Grandpa, 1917-2006

It wasn't easy to find prosperity in northwest Texas in the late 1930s. It wasn't easy anywhere, really, as the Depression still had most of the world in its firm grip. Those of us who grew up in the world those people fought to build will, hopefully, never fully understand.

It was in this environment where a 21-year-old man with a bit of a reputation for trouble married a sweet young redhead, and, with very little in the way of raw material with which to work, began building a family.

The sweet young redhead who grew up to be my grandmother went on to the next place two years ago. Wednesday, my grandfather joined her.

The first few of his 89 years were pretty hardscrabble. I don't know a lot of the details of his childhood, but he once shared with me some stories of his teenage years. They made mine look pretty tame and boring by comparison. Tales of freight-train rides, of dodging the law (sometimes not so successfully) in Bonnie-and-Clyde era Texas, of never turning down an opportunity for a fight.

He took his attitude to the Navy just in time to wind up on a ship in the Pacific during World War II. He told me about getting in trouble for fighting and gambling. He was able to channel the former into a bit of an amateur boxing career while he was on the ship. My grandfather was not at all a big man, but what he lacked in size was apparently made up for in scrappiness.

He was father to three boys when the hostilities began in earnest in 1942. One more came along during the war, and one more was born a little more than a year after V-J Day. The oldest died in 1943. My dad was the second of a set of twins born in 1950, bringing the child count back to six when the decision was made to leave Texas.

At the end of the road was Springfield, Mo., home to Baptist Bible College and a newly opened paper cup factory. Grandpa spent his time studying at the former and working at the latter. He put in nearly 30 years at the paper cup factory, while learning the Bible and spending some of his free time as a preacher. It was never easy; two more children, both girls, came along during the 1950s, but the house didn't grow at all; still four rooms, still dirt floors, still outdoor plumbing on the unpaved Kansas Avenue. The poverty didn't really let up until the kids began leaving home.

He had mellowed quite a bit by the time I was old enough to hear his stories. I'd sit in the tiny living room on Thelma Avenue while he sat in his chair facing the TV and Grandma sat on the couch, shaking her head every once in a while at some tale he was spinning. I do suspect that the basis was in truth, but that details might have been altered a bit for entertainment value or might have, um, changed a bit with time. I was OK with that. I loved the stories, loved to hear of the fighting spirit and sheer willfulness that was at the root of my genetics.

He believed every word he said, certainly. He wasn't somebody with whom you were always going to agree. He didn't hold that against you, but you also weren't going to change his mind on most things. You might be right, but you certainly weren't going to prove him wrong.

Even in the last few years, he enjoyed a good debate, and he could battle as well with words in his 80s as he could with his fists in his 20s.

The spirit was silenced two years ago, when Grandma went on. The body, which has a tendency to keep running on sheer willfulness even after the spirit is gone, finally and mercifully gave up today. He's earned his rest.

A better obit can be read here. As for me, well, I continue the fight, in my own way. But I know from where the spirit is seeded.