I believe my granddad Grammer was respected
and liked by the Acton community, but I don’t recall any special friendships he
had. He was better educated than most
Acton men, had a nicer home than many, owned multiple pieces of property and
operated businesses, but I just thought of him as “Papa.”
·
He wore
dentures, as did most older people in those days before introduction of
fluoridated water supplies and caries-retarding toothpaste. His dentures looked good, as I remember, but
must have fit imperfectly, for they "clicked" rhythmically as he ate.
·
He smoked
Prince Albert pipe tobacco, but couldn't have been a heavy smoker, for he
didn't carry tobacco with him when he left home, nor did he smoke inside the
house. He kept his pipe and a can of
tobacco on a ledge at the top of a column at the outer edge of the front porch;
he sat nearby as he smoked. (I could
stand on the porch rail and reach the pipe and tobacco, so I occasionally took
the pipe down and smelled the burnt bowl, but was never tempted to "fire
up.")
·
Having been
raised in northeastern Alabama, practically in the foothills of the
Appalachians, he knew mountain folk songs, and sang them for Twila and me. I've forgotten all except "A Frog He
Would a Courtin' Go" and the chorus of a song about a bulldog and a
bullfrog:
Oh,
the bulldog on the bank,
And
the bullfrog in the pool.
The
bulldog called the bullfrog,
A
green old water fool.
Papa Grammer was a born salesman and trader.
He enjoyed buying and selling, and would have made a great horse and
mule trader. He was a traveling
“drummer” when he met Bess Stribling, my grandmother. He married her, bought a farm and settled on it, but never lost
his love for business; Twila says he had some business school training as a
young man, and was a whiz at mental arithmetic, able to solve algebraic
problems in his head, but unable to explain how he did it.
I have vague memories of one activity of Papa Grammer’s that,
from my current perspective, seems to have been out of character. During at least two of my early childhood
years (and possibly others before my memory banks “kicked in,” he and Mama
Grammer went to Glen Rose (county seat of adjoining Somervell County) during
cotton harvesting time, where he worked at a gin; that was the only time I
remember his working for someone else.
Mother
took Twila and me to Glen Rose at least once to see Mama and Papa Grammer. While we were there, a young boy who had
been badly burned after lighting a match near an open can of gasoline was
brought to the house where my grandparents roomed, so their landlady could
“blow” on his burns to ease his pain.
The occasion, of course, was used as a teaching opportunity by my
elders, who warned Twila and me about the dangers of igniting matches in the
presence of gasoline fumes.
Papa Grammer operated a general store in Acton at least two different
times. His earlier venture(s) occurred
before my time, but I was there in the thirties when he and Virgil opened a
general store in an old rock building at Acton. Ruth and Virgil handled day-to-day operations of the Goforth & Grammer Grocery; Papa
Grammer was the “outside man,” making weekly buying trips to Fort Worth
wholesalers (e.g., groceries from Waples-Platter, produce from Ben E. Keith
Company, and dry goods from Monnig’s Wholesale).
I don’t remember how Papa Grammer traveled
between Acton and Fort Worth during the earliest years of Goforth &
Grammer operations (he must have used his personal auto), but he bought a
1937 Chevrolet pickup when I was ten. I
learned to drive in that pickup, during trips around the community, or to
Granbury, with either my granddad or Virgil.
Because I was small, I sat between my instructor’s spread legs as I
drove, so I could more easily reach the clutch, brake, and accelerator
pedals. (I’m sure they felt safer with
that arrangement, for it left them in position to take emergency action if I
should get into trouble; I don’t remember any emergencies, but their caution
was undoubtedly warranted.)
My
earliest attempt at driving, even before the pickup
was acquired, had been unsuccessful; late one afternoon when my dad and I were
about ready to return home from the Ward place, he asked me to bring our Model
A from across the field, thereby saving him the walk to the car. I had never driven, but I thought I knew how
(I had watched adult drivers closely and knew every move), so I ran to comply
with his request. I got in, depressed
the clutch pedal, switched on the ignition, started the engine, shifted the
transmission into low gear, then engaged the clutch; the car jerked forward and
stopped, the engine dead. I stalled the
engine several more times, so my dad came to help me. He told me I had engaged the clutch too suddenly, that I should
release the pedal slowly. I hadn’t
watched the adults closely enough to learn the subtleties of proper clutch
operation. I mastered those subtleties
in the pickup. (I learned to drive
before I learned to ride a bicycle; bike riding was delayed until I was past
eleven, after we left Acton.)
That 1937 Chevrolet pickup in which I learned to drive was one of a
succession of vehicles Papa Grammer owned; as I have said, he was a
trader. For years he had been partial
to Dodges; I vaguely remember a big old Dodge touring car with isinglass
windows. The first of his vehicles I
recall clearly was a 1933 Chevrolet coupe with a rumble seat; I liked riding there on
summer evenings (air movement was cooling).
Rumble seats inspired at least one western swing song of the day:
Give me a
date and Ford V-8/And a rumble seat for two,
And let me
Wahoo! Wahoo! Wahoo!
Give me a ranch,
a great big ranch /And give me a Stetson too,
And let me
Wahoo! Wahoo! Wahoo!
- and a
little poem by a punster -
I took my auntie riding
In the
cold and icy breeze;
I put her
in the rumble seat,
And
watched my auntie freeze.
