GRAMPA WORE A VEST

I can't leave a story about Grampa out of my vignettes.  The chickens have been fed, the wild birds' feeders replenished, dog fed, prayers said, breakfast eaten - time to sit down and do this before the rest of the busy day interrupts.

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                                                  GRAMPA WORE A VEST

     Grampa's ancestors arrived in England with William the Conqueror. I'm not sure when his family landed in America, but Grampa was born on a Kansas farm in 1877. There was an older brother, a younger brother and a sister when his parents died of some common ailment in those unforgiving times. The older, married brother passed away soon after. His widow was a good soul, but not particularly capable. She wanted to keep the family together but had no marketable skills. Grampa quit school in the sixth  grade to work and support them all. His lack of education was no deterrent. The sixth grade in those days was equivalent to high school today. He read and ciphered better than most and had a quiet self-assurance. He was only twelve and worked for a town merchant until  he was older, then became a bartender.

     His career was interrupted by the Spanish-American War. He never made it to Cuba. His outfit was getting ready to embark when the war ended.  He and Gramma had planned to marry after the war. He hadn't been home a week when he showed up at Gramma's house in Nevada, Missouri, marriage license in hand and minister right behind him. Gramma was never sure they were actually married. She was in such a state of shock and surprise that, as she told it, she laughed through the whole ceremony and doesn't remember if she even said, "I do."

     Grampa worked, saved and bought a saloon in partnership with a friend. They operated it until prohibition. My grandparents left their home for California when my mother was about eight years old. Grampa soon found work at a cafe in downtown Los Angeles. He became night bar manager after prohibition and remained at the Liberty Buffet - pronounced buffet, not boo-fay, for twenty-eight years until he passed away.

     Memories of Grampa come in little snippets. He was handsome, an older Randoph Scott, I thought. I never saw him shave. He visited the neighborhood barbershop for that luxury every other day, and a haircut every three weeks. He always smelled of talcum and Bay Rum. Working behind the bar he wore a starched white shirt, black trousers, black bow tie, black garters above the elbows on his sleeves, a spiffy, satin-lined vest and a white apron tied around his waist.

     Sawdust covered the floor of the Liberty. Peanuts and a plate of small sandwiches were always at one end of the long, mahogany bar. An upright piano graced a small platform in the corner. Two ladies entertained in the evening. One played the piano, the other played a violin. Both sang. It was the Depression and they worked for tips. This was a genteel establishment.

     During a streetcar strike, Gramma and I drove downtown to bring Grampa home after his evening shift. I was in the third grade and had been taking piano lessons for about two years. Grampa asked me to perform. I played a schottische called, "Flowers of the Forest." I remember the piece because the customers applauded my first public exhibition. Proudly leading me behind the bar, he held me up and let me draw beer from the tap for one of the regulars (try that today!). What a thrill! My grandfather was conscientious and compassionate. He knew who could afford drinks and who couldn't. According to Gramma he would turn away the less fortunate and those who were drinking too much. He gently admonished them to go home, sometimes slipping a dollar into their pockets as he led them out the door.

     Grampa carried himself proudly. For a simple country boy, he possessed an aristocratic air. His back was ramrod straight. He made me walk, chin up, shoulders back, the same way. Thinking about him recently I realized that he always wore that white shirt, even on his days off. He might roll up the sleeves and forgo the bow tie, but even for a stroll down to the corner store he put on his vest, buttoned it, and anchored his Elks tooth, dangling from a chain, to a pocket. His head was never bare outside. A jaunty black fedora covered his thinning white hair.

     I don't remember many of Grampa's words. He was the exact opposite of my grandmother, whose voice I hear to this day. He was just a quiet, loving presence. Gramma's quick temper might erupt and epithets fill the air. Calmly, Grampa would put on his vest and hat, take his cane, which concealed a break-down pool cue, and leave the house. In an hour or so the front door would open a crack and his hat would appear, wobbling on the end of the cane. Gramma would laugh and that was that.

     A letter from England arrived one day. Grampa's lineage had been traced. Estate spokesmen offered a family manor for back taxes. He replied, asking if it had indoor plumbing and electricity. Their answer was no. So was his.

9/15/11