My Grandfather
Sep. 23rd, 2004 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladynox25
Last Saturday, my grandfather passed away. Last Tuesday, we buried him. Since then, I’ve been trying to come to terms with his passing, and to articulate what it is I’ve been feeling. I have to wonder if maybe it’s because my grandfather was such a private man—his business was his business and you didn’t discuss his business, but I have a hard time trying to put it into words.
But something in me is driving me to put it down anyway. His life was both remarkable and yet unremarkable. No newspaper outside of the local ones carried his obituary. No news crew did a special on him. It wasn’t broadcast on ABC, CBS, or NBC. It wasn’t carried on CNN . And yet, he is remembered and ought to be remembered because he touched so many lives, just because he existed. And so, with difficulty, I am trying to remember him so that you can remember him. I apologize in advance, because I certainly am not able to do him justice.
His name was Francis Sylvester H-. He was born in Wisconsin and grew from a boy to a young man there. He started working at a very young age. He worked for the railroad and on farms. He worked with the CCC, building camps. He played baseball and even had a two week trial period with the Milwaukee Brewers. He met my grandmother there in Wisconsin, too. When he brought her home to meet his mother, my grandmother was all of 14 years old but his mother told him: “That’s the girl you are going to marry.” And he remembered that.
When the Depression came and my grandmother’s family’s farm failed, she and her family moved down to East Texas to start anew. My grandfather stayed behind, working at whatever he could in Wisconsin, but finally he decided to follow her. He rode the rails along with all the other hoboes of the time period, and he followed my grandmother all the way to East Texas. Down here, he worked for the railroads again, played baseball again, worked at whatever he could do. And he courted my grandmother.
He courted her for 4 years before she finally married him. The day of their wedding, the car with my grandmother and her party in it got trapped on one of these narrow dirt county roads behind a school bus. They were so late that by the time they got to the church, everyone had gone home except for two women who were cleaning the church and the priest. They got back in the car and drove to my grandfather’s house. They passed him on the road going there and stopped. They say that he looked so very dejected because he was sure my grandmother had stood him up. When they stopped, he jumped in the car and took my grandmother’s hand and they drove back to the church. He walked her down the aisle and married her, with the two cleaning women as witnesses. They say he didn’t once let go of her hand until they were married—he wasn’t going to risk losing her twice!
My grandparents lived at first in Jefferson in a converted caboose—perhaps the orginal trailer home. Then they moved to a 3 room house in Hughes Springs and my grandfather added two more rooms as his family grew. Eventually, he bought land on the outskirts of town—100 acres and started to raise pine trees for lumber, hay, and whatever else he could grow, all the while still working for the various railroad companies in the area. He built a new house on the farm by hand. He and my grandmother raised a total of 10 kids in that house. My mother was their second child, and eldest daughter.
Life was hard for them. Even if the Depression was over, WWII was still in full swing. Even in the post-War boom, when the local iron mill was running full tilt, a farm on the outskirts of a little town in the middle of nowhere in East Texas was still a difficult proposition, especially when you’re trying to raise 10 kids. Still, even if they didn’t have too many luxuries, my grandfather always managed to provide all the necessities. And every day when he came home tired from working all day, and his kids would mob him wanting to play baseball, he was never too tired to hit a ball off into the woods for them to chase after and find. And that gave him an opportunity to say hello to my grandmother.
My grandfather didn’t serve in WWII. He had two exemptions—he was working in a vital industry (the railroad) and he had a family. They say that he wanted to serve anyway, but his father forced him to take his exemptions because all four of his brothers were already serving. One of his brothers was a POW in Europe. One died in Arizona in a motorcycle accident just before he was supposed to be sent to the Pacific. Two served and came home without incident. Nevertheless, he passed on the way he valued military service to his children. Three out of his four sons and one of his daughters ended up serving in the US Armed Forces.
He was a very hard worker. No matter when he was called up—at whatever time of night—his coworkers would always know when he got to whereever the problem was, things would be all right. Mr. H- would fix it. I remember being told a story about the time a train engine caught on fire while it was sitting on the tracks next to some oil and gasoline storage tanks. My grandfather was called and came right away and when he saw what was happening, he jumped into the burning engine and drove it down the tracks, away from the tanks, so the tanks wouldn’t catch fire and explode. They say he had second degree burns all over his body when he jumped out and third degree burns all over his hands. When he got home, my grandmother bandaged them up and he went back to work the next day.
He was an honorable man. His word was his bond, and his handshake all the contract anyone could need. If he said he would do something, he did it, come hell, high water, or anything else. He was very well known in the local area, and everywhere he was known he was respected. To this day, I can talk to residents of Hughes Springs who almost total strangers to me and when I tell them that I am his granddaughter I can see the glint of respect in their eyes. They know him, and therefore, they know me. I am a H-, even if that is not my last name. They say around here, “You can always tell a H-.” Something about the eyes.