His Chevy coupe had two highly advertised features – knee-action front
suspension and free-wheeling. I don’t know how knee-action suspension
worked, so its mechanical features may have been preserved, but the descriptive
term soon died. Free-wheeling improved
gasoline mileage, but provided no engine braking, so was discontinued –
“free-wheeling,” however, became a permanent part of our language.
[After
draining the oil from his Chevy’s engine one afternoon, Papa Grammer said he needed
to go to Granbury, and invited me to go with him. Less than a mile from home he snapped his fingers (a typical
gesture when something he’d forgotten suddenly came to mind) and said, “I
forgot to put new oil in the engine.”
We turned around, went back to the house, he put oil in, and we started
out again; fortunately, no problems developed, so his forgetfulness must have
been harmless.]
His 1933 Chevrolet was followed by the 1937
pickup, which served for a time as both personal and business transportation. Next came a Nash sedan, followed by his
final personal vehicle, a new 1940 Chevrolet sedan.
[My
mother acquired the Chevy sedan following the deaths of her parents (in effect,
buying it from their estates), drove it for a couple of years, then sold it to
me in 1948 when I needed a vehicle in my work; I kept it until 1953.]
◊◊◊
Papa Grammer wasn’t in good health the last several years of his
life. Illnesses took their toll, and
ultimately his life in 1942, at age sixty-six.
·
A bout with pneumonia
lasted for months, requiring several stays in a Fort Worth hospital.
·
Another
illness involved his gall bladder, which was ultimately removed. At one point during that illness, Doctor
Dabney (a Granbury physician) came to my grandparents' house and expanded the
drain opening to the abscessed gall bladder - without the use of an
anesthetic. [Twila thinks Papa Grammer
was given a long swig of whiskey (the doctor must have brought the whiskey with
him, for I never saw alcoholic beverages in the houses of my parents or either
set of grandparents).] I was in an
adjoining room reading the comic page while the doctor enlarged the drain
opening, and could hear my granddad's moans; I don't know why I didn't move out
of earshot.
·
His death in
1942 followed a long period of recurring abdominal pains of an undetermined
cause - until surgery revealed varicose veins in his stomach; I don't pretend
to understand how they caused his death.
The
“varicose veins” terminology was new to me and all with whom I was acquainted. Mrs. Ardis Brooks, who worked for Goforth
& Grammer, spoke of the condition as “very close veins;” I didn’t know
enough about the matter to correct her, and wouldn’t have done so if I had, for
she was an adult, and kids didn’t correct their elders.
Although our family had moved from Acton
about five years before Papa Grammer’s death, we were in Hood County much of
the summer of 1942, so were with him much of his last few months of life. He died in Fort Worth’s All-Saints Hospital;
his funeral was held under the Acton tabernacle, on a warm August afternoon, and he was
buried in Acton cemetery.
Mama Grammer was the most outgoing of my four grandparents, thus was more involved
in things away from home (e.g., visiting community friends or participating in
ladies’ groups such as the Extension Club).
She hosted quiltings, where ten or twelve women would join her.
She sang in the church choir;
the alto section, of which she was a part, could always be heard loudly and
clearly. My lifelong love of gospel
music began with hearing that church choir and the singing of revival choirs
under the Acton tabernacle.
◊◊◊
Mama Grammer was a worker, walking with short, quick steps as she moved
about her tasks. My dad could always
make Twila and me laugh by “walking” his fingers across our kitchen table in
imitation of her perambulations.
She wasn’t a perpetual motion machine, for she usually napped a while
each afternoon, but managing her farm home included (in addition to inside
tasks) milking the cow twice daily and working a sizable vegetable garden. Late summer afternoons often found her, hoe
in hand, scraping weeds and other unwanted growth from her yard, which was kept
bare except for flower beds or climbing vines (e.g., honeysuckle). (Papa Grammer didn’t permit bermuda grass in
the yard; he said he didn’t want it spreading into the orchards and fields.)
◊◊◊
Mama Grammer was a good cook, and food was always at hand when I
desired a between-meals snack:
·
Cakes, cookies, biscuits, cornbread, or pies could be found
in her “safe.”
·
Cold, fresh milk (from her icebox) was available for
washing snacks down, or for creating liquid treats. On hot summer days I liked to spoon Ovaltine (or Cocomalt) into a
Little Orphan Annie metal shaker, add milk and chipped ice, shake, and enjoy.
·
I loved her homemade salt rising bread.
The meal I best remember (and most enjoyed) from my younger days around
her house (but from my teen years, after our family no longer lived on the
farm) was relatively simple, consisting of fried home-cured ham, fresh
black-eyed peas, a tossed salad made from garden-fresh vegetables, and
cornbread, with all the iced tea I could drink; I was totally satisfied.
◊◊◊
Mama Grammer’s way of answering when called was unique, something like
a soft “Whoo?” with the “wh” sounded as in “who,” and the “oo” as in “took.”
Her way of
answering her final earthly “call” in December, 1945 wasn’t unique, but also
wasn’t common. She died in her sleep,
at age 66, at my aunt Ruth’s home. Her
death occurred while I was in the Navy, stationed at Corpus Christi; I was
called out of class by a representative from the chaplain’s office, was
informed of her death, and given weekend leave to attend the funeral, but
didn’t get there in time. (I discuss
that weekend in more depth in the “ADVANCED ELECTRONICS TRAINING” portion of
the segment entitled “MILITARY SERVICE.”) She was buried in Acton cemetery.