When I was around nine years old, I was going someplace with Grandpa Al in the city, and we came up to the bus stop just as the bus was passing by.
Grandpa Al and Grandma Amy both treated me like a one year old baby until I was eighteen, so when Grandpa looked at me and asked, "Can you run?" I believe he meant it as a serious question. I took it seriously, of course, and gave him a stern,
"Yes."
And off we ran, after the Muni bus!
We ran one block, just caught up with it as it stopped at a red light, and then the light turned and - darn it-we missed it! But just.
Now, all of my life until I was nine years old, I had known that my grandpa was a runner, but now I saw him running- unteathered. (He would tie a rope around his middle and tie the other end to my bike, and pull me up the hills of San Francisco, but never before had I seen him run free, so to speak.) The most striking thing about his running was the noise. He must have had just pockets and pockets full of change. The noise of the change clanging was just wonderfully deafening! (I recently noticed that Verona, Wisconsin has a street called "Silent Lane". We could never live there.) So we ran and ran, and every time we almost caught the bus, the light would turn green and we would loose it again.
This went on for seven blocks.
Oh, I was gasping for air! And we were creating such a spectacle. We were so quick.
We finally caught up with the bus, really, after seven blocks. (I say seven. I really don't remember. But it was a long ways.)
I boarded the bus with a feeling akin to that of reaching the top of a tall mountain. I had proven to Grandpa that I could run! Gasping for breath. Alvin paid the fare with the buckets of change from his pockets.
We rode for maybe three blocks, then got off of the bus at our destination. I was too young to see the irony, that we had run seven blocks to ride the bus for three. No matter.
I've probably already told this story. So what? It's my blog.*I'll do as I wish.
* I've noticed that I lost two subscribers recently. I'm wondering if they were vegans who couldn't handle my new meat-eating ways. It brought out this weird side of my personality. I now wonder, How many readers can I get rid of? Go ahead! **Unsubscribe! See if I care!
**I mean, please don't unsubscribe. You might hurt my feelings.
Showing posts with label Grandpa Alvin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grandpa Alvin. Show all posts
The Boxer
Grandpa Al, in his heyday.
Man, could that guy eat ice cream. Dryer's Vanilla. He kept it hard as a rock and cut it out of the carton with a butter knife, 2-3 inch giant cylinders, served on a dinner plate. Eaten with a spoon in one hand, a butter knife in the other. He gave me that much, too. Always.
"That's too much ice cream," Grandma would say. "She'll get a tummy ache."
"Oh, Amy."
Man, could that guy eat ice cream. Dryer's Vanilla. He kept it hard as a rock and cut it out of the carton with a butter knife, 2-3 inch giant cylinders, served on a dinner plate. Eaten with a spoon in one hand, a butter knife in the other. He gave me that much, too. Always.
"That's too much ice cream," Grandma would say. "She'll get a tummy ache."
"Oh, Amy."
Other People's Stories, Part 6 of ?: Life and Death in the Migrant Worker Camp
I guess I flubbed some details on the last story, but this one I'm pretty sure of. I've heard it several times. In any case, if I do mess it up, the teller of the story is dead, so I guess he won't be telling me I'm wrong... (It'll make for another interesting blog post if he does, though.)
This is not a funny story.
My Grandpa Alvin was born in 1912, which means he came of age right around 1930. He grew up speaking both Spanish and English in El Paso, Texas. (In English, he always said certain Spanish/ English cognates, like "marijuana", with a Spanish pronunciation. I found it endearing.) Alvin bore a very strong resemblance to Henry Fonda, which always lent this story a very "Grapes of Wrath" vision in my mind. He used to tell the same stories over and over, with no worries about if anyone was actually listening. I was always listening. The story goes like this:
Once, in the 30's, when he really needed work, Alvin joined a group of Mexican migrant workers picking fruit.
He knew somehow that this was a bad idea. He knew that they didn't like outsiders. So, he kept a low profile. He tried not to talk too much, so they wouldn't notice his Texas accent. He only made one sort of friend in the few days he worked with them.
This one friend came to Alvin's tent on the third night he worked, late, and said,
"Some of the group have been talking, and they know you aren't Mexican. Tomorrow, they are planning on killing you."
Grandpa Alvin made a quick and quiet departure from the migrant worker camp.
This is not a funny story.
My Grandpa Alvin was born in 1912, which means he came of age right around 1930. He grew up speaking both Spanish and English in El Paso, Texas. (In English, he always said certain Spanish/ English cognates, like "marijuana", with a Spanish pronunciation. I found it endearing.) Alvin bore a very strong resemblance to Henry Fonda, which always lent this story a very "Grapes of Wrath" vision in my mind. He used to tell the same stories over and over, with no worries about if anyone was actually listening. I was always listening. The story goes like this:
_04.jpg){kind=link}
Once, in the 30's, when he really needed work, Alvin joined a group of Mexican migrant workers picking fruit.
He knew somehow that this was a bad idea. He knew that they didn't like outsiders. So, he kept a low profile. He tried not to talk too much, so they wouldn't notice his Texas accent. He only made one sort of friend in the few days he worked with them.
This one friend came to Alvin's tent on the third night he worked, late, and said,
"Some of the group have been talking, and they know you aren't Mexican. Tomorrow, they are planning on killing you."
Grandpa Alvin made a quick and quiet departure from the migrant worker camp.
The Very Sturdy Trunk
1. Little Z.'s latest endeavor is to draw on all surfaces in the house with sidewalk chalk. She's going through her "Jackson Pollock" stage. It washes off easily, so I'm not worried. My favorite of her drawings are the ones on this old trunk, or "treasure chest" as my husband so delightfully calls it.
2. This old trunk has been in my family a very long time. It was probably my great-grandfather's trunk. Grandpa Alvin used to keep it in the garage in Joshua Tree. Once, after driving for two days from Colorado to visit him, we found him getting up off of the garage floor. The Ford was in a bizarre position. It had rammed the trunk into the wall of the house. The trunk was, essentially, half-way in the dining room. It had poked a hole in the drywall. Grandpa thought he had hit his head or blacked out while driving. Going inside, you could see the trunk in the dining room. Going in the garage, you could see the trunk in the garage, too. It was a little disquieting.
3. The old trunk had no visible wear from this endeavor, and later lived on to become a pallet for a creative 1 and 3/4 year-old.
2. This old trunk has been in my family a very long time. It was probably my great-grandfather's trunk. Grandpa Alvin used to keep it in the garage in Joshua Tree. Once, after driving for two days from Colorado to visit him, we found him getting up off of the garage floor. The Ford was in a bizarre position. It had rammed the trunk into the wall of the house. The trunk was, essentially, half-way in the dining room. It had poked a hole in the drywall. Grandpa thought he had hit his head or blacked out while driving. Going inside, you could see the trunk in the dining room. Going in the garage, you could see the trunk in the garage, too. It was a little disquieting.
3. The old trunk had no visible wear from this endeavor, and later lived on to become a pallet for a creative 1 and 3/4 year-old.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)