when one ass-wipe made a comment about my grandpa. I don’t really remember the entire comment, but my grandpa was hard of hearing and wore a hearing aid, and this piece of garbage included “old wooden ear” in his commentary. I was just a boy of 12 and didn’t know what to do. I certainly couldn’t stand up to this grown man and I didn’t want to hurt my grandpa’s feelings by telling him, but it hurt me to hear that then and now that I’m just months shy of 74, I still hear those hurtful words. I’ve lived with them for 61 years now. If I knew who that man who called grandpa old wooden ear was was buried, I’d have my daily ration of beer and go urinate on his grave for what he said. I’d stay there all night, drink my beer and kill all the grass around his grave, never feeling a moment’s regret for doing such a thing. grandpa was one of the greatest men I ever knew. There was no end to the kindness he had for me. We were fishing buddies when I was young. We shared our thoughts, he as Socrates and me as his protégé. No matter day or night he always had time for me. He was a great writer. He wrote letters to friends all over the country and Canada. But if I chose to enter his room, he was always willing to stop his reading or writing and listen to me, to teach me. I never remember him uttering foul language, never heard him complain. He took me to church and he lived his religion. He never went to bed without first getting down on his knees and praying. He wrote letters to me the entire time I was overseas, no matter where. He sent me stamps so I could have no excuse not to write to my mother. When I was home on leave he loaned me his car so I could go wherever I wanted. He never bragged to me about his exploits, but always about his son and daughters. When I was younger he made me miniature log houses (like Lincoln Logs, but made from lumber he bought and fashioned) for my Christmas presents. They were sturdy enough a kid could stand on them. I used them in play with my toy cars and soldiers. One year when my mother was a little girl he went into O’Fallon Park in Saint Louis to gather sticks that he cleaned, stained and nailed together to make a Nativity stable. My mother had that little building for almost 80 years. I don’t know who has it now, but it doesn’t matter because I have it in my memory and always will as long as I have a memory. grandpa was born out of wedlock in New York City and left by his mother on the doorstep of a convent in the city. The good sisters nursed him and raised him until he was old enough to be placed on one of the old “orphan trains” from New York to the Midwest, where he was adopted by a family in Northern Missouri. A family that always reminded him he was there as a companion and helper for his adoptive brother Frank. He moved away to Saint Louis as a young man and heard little from the family until his brother Frank sent word that his adoptive mother had died and he needed money to bury her. grandpa sent money to bury Frank’s Mother. Not long after, he received another telegram requesting money to pay for the funeral. grandpa was a sentimental soul, but no fool, so he returned a telegram to the funeral parlor ship the body to Saint Louis and he would pay for shipment and burial there. He buried Frank’s mother and paid all the expenses. If I could remember all he did for me alone I could write for a year, but I can’t remember it all. He was good to the last. He developed a cancer in the bone of his knee and though he was too old for the needed surgery, he couldn’t face being an invalid. My grandmother, grandpa's wife, was an invalid for 13 years, requiring constant care from my mother and grandfather; he couldn’t face the same fate, so he signed up for surgery, (despite the fact he was too old and frail for a potentially successful outcome) looked at my mother and said: “I just signed my death warrant.” The surgery was a success, but he never recovered from the anesthesia. My dad, and I, my brother Tom, my uncle Kenny, my uncle Tom and my cousin Bill carried grandpa's casket from the church to the hearse and then to his grave site. I wept uncontrollably along the way there, but when I looked around I saw them crying too. I had never seen any of them cry before or after.
      
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.