A Clear and Present Danger to the People and Pets of America...or Grandpa
Looking back on my life, after talking with friends recently, I’ve come to realize that my childhood was weird. Not weird in the sense that I was molested by a drunk uncle, or so poor, that dirt was the “meat” in our stew, no, more in the Grandfather-almost-setting-each-family-member-on-fire-at-least-once brand of weird. I grew up in this tiny town in the Adirondacks to a father who spent his childhood as the son of an Olympic Bobsledder and a Mother who had eight brothers and sisters. I think it’s safe to assume that, from the get-go, things were bound to be screwy for my sister and I. The Bobsled Grandpa had died when I was very young, so the memories I have of him come from embellished stories and newspaper clippings. My mother’s father, Grandpa Ross, was the one I grew up with and lived all the weirdness in real time.
Now okay, I know that you’re thinking that no one has a normal childhood, that everyone has had something weird happen to him or her as a kid. And I’ll give you that. There are plenty of idiots out there having children, so there’s bound to be stories saved for therapists, family interventions and humor sites. I just seem to have these stories about childhood that end conversations and some times entire parties all together. Someone will tell a funny quip about his/her Grandmother dropping the bread dough on the floor and still serving it for dinner. I’ll take a shot at relating by reciting the time my grandfather blew up the entire East side of the house by washing his clothes in gasoline because they had motor oil on them. Not kidding. Cue the gaping mouths and desperately awkward attempts at a change of subject.
My Grandfather was what nice people called “a character”. Not so nice folks would call him “touched” with downright mean people calling him “a certifiably insane man that represented a Clear and Present Danger to the people and pets of the United States”. I personally preferred “Grandpa”. That’s what he was to me then and is still to me today. I suppose I sorta knew the things he did when I was young were outside the box. Even a nine year old can ignore the stares and eye rolls from relatives for only so long. Not knowing any different, I just shrugged it off as normal old people stuff. All old people stuff was weird and why should my Grandpa be any different?
That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.
Because my parents worked after my sister and I got home from school, we’d spend a good bit of the afternoon and evening at Grandpa and Grandma’s. We got pretty good at learning the ropes of the house. Ropes like, exposed wires were not pleasant to the touch, porches without railings were no good for the dog and plywood floors meant splinters to bare-footed 9 year old whimsy– Again, all things that seemed acceptable behavior in my family’s universe. There were things that I thoroughly enjoyed, like my Grandmother purposely talking in a soft voice, knowing full well that my Grandfather couldn’t hear. Of course, his retort was always that he could hear perfectly fine. “Your Grandmother mumbles.” He would yelp. “Probably from talking to all her boyfriends on the telephone.” Grandma had boyfriends? Who knew? My Grandpa was gruff, stubborn and quite often mean to Grandma. She was an absolute Saint when it came to dealing with his tirades and would more than once twist his stubborn and hot-headedness to her favor.
One of my favorite incidents was during the evening television sessions. After two mind-numbing hours of Bonanza, Big Valley and the Rifleman, it was time for the real show–Wheel of Fortune. Besides being peppered with the usual Grandpa catcalls and whistles to Vannah White and the pontificating of what to purchase along side the winning contestant, there was the uncanny puzzle-solving ability of my Grandmother. It started with a correct guess coming with 7 or 8 letters up, but soon became superhuman feats of 1 or 2 letters. Of course, we were all amazed and quite puzzled how she did this. Grandpa went one step further and turned his utter amazement into greed. “I’m putting your Mother on that show” He would say. He always called Grandma our Mother. I guess he lost track after the original nine kids and figured that any children in the house must be his, unless otherwise noted. I was usually Terry or Brian. Very seldom did he call me Corey and on the off chance he did, it was usually after his 5 o’clock glass of red wine. So, each night became a fever pitch to the 7:30 show time of Wheel of Fortune. This went on for like a year. Grandma was flawless in her puzzle solving ability, Grandpa was allocating his future riches and I was bragging to friends and strangers about Brainiac Grandma. One afternoon, I asked my Grandmother, straight up, how she did it. “Do What?” She asked, while busily preparing dinner. “Do What? DO WHAT? Grandma!” I said, “You’re a genius. You can solve any Wheel of Fortune puzzle!” Which now, as I look at it typed out, is a very sad foundation for genius status. Nonetheless, I had asked. She stood there for a second, looking completely confused that she had no clue what I was referring to. Then she lit up and said, with little fan fair or concern, “Oh, I watch the show at 11am, while your Grandfather’s at work. They replay the earlier show at 7:30pm.” That’s it? All the magic, all the immortality a cheap trick, a huge lie! I was devastated. I was broken. I was mad. She went on about her business like it was nothing. I sat there, watching my now mentally questionable Grandmother chop carrots with a slight smile and quivering whistle.
A half hour or so passed and I began to run over the whole scam in my head. I thought about Grandpa. Here was a man who verbally abused his wife in front of family and friends, took her on construction jobs and made her mix cement and she never showed a crack. Never a complaint, eye roll or argument from her. The more I mulled over these recent events, the more I realized what a comedic genius my Grandmother was. She new exactly how to set them up and knock them down. She had that gruff man completely in the palm of her passive hand and he had absolutely no idea he was being played. I watched her continue to cook and I smiled. “Nice” I said. Grandma turned to me and asked, “What’s nice, dear?” “Nothing” I said. She turned away with a smug little grin like she knew exactly what I meant, but would never admit it.