He loved the farm. He could always rattle off what fields he’d plowed, what he was growing and where, what trees he’d planted. He was very in tune with Nature. He loved to go hunting and fishing and trapping and whatever he managed to bag came home to feed his family. He loved his animals, his pet dogs and cats, as well as the cows and horses that he raised. He loved being independent, beholden to no one because he had his land. He was Irish enough to always value the land, and very proud of being Irish. He loved his family and he always, always loved his wife.
Not only did he value the land that he owned, but he valued education. He valued it so highly that he cut timber from his land for each of his children—to finance their college educations. My mother was the first one in her family to graduate with a Bachelor’s degree. And he valued the right and ability of his children to make their own decisions after they were grown. After all, that’s what he’d been trying to teach them all of those years—how to make good decisions. So whenever one of his children decided to move away, towards better opportunities, he always let them go, even though he missed them. And he was never afraid to show that.
He was a very brave man. My mom told me of one time when one of the many tornadoes that come through this part of Texas hit Hughes Springs. They were still living in the town at the time and they didn’t have a storm shelter. My grandfather ran into the girls’ room which my mom shared with her younger sister and grabbed them up and ran with them into the boys’ bedroom and put them into bed with her three brothers. Then he went back, got the girls’ mattress from their bed, put it over his children, and lay on top of them, protecting them with his body. Meanwhile, in the third bedroom, my grandmother was bending over the cradles that held the twins, protecting them. That tornado hit the houses on either side of my grandparents’ house, but missed them.
My grandfather lived 84 years without ever going to a hospital. If he got sick, then he and my grandmother doctored him until he got better, but he very seldom got sick. At 84, he was as mentally and physically capable as if he were 40. At 84, my grandfather had his first stroke. After that, he couldn’t do as much as he could before. He sold his farm to my parents and moved to a smaller house near one of my uncles. But he and my grandmother couldn’t look after each other anymore. She has Parkinson’s and he kept having occasional strokes. Neither of them would let someone into their house to help them. Despite the best efforts of their extended family, they just kept deteriorating. So the decision was made, about two years ago, for them to move into a nursing home.
My grandfather hated that. He had been so independent for so long and he didn’t want to give that up. It was painful, and there were many arguments. But it was so sadly, sadly necessary. My mom and I used to go visit them, almost once a week there. When I didn’t have a job I was able to go with her more, but after I got my job, she had to go alone or with someone else. And this past year, my grandfather kept getting worse. Every time he had a stroke, he would rebound, but never as much as he lost. He had developed cancer, too. His mind would wander. He would talk to George, but no one could tell if he was talking to his son or his brother. Last fall, my mother and I had a long, hard talk. We knew that if he survived until his next birthday it would be a miracle. That miracle happened. My grandfather and grandmother celebrated their 65th anniversary this past January, and a month or so later, we celebrated his 89th birthday.
After that, his decline became much more rapid. Two months ago, my mom and her siblings talked to my grandmother and they agreed that my grandfather should be given the Last Rites, while he was still coherent enough to understand and participate in them. He and my grandmother were always very religious. They were founding members in their local church and raised all of their children as devout Catholics. So the priest came to the nursing home and gave him the Rites. A week ago, I called my mom on the phone to talk about something else and she told me that my grandfather had had another stroke. She said that he was failing fast and that he wasn’t expected to live past the weekend. I promised her that if he did manage to live until the weekend, I would come back to Hughes Springs and visit him. I was never able to keep that promise. At 10:30 am Saturday morning my mother called me, and I could tell by her voice that he had passed away.
At 10:00 am, Saturday morning, the man I knew as “Grandpa”, the only grandfather I have ever known, died. Tuesday morning, we buried him. As I sat in the funeral home Monday evening, and as I went through the rites and rituals of death on Tuesday, I looked around at my family. At how many lives my grandfather touched. At how many of us owe our very lives to him. Ten children. 7 daughters- and sons-in-law. 29 grandchildren. 14 great-grandchildren, the newest only 2 months old. Numberless cousins and second cousins, some of whom I met for the first time at the funeral.
I looked through the book of pictures that my mom compiled, a labor of love undertaken in three short days, from dozens of pictures donated from everywhere. In this book were the pictures of his life, from boy, to man, to husband, to father, to grandfather and great-grandfather. How much of his life that I didn’t know and how much I had only guessed at. I listened to the stories that were told. I learned so much. And yet the fundamental thing about my grandfather, the heart and soul of his character, I knew very well already. I knew it very well, even though I hadn’t known him for as long or as continuously as some of my cousins, because it was something instinctive. It was the iron-hard determination to not give up, and not give in, to work hard, to strive more, to give life your best. And it was the heart-deep pride at being what you are, no more and no less. I am very very proud, and very very honored to have this man, Frank Sylvester H- as my grandfather. I am proud to be his granddaughter.
