I remember my dad telling us stories about his dad as we were growing up.
He once described him as the meanest dad in the world.
“My dad didn’t believe in freedom of expression,” he told us once. As an example, he described his father’s homecoming after the war. My grandpa John got off the train in Sioux City Iowa to be greeted by my grandma Mayme and my dad who was three at the time. Grandpa had been gone so long, Dad didn’t even remember this stranger. In the absence of a father figure, 3-year-old Clayton had been allowed to rule the roost.
Grandpa hadn’t been home very long before my dad launched into his tried and true tactics of authoritarian rule, toddler style. The first time things weren’t going his way, little Clayton started screaming and hollering. Grandma swooped in to accommodate the tyrant toddler before he got into full melt down mode, but Grandpa was having none of that.
He picked up the brat and gave him the first spanking of his young life.
“Don’t you ever try that again!” Grandpa threatened, once he sat the dethroned ruler back on his feet.
Dad never did. Freedom of expression went out the window.
“My dad also didn’t believe in competitive sports,” Dad once said. Case in point, he’d worked long and hard to earn money to buy his first car. Then he put in a lot of sweaty evenings fixing it up and improving the engine’s performance. He took it cruising one day down main street one day in Sioux City and pulled up to a stop light alongside another testosterone loaded teen. The two glanced at each other and a knowing look was shared. Engines were revved and gear shifts were at the ready. The instant the light turned green, both teens peeled out off the starting line and down the street – just as Grandpa John stepped out of the five and dime.
Dad was later than usual getting home that evening, but Grandpa John was still up, sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. He never said a word as my dad walked in. He merely held out his hand. Dad dropped the car keys into Grandpa’s palm and went up to his room.
A week passed before Dad summed up the courage to ask his mom if he could have his keys back.
“Why don’t you ask your father?” she suggested.
One week later, Dad finally approached the man and asked for the keys.
Grandpa took the keys from his pocket, held them out and stared my dad in the eye.
“That will never happen again.” He stated.
He was right. Dad gave up “competitive sports” that day.
“My dad was also against kids being independent,” my father claimed.
It was a few months after the street racing incident that my dad had a disagreement with one of his teachers. The disagreement lead to an argument that lead to detention. Dad stormed home that night, determined that it would be the last time any teacher ever embarrassed him. He had decided to quit school.
Dad told his plans to Grandma. She listened sympathetically, nodding. Once Dad finished, she suggested “why don’t you tell your father?”
Dad went in to have a talk to his old man. Like Grandma, Grandpa John patiently listened as his only child explained why finishing high school just wasn’t in the cards.
Grandpa nodded. “Ok,” he agreed. “That’s fine with me, but the minute you quit high school, everything you own will be on sitting on the porch.”
Dad wanted independence, but not that much of it. He decided to stay in high school and even went on to receive a bachelor’s degree from college. After college he married and moved to California. Within 5 years, he had 4 kids of his own and followed in his dad’s footsteps. He was mean.
Sadly, before I was even a year old, Grandpa John fell through a roof at a construction site and puncture a lung. It was 1965 and advanced surgery was still years away from routine. Three days after the roofing incident, my grandpa died. I have no memories of him, and we have only a small handful of faded photos of the family patriarch.
Fifty years after grandpa’s death, my dad passed away.
I am so grateful to have these two men in my life – the overbearing grandpa who was constantly quenching his child’s attempts at freedom, and his son who passed on his parent’s standards and ethics to his own children. Grandpa’s meanness resulted in all four of his grandkids growing up understanding the value of moral character.
Happy Father’s Day, Grandpa John and Daddy Clay.
And Thanks. You taught us well.
The Reluctant Firefly 