And that’s just one little story of the weirdness my childhood entailed. Maybe next week I’ll tell you about the time my grandfather made me stilts because I was jealous all the neighborhood kids had some and I didn’t.
Yes, I said stilts.
Now okay, I know that you’re thinking that no one has a normal childhood, that everyone has had something weird happen to him or her as a kid. And I’ll give you that. There are plenty of idiots out there having children, so there’s bound to be stories saved for therapists, family interventions and humor sites. I just seem to have these stories about childhood that end conversations and some times entire parties all together. Someone will tell a funny quip about his/her Grandmother dropping the bread dough on the floor and still serving it for dinner. I’ll take a shot at relating by reciting the time my grandfather blew up the entire East side of the house by washing his clothes in gasoline because they had motor oil on them. Not kidding. Cue the gaping mouths and desperately awkward attempts at a change of subject.
My Grandfather was what nice people called “a character”. Not so nice folks would call him “touched” with downright mean people calling him “a certifiably insane man that represented a Clear and Present Danger to the people and pets of the United States”. I personally preferred “Grandpa”. That’s what he was to me then and is still to me today. I suppose I sorta knew the things he did when I was young were outside the box. Even a nine year old can ignore the stares and eye rolls from relatives for only so long. Not knowing any different, I just shrugged it off as normal old people stuff. All old people stuff was weird and why should my Grandpa be any different?
That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.
Because my parents worked after my sister and I got home from school, we’d spend a good bit of the afternoon and evening at Grandpa and Grandma’s. We got pretty good at learning the ropes of the house. Ropes like, exposed wires were not pleasant to the touch, porches without railings were no good for the dog and plywood floors meant splinters to bare-footed 9 year old whimsy– Again, all things that seemed acceptable behavior in my family’s universe. There were things that I thoroughly enjoyed, like my Grandmother purposely talking in a soft voice, knowing full well that my Grandfather couldn’t hear. Of course, his retort was always that he could hear perfectly fine. “Your Grandmother mumbles.” He would yelp. “Probably from talking to all her boyfriends on the telephone.” Grandma had boyfriends? Who knew? My Grandpa was gruff, stubborn and quite often mean to Grandma. She was an absolute Saint when it came to dealing with his tirades and would more than once twist his stubborn and hot-headedness to her favor.
One of my favorite incidents was during the evening television sessions. After two mind-numbing hours of Bonanza, Big Valley and the Rifleman, it was time for the real show–Wheel of Fortune. Besides being peppered with the usual Grandpa catcalls and whistles to Vannah White and the pontificating of what to purchase along side the winning contestant, there was the uncanny puzzle-solving ability of my Grandmother. It started with a correct guess coming with 7 or 8 letters up, but soon became superhuman feats of 1 or 2 letters. Of course, we were all amazed and quite puzzled how she did this. Grandpa went one step further and turned his utter amazement into greed. “I’m putting your Mother on that show” He would say. He always called Grandma our Mother. I guess he lost track after the original nine kids and figured that any children in the house must be his, unless otherwise noted. I was usually Terry or Brian. Very seldom did he call me Corey and on the off chance he did, it was usually after his 5 o’clock glass of red wine. So, each night became a fever pitch to the 7:30 show time of Wheel of Fortune. This went on for like a year. Grandma was flawless in her puzzle solving ability, Grandpa was allocating his future riches and I was bragging to friends and strangers about Brainiac Grandma. One afternoon, I asked my Grandmother, straight up, how she did it. “Do What?” She asked, while busily preparing dinner. “Do What? DO WHAT? Grandma!” I said, “You’re a genius. You can solve any Wheel of Fortune puzzle!” Which now, as I look at it typed out, is a very sad foundation for genius status. Nonetheless, I had asked. She stood there for a second, looking completely confused that she had no clue what I was referring to. Then she lit up and said, with little fan fair or concern, “Oh, I watch the show at 11am, while your Grandfather’s at work. They replay the earlier show at 7:30pm.” That’s it? All the magic, all the immortality a cheap trick, a huge lie! I was devastated. I was broken. I was mad. She went on about her business like it was nothing. I sat there, watching my now mentally questionable Grandmother chop carrots with a slight smile and quivering whistle.
A half hour or so passed and I began to run over the whole scam in my head. I thought about Grandpa. Here was a man who verbally abused his wife in front of family and friends, took her on construction jobs and made her mix cement and she never showed a crack. Never a complaint, eye roll or argument from her. The more I mulled over these recent events, the more I realized what a comedic genius my Grandmother was. She new exactly how to set them up and knock them down. She had that gruff man completely in the palm of her passive hand and he had absolutely no idea he was being played. I watched her continue to cook and I smiled. “Nice” I said. Grandma turned to me and asked, “What’s nice, dear?” “Nothing” I said. She turned away with a smug little grin like she knew exactly what I meant, but would never admit it.
And that’s just one little story of the weirdness my childhood entailed. Maybe next week I’ll tell you about the time my grandfather made me stilts because I was jealous all the neighborhood kids had some and I didn’t.
Yes, I said stilts.
