Memories of your grandfather.

[JoAnn L.]

My grandfather passed away about 40 years ago, but I still remember him, and my grandmother.
He made braces for a living, ( the sort that hold your trousers up ) and later had a sweet shop. He was injured quite badly in the First World War, and lost most of the use in his left hand. He was a gentle, emotional man who I was very fond of.
I wonder what he would have made of the internet and the fact that I'm remembering him publicly so long after his death.

I am sure he would be pleased. I hope my grandchildren think of me as fondly as you do your grandfather.

 

[Constance]

I never knew my Grandpa White...he passed when I was a baby. But I certainly heard a lot of stories about him. His ancestors helped settle the west...in fact his own father, who had lost one ear to an arrow, was an Indian Scout who led the wagon trains, and his mother drove the lead wagon. She was responsible for circling the wagons when the Indians attacked.
Grandpa White was hard-working, hard-drinking Scots/Irish farmer, who woo'd a young Amish girl away from her family with his fancy buggy drawn by a team of glass-eyed horses and sweet tunes he'd strum on his mandoline. She was shuned by the church, but her parents didn't turn away from her.
The area in Des Moines where all the saloons were located was known as "White's Hill", because he and his brothers frequented the place so much. It is said that one night, they even took over a streetcar.

My Grandpa Snarr was a very different person...a Daddy Warbucks kind of guy. He had come from the family of a poor fisherman, a German sailer who had jumped ship in Novia Scotia to avoid conscription into the German Army. Nowadays, we call them draft dodgers.
Grandpa worked his way through engineering school, then put his younger brother through. He made his way up in a large company, and became very successsful.
I was the only grandchild until I was 8 years old, and he toted me around like his little princess. I remember once, when I was in the second grade, the big black company Buick pulled up outside my school, and his driver/bodyguard came in "for Mr. Snarr's grandaughter". We drove to the local small plane airport, he loaded me in the company plane and we flew to Chicago. When we arrived, he took me to the top of a big skyscraper to meet his boss (who wasn't near as handsome as my grandpa) and then to the Swiss Chalet, a fancy little restaurant located inside the Palmer House, for dinner.
That was just one of many special things we did together. He lived every day as if it were his last, and always took great joy in his family. It was as if he knew he was going to die young. He died of pancreatic cancer right before my 11th birthday.

 

[Constance]

I never knew my Grandpa White...he passed when I was a baby. But I certainly heard a lot of stories about him. His ancestors helped settle the west...in fact his own father, who had lost one ear to an arrow, was an Indian Scout who led the wagon trains, and his mother drove the lead wagon. She was responsible for circling the wagons when the Indians attacked.
Grandpa White was hard-working, hard-drinking Scots/Irish farmer, who woo'd a young Amish girl away from her family with his fancy buggy drawn by a team of glass-eyed horses and sweet tunes he'd strum on his mandoline. She was shuned by the church, but her parents didn't turn away from her.
The area in Des Moines where all the saloons were located was known as "White's Hill", because he and his brothers frequented the place so much. It is said that one night, they even took over a streetcar.

My Grandpa Snarr was a very different person...a Daddy Warbucks kind of guy. He had come from the family of a poor fisherman, a German sailer who had jumped ship in Novia Scotia to avoid conscription into the German Army. Nowadays, we call them draft dodgers.
Grandpa worked his way through engineering school, then put his younger brother through. He made his way up in a large company, and became very successsful.
I was the only grandchild until I was 8 years old, and he toted me around like his little princess. I remember once, when I was in the second grade, the big black company Buick pulled up outside my school, and his driver/bodyguard came in "for Mr. Snarr's grandaughter". We drove to the local small plane airport, he loaded me in the company plane and we flew to Chicago. When we arrived, he took me to the top of a big skyscraper to meet his boss (who wasn't near as handsome as my grandpa) and then to the Swiss Chalet, a fancy little restaurant located inside the Palmer House, for dinner.
That was just one of many special things we did together. He lived every day as if it were his last, and always took great joy in his family. It was as if he knew he was going to die young. He died of pancreatic cancer right before my 11th birthday.

 

[phinz]

My grandfather smelled like cigarettes and poodles.

 

[Ken]

My grandfather on my mother's side was a jokester.
He had these massive hands and fingers. He would pretend to wipe his nose and then 'flick' his hand ....it would make this 'smack' sound....leading you to believe his booger had hit the wall. Man, I thought that was funny.

He also had all the novelty gag items.....chattering teeth...whoopee cushions....and my favorite...a 'talking toilet' thingy. He'd set it up so that when you sat down on the throne, it would activate a speaker placed inside the tank. You'd here a guy say..."Hey, we're working down here!".

 

[Katie H]

What a delightful thread! I really only knew my maternal grandparents, but I remember my grandfather with great affection. My grandmother was another story and many family members called her “Crying Mary,” which was a reflection of how she responded to nearly any situation. Her tag line was always, “You’ll miss me (sniff, sniff) when I’m gone.”

At any rate, my grandfather and grandmother were almost complete opposites. Papa, as we called him, was full of mischief and had a grand sense of humor. I had the wonderful pleasure to live with my grandparents during my first year of college and I had a ball observing his playful naughtiness. I could always tell when he was up to no good because he’d get a twinkle in his beautiful blue-gray eyes and they would turn up just a bit at the corners. That’s when I buckled on my seatbelt and got ready for a fun ride.

As an example, my grandmother thought she made the best doughnuts in the world. Actually what she did was to make rock-hard dough pucks and usually started a small kitchen fire when she boiled oil over on the stove while frying the doughnuts. She could cook a lot of things, but doughnuts was NOT one of them.

Usually it went like this. Saturday morning she would announce, “I’m going to make doughnuts today.”

To this, my grandfather would roll his eyes and sigh, “Oh, goody!”

On one particular Saturday when the doughnut announcement was made, I looked over at Papa. He grinned at me and winked and said, “Get this.”

“Oh, you’re going to make doughnuts,” he shouts toward the kitchen.
“Yes,” Maga chirps.

Evil grin. “Wonder who’s going to eat them. They’re like little bricks.”

A sniff from the kitchen. No response.

Another evil grin and a wink. “I’d say throw them outside for the birds, but they’d break their beaks trying to peck into them. And, if they did get to eat any, they wouldn’t be able to get off the ground, the doughnuts are so heavy.”

Lot more sniffing from the kitchen. Then, “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.” Sniff. Sniff.

Actually, though, Maga finally realized that Papa was “playing” with her and everything turned out okay. Well, almost okay. We still had to eat the doughnuts.