Eighteen

Here's another story about my Grandpa, one my mother told me. Her school class was going on a picnic and parents needed to sign a permission slip. She asked her dad if she could go and "of course" he said no. She went anyway, and probably would have gotten away with it, but somehow she burned her hand. She had to hide it, and it got infected, and of course she got punished. Not like today when you ground a kid. He used a belt.

When it came time to go to high school, the three sisters had to go live in town with their grandmother, because it was too far to do a daily commute from the farm to the high school in the horse and buggy. Every Saturday he would come pick them up for the weekend at the farm, and they would all be homesick "to see Mother". Sometimes he came; sometimes he didn't. No telephones, so they never knew which weekend the weather would be too bad, or he would be busy with some chore. They would stand in front of their grandmother's house, waiting and waiting, and I understand got disappointed pretty often. I wondered why he wouldn't want extra hands at the farm for work there, but then I realized most of the work, garden, canning, butchering, etc., was done in the summer when they were home. During the school year it was just a long boring trip in the wagon.

I only saw him mad a time or two, when we were there on vacation, and I remember he could cuss up a storm. I didn't even know what the words meant, but Mom would herd us kids away til he cooled off. He had a big hearty laugh, and a wonderful singing voice in church. It was only recently I found out he abused the girls. I though it was only me.

Bumper sticker for today: "If you're born again, do you have two belly buttons?"