Mom and granddad just
weeks before he died
I remember only one Christmas with my maternal grandfather; I was three years old in 1947, and he died the following July. First, some background on him. He was born in Washington County Tennessee in 1863. His father died of pneumonia in 1865, possibly in a Confederate prison camp. He labored on farms, in sawmills, and in mines for most of his working years, but he had wanderlust and did not stay in one place very long. He married in the 1890 when my grandmother was only four years old. Does that pique your curiosity? No, he didn't marry her then—although such arranged marriages did happen in Appalachia until at least the 1950's—but wed another girl from the community where he grew up and they had several children. His wife died in West Virginia in 1910, and he married my grandmother in 1916 just before her 21st birthday. He was 53 years old when they wed, and their first child died soon after birth. My mother was second born. In 1936, and after becoming a successful country store owner and operator, he had built a small frame house where I was born in the front bedroom in 1944. My granddad was 81 years of age at the time of my birth.
In 1947, my mom and dad were recently married, but my dad was staying with his aunt who lived nearby because there was no more room in my grandparent's modest house where my mother and I were living. My dad worked in Detroit most of the time anyway, and I hardly knew him. Also living with my grandparents were my two unwed uncles.
At Christmas, all the adults acted adult by being nonchalant; all but granddad. He kept a gleam in his eye and a smile on his weathered face through all our meager festivities. Where I happened to be, so was he. I think he enjoyed me being an only child, because he could give me his undivided attention. We went into the local fields to cut a Christmas tree, and at three years old I was deemed big enough to tag along with him, my two uncles, and my dad. After crossing numerous barbwire fences, we came into an overgrown pasture where some beautiful cedar trees grew. This is when I learned how to pick that "just right" tree. If it can be found, a shapely, single-trunk tree about 10 ft. to 12 ft. tall that has had the bottom branches rubbed off by cattle is first choice. Cut it just below the lower branches and it is ready for decorating. This time however, there were none available that met the description. Granddad had the boys cut down a large tree that he deemed suitable, and then the actual Christmas tree was cut from its top. It was carefully toted home under mine and granddad's watchful supervision. To this day, I feel it isn't Christmas without the nostalgic scent of red cedar in the air.
Electricity had been installed in the house the previous summer, and my mom had scraped together enough money to buy a couple strings of colorful lights to go along with tinsel, ribbons, and wooden icicles and trinkets from past holidays. Granddad retreated to his rocking chair while the tree was being trimmed, the sly little smile still on his lips. My mom gave me strict instructions to stay away from the finished tree; but of course I did not and managed to turn it over on myself. Just as I was about to get a switch laid to my legs, granddad did a little "Ahem", and his smile had been replaced by a reproving frown. Mom put her hands on her hips and muttered something in his direction, but I didn't get whipped. Again, he was smiling.
On Christmas morning, he was the one to awaken me and scoot me into the living room to see what Santa had brought. His little smile was now spread from one big ear to the other. Again he took to his rocker by the fire, and did the oos and ahs as I ripped open the many packages that a spoiled brat received.
That was my first great Christmas, and even though I had some good ones thereafter, it was the last great one until my own kids and grandkids came along.
----
I wish I had a similar story to tell of my paternal Granddad, but he was killed in a workplace accident many years before I was born. I understand that he too was a good man, and it was only five years ago when I found where he was buried.
----
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL THE GRANDDADS IN THE WORLD!
weeks before he died
I remember only one Christmas with my maternal grandfather; I was three years old in 1947, and he died the following July. First, some background on him. He was born in Washington County Tennessee in 1863. His father died of pneumonia in 1865, possibly in a Confederate prison camp. He labored on farms, in sawmills, and in mines for most of his working years, but he had wanderlust and did not stay in one place very long. He married in the 1890 when my grandmother was only four years old. Does that pique your curiosity? No, he didn't marry her then—although such arranged marriages did happen in Appalachia until at least the 1950's—but wed another girl from the community where he grew up and they had several children. His wife died in West Virginia in 1910, and he married my grandmother in 1916 just before her 21st birthday. He was 53 years old when they wed, and their first child died soon after birth. My mother was second born. In 1936, and after becoming a successful country store owner and operator, he had built a small frame house where I was born in the front bedroom in 1944. My granddad was 81 years of age at the time of my birth.
In 1947, my mom and dad were recently married, but my dad was staying with his aunt who lived nearby because there was no more room in my grandparent's modest house where my mother and I were living. My dad worked in Detroit most of the time anyway, and I hardly knew him. Also living with my grandparents were my two unwed uncles.
At Christmas, all the adults acted adult by being nonchalant; all but granddad. He kept a gleam in his eye and a smile on his weathered face through all our meager festivities. Where I happened to be, so was he. I think he enjoyed me being an only child, because he could give me his undivided attention. We went into the local fields to cut a Christmas tree, and at three years old I was deemed big enough to tag along with him, my two uncles, and my dad. After crossing numerous barbwire fences, we came into an overgrown pasture where some beautiful cedar trees grew. This is when I learned how to pick that "just right" tree. If it can be found, a shapely, single-trunk tree about 10 ft. to 12 ft. tall that has had the bottom branches rubbed off by cattle is first choice. Cut it just below the lower branches and it is ready for decorating. This time however, there were none available that met the description. Granddad had the boys cut down a large tree that he deemed suitable, and then the actual Christmas tree was cut from its top. It was carefully toted home under mine and granddad's watchful supervision. To this day, I feel it isn't Christmas without the nostalgic scent of red cedar in the air.
Electricity had been installed in the house the previous summer, and my mom had scraped together enough money to buy a couple strings of colorful lights to go along with tinsel, ribbons, and wooden icicles and trinkets from past holidays. Granddad retreated to his rocking chair while the tree was being trimmed, the sly little smile still on his lips. My mom gave me strict instructions to stay away from the finished tree; but of course I did not and managed to turn it over on myself. Just as I was about to get a switch laid to my legs, granddad did a little "Ahem", and his smile had been replaced by a reproving frown. Mom put her hands on her hips and muttered something in his direction, but I didn't get whipped. Again, he was smiling.
On Christmas morning, he was the one to awaken me and scoot me into the living room to see what Santa had brought. His little smile was now spread from one big ear to the other. Again he took to his rocker by the fire, and did the oos and ahs as I ripped open the many packages that a spoiled brat received.
That was my first great Christmas, and even though I had some good ones thereafter, it was the last great one until my own kids and grandkids came along.
----
I wish I had a similar story to tell of my paternal Granddad, but he was killed in a workplace accident many years before I was born. I understand that he too was a good man, and it was only five years ago when I found where he was buried.
----
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL THE GRANDDADS IN THE WORLD!
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