Louisiana Voice

It’s a strange feeling to look up one day and realize that you’re no longer the young, carefree guy whose main interests in life were cars, girls, and sports, that you’ve become not just your dad, but your granddad.

As many of you know by now, I was raised by my paternal grandparents. We didn’t have much, but three things that were never lacking were food, shelter, and love. Abandoned by my mother when I was 18 months old, I was rescued by these wonderful people. While because of their own limited educations, they were unable to contribute much in the way of help with homework, they were able to instill a few values that have proven to be far superior to a formal education.

I have never known a man who could work harder than my grandfather, whether it was growing vegetables which me managed to give away to friends rather than sell or the backbreaking work of concrete finishing.

If you’ve never tried your hand at concrete finishing, you cannot begin to appreciate the hard labor involved. I’ve seen my granddad construct concrete walls, driveways and other structures that still exist in Ruston. I, on the other hand, once dug out, formed up, poured and finished a simple sidewalk about 20 feet in length and I thought it was going to kill me.

He was also a pretty fair butcher. Every fall, he’d butcher hogs and make some of the best damn sausage you ever tasted. He had no license to do so and today, the health department would probably shut him down. Back then, his customers included the mayor and the chief of police.

A teetotaler, he nevertheless found it necessary to do a little bootlegging during the Great Depression in order to support his family. But if he thought a man couldn’t afford the booze and was depriving his family, he wouldn’t sell to him. Once, he was brought before a city judge in Ruston and fined $10 for his bootlegging activities. Stubborn as always, he refused to pay the fine. The judge paid the fine out of his own pocket.

He was stubborn and he bootlegged, but he also had a side that few ever saw. Once, when I was a kid, I was riding with him in downtown Ruston. He spotted a black couple pushing a child in a wheelchair across the street. He abruptly stopped, got out of his truck, walked across the street and handed the child $5 that I know he couldn’t afford. This was the fifties, after all, and five dollars wasn’t chump change. He didn’t see a black child or a white child – he saw a little girl in a wheelchair. He never said a word as he got back into the truck.

He also never said a word another time but he taught me a lesson that has stayed with me. He had purchased a candy bar for me and as we rode down the street, I tore the wrapper off, and tossed it out the window. I felt a pop on the back of my head and I saw Jesus waving me to the light. Like I said, he never uttered a word. But to this day, I will not throw so much as a gum wrapper out of my vehicle nor will I allow any passenger in my vehicle to do so.

I’ve not mentioned my dad much and there’s a reason for that which I won’t go into. But he was a pretty fair boxer, I’m told. Once, while he was still in high school, a carnival came to town. One of the attractions was a boxer and the promoters were offering $100 to anyone who could stay with him three rounds.

My dad decided it was worth a shot for $100, so he paid the fee and entered. He knocked out the carnival boxer in the first round and the promoter refused payment because he didn’t stay three rounds. My dad went home and got my granddad, a man not to be trifled with. They returned to the carnival and got the hundred bucks.

Once, during my own high school days, there was a girl whose family was even poorer than mine. She was quiet and shy and I walked into study hall as several boys were playing keep-away with her purse. As I entered the room, they assumed (incorrectly) that I wanted to play their game, so they passed the purse to me. I walked over and gave it to her. I took a lot of grief from those guys for that but my little gesture meant something to her. The school football coach, L.J. “Hoss” Garrett, called my granddad and told him about the incident. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.

He lost a leg to diabetes at age 75 and died a year later, in 1971. My dad died in 1993.

I’m 78 and when I look in the mirror today, I see an out-of-shape old man with sagging skin, gray hair, failing eyesight and hearing, no muscle tone, and no physical stamina. I am forced to sit and rest after any simple, strenuous exercise as time has robbed me of what little strength and endurance I once had.

Where my granddad worked full-bore right up until the doctors took his leg, my contribution consisted of performing paperwork such as billing for concrete work for him. I now find I have to call on my sons-in-law and my grandsons to perform tasks that I should be able to do for myself while I am reduced to pecking away at a keyboard.

I suppose it’s called the life cycle. Someday, my grandchildren will be looking at their own grandchildren in the same manner while wondering, as I do, why we are robbed of our physical and mental skills as we age.

It is now my cherished dream that they can one day look back on their relationships with me with the same affection and fond memories as I now reflect in a like manner on my relationship with my own grandfather.