A Tribute to Grandad
When I was just a kid of five or six, I used to spend time with my grand parents in Norman, Oklahoma, and pal around with my Grandfather. He'd grab his banjo (I've still got it!) and we'd walk down to the train station where he'd play and we'd watch the trains come and go amid the calls of conductors urging travellers to board the cars for their destinations. My father was the thirteenth child of Roy and Ida Mae, with Roy moving to Oklahoma as a young man, travelling with his parents in a Conestoga wagon, all the way from somewhere in Missouri.
Times were never easy in Oklahoma those days, but Roy and Ida Mae raised their family and made their life as best they could, losing five of the thirteen children before they ever reached adulthood. Grandad died in 1965 at the age of 90, followed by Ida Mae several years later; she was 88. Anyway, after watching the trains and playing the banjo for a while, several of his old buddies would show up, and they'd all start playing "42," a game played with dominoes. After a hand or two, one of the players would say " I think it's time for ten cents worth", and a flask would appear, as would small silver cups, that were about the size of a very large thimble. The liquid from the flask would be poured into the small cups amidst the hustle, bustle and noise of the train station, a toast would be made to old friends long departed, tales of war or the depression would be told as the elixir worked to loosen the tongues of the group of old men, with me observing this sweet , poignant ritual of the past being remembered by those that lived it, and brought once again into the present, filtered by the passage of time and the life experiences of those old fellows.
After several more hands, and perhaps another train departing, one of the group of men would comment about it being time for "another ten cents worth", and, once again, the flask would appear, the liquid doled out to the small silver cups, toasts made, and then the game continued, the dominoes clicking on the table top in the summer heat. In those moments of my childhood, time stood absolutely still; the clarity of life was brought into sharp focus by the living examples of the past, juxtaposed with the present day context of a train station, and me, representing the hopeful future, taking it all in and knowing at some level, even then, that life is transient and that I should cherish moments like these where a great unity and connection is on display, for all to see and hear if they would only open their hearts and minds. When eventually I would tire of all this, my Grandad would look at me and say: "Now don't you go worrying about your mules going blind, before you get your wagon loaded." And then, a short time later, we'd return home, where my Grandmother would always seem to meet us in the doorway, dishcloth in hand. Being a good Baptist woman of the old school, she didn't really take too well to banjos and whiskey, and she'd admonish Roy, about how banjo playing, dominoes and "devil water" were "going to ruin that child"; "that child", being me!
Needless to say, those days are long gone. I don't think they ruined me, on the contrary. They gave me something that has lasted all my life. To this very day, I try never to ".....worry about my mules going blind before I get my wagons loaded".
Thanks, Grandad!