TELL ME A STORY, GRANDPA

When my kids were little, they always used to want to hear stories about the "olden days" - you know - when I was a kid. Well, that's about the time that I would break out the old standby's:'

"When I was a kid, we had it rough! Yup! We used to have to walk to school through 10 feet of snow, uphill..... both ways!!. You kids think you got it tough? You don't know nothin'".... Blah, Blah, Blah , Blah, Blah!

Seriously, they used to like to hear about what kinds of things I did, and where I lived - the farmhouse with no indoor plumbing for a while, trips to the outhouse when it was 30 degrees below zero. Getting trampled by a bull calf, stepping on a rusty nail, learning to swim in a muddy pond. Going on trips with my parents to the Grand Canyon, Lewis and Clark Caverns, Disneyland. Meeting Grammy. The list goes on..

A few weeks ago, I blogged a bedtime story for Laylee, Magoo and the Bean. It got me thinking about telling them stories and how when they get older, how neat it would be to have them say, "Tell me a story, Papa."

When I was young, we lived close (a couple of blocks) from my Mom's Dad. I used to go over and visit on a regular basis and Grandpa would tell stories. I remember one about a girl he used to know. He said "She weren't much for pretty, but she were hell for smart!" I thought, "Grampa said "hell"!, hee, hee, hee!" He used to call me up and ask me to come over and listen to his latest Bill Cosby album, you know, the one with the story of Noah and the Ark. We'd be in the living room listening to it and Grandma would be in the kitchen slamming pots and pans around saying, "I don't know how you can listen to that Sacrelig!!" But me and Grandpa laughed and laughed! I really miss him.

But this blog isn't just about him. It's more about this guy:



This is my Dad's Dad. He's in his World War I uniform. He was killed at Vimy Ridge in France in WW I when my Dad was only 4 years old. Dad was only 2 1/2 years old when Grandpa went away to war, so my Dad never got to hear stories about when his Dad was little, and I never got to hear stories from this Grandpa either.

From things we've been able to piece together over the years, we know that he must have lived an interesting life. His Mom died when he was young. He went to live with his Grandparents, but for whatever reason, left their home when he was about 14, lived in California for a while, spent some time in South America, where he "came in possesion of a large ruby". Paid his passage to South America by signing on as a hand on the ship. Worked as a dynamite blaster on road construction crews in Idaho, where he met my Grandma (who also died before I was born). Immigrated to Canada, homesteaded in the Canadian Rockies. Joined the army and fought as a sniper in the Battle of Vimy Ridge where he was killed by a German sniper.

I never knew him, but I miss him terribly as well. There are so many things I want to know about him: Why did he leave home? Why did he change his name? Why did he go to South America? How did he "come in possesion of a large ruby"? Why did he move to Canada and never contact his family again after a single letter written to them when he was about 21 years old? Why did he go to war? Why didn't he keep his head down? Again, the list goes on......

Someday, I'll meet him. And when I do, I'll say, "Sit down, we've got some catching up to do. "

"Tell me a story, Grandpa. Let me find out who you really are."