I was not the one who most grieved for his death. That was surely my grandmother, because after all these years, they still loved one another, and I grieve to think how alone she must feel now. And my mother, and her siblings, they surely grieved more than I, to lose such a father. And my cousins, who grew up running around his farm, they also grieved greatly. Yet I grieve as well, because I will miss the man that I knew as Grandpa. I will miss him greatly. Yet I also know this death as a kindness, that it relieved him of pain, of the shame of a failing body that could no longer do what he wanted it to do. I feel sadness. I feel grief. I feel relief. Most of all, like I said, I feel pride.
But something in me is driving me to put it down anyway. His life was both remarkable and yet unremarkable. No newspaper outside of the local ones carried his obituary. No news crew did a special on him. It wasn’t broadcast on ABC, CBS, or NBC. It wasn’t carried on CNN . And yet, he is remembered and ought to be remembered because he touched so many lives, just because he existed. And so, with difficulty, I am trying to remember him so that you can remember him. I apologize in advance, because I certainly am not able to do him justice.
His name was Francis Sylvester H-. He was born in Wisconsin and grew from a boy to a young man there. He started working at a very young age. He worked for the railroad and on farms. He worked with the CCC, building camps. He played baseball and even had a two week trial period with the Milwaukee Brewers. He met my grandmother there in Wisconsin, too. When he brought her home to meet his mother, my grandmother was all of 14 years old but his mother told him: “That’s the girl you are going to marry.” And he remembered that.
When the Depression came and my grandmother’s family’s farm failed, she and her family moved down to East Texas to start anew. My grandfather stayed behind, working at whatever he could in Wisconsin, but finally he decided to follow her. He rode the rails along with all the other hoboes of the time period, and he followed my grandmother all the way to East Texas. Down here, he worked for the railroads again, played baseball again, worked at whatever he could do. And he courted my grandmother.
He courted her for 4 years before she finally married him. The day of their wedding, the car with my grandmother and her party in it got trapped on one of these narrow dirt county roads behind a school bus. They were so late that by the time they got to the church, everyone had gone home except for two women who were cleaning the church and the priest. They got back in the car and drove to my grandfather’s house. They passed him on the road going there and stopped. They say that he looked so very dejected because he was sure my grandmother had stood him up. When they stopped, he jumped in the car and took my grandmother’s hand and they drove back to the church. He walked her down the aisle and married her, with the two cleaning women as witnesses. They say he didn’t once let go of her hand until they were married—he wasn’t going to risk losing her twice!
My grandparents lived at first in Jefferson in a converted caboose—perhaps the orginal trailer home. Then they moved to a 3 room house in Hughes Springs and my grandfather added two more rooms as his family grew. Eventually, he bought land on the outskirts of town—100 acres and started to raise pine trees for lumber, hay, and whatever else he could grow, all the while still working for the various railroad companies in the area. He built a new house on the farm by hand. He and my grandmother raised a total of 10 kids in that house. My mother was their second child, and eldest daughter.
Life was hard for them. Even if the Depression was over, WWII was still in full swing. Even in the post-War boom, when the local iron mill was running full tilt, a farm on the outskirts of a little town in the middle of nowhere in East Texas was still a difficult proposition, especially when you’re trying to raise 10 kids. Still, even if they didn’t have too many luxuries, my grandfather always managed to provide all the necessities. And every day when he came home tired from working all day, and his kids would mob him wanting to play baseball, he was never too tired to hit a ball off into the woods for them to chase after and find. And that gave him an opportunity to say hello to my grandmother.
My grandfather didn’t serve in WWII. He had two exemptions—he was working in a vital industry (the railroad) and he had a family. They say that he wanted to serve anyway, but his father forced him to take his exemptions because all four of his brothers were already serving. One of his brothers was a POW in Europe. One died in Arizona in a motorcycle accident just before he was supposed to be sent to the Pacific. Two served and came home without incident. Nevertheless, he passed on the way he valued military service to his children. Three out of his four sons and one of his daughters ended up serving in the US Armed Forces.
He was a very hard worker. No matter when he was called up—at whatever time of night—his coworkers would always know when he got to whereever the problem was, things would be all right. Mr. H- would fix it. I remember being told a story about the time a train engine caught on fire while it was sitting on the tracks next to some oil and gasoline storage tanks. My grandfather was called and came right away and when he saw what was happening, he jumped into the burning engine and drove it down the tracks, away from the tanks, so the tanks wouldn’t catch fire and explode. They say he had second degree burns all over his body when he jumped out and third degree burns all over his hands. When he got home, my grandmother bandaged them up and he went back to work the next day.
He was an honorable man. His word was his bond, and his handshake all the contract anyone could need. If he said he would do something, he did it, come hell, high water, or anything else. He was very well known in the local area, and everywhere he was known he was respected. To this day, I can talk to residents of Hughes Springs who almost total strangers to me and when I tell them that I am his granddaughter I can see the glint of respect in their eyes. They know him, and therefore, they know me. I am a H-, even if that is not my last name. They say around here, “You can always tell a H-.” Something about the eyes.
He loved the farm. He could always rattle off what fields he’d plowed, what he was growing and where, what trees he’d planted. He was very in tune with Nature. He loved to go hunting and fishing and trapping and whatever he managed to bag came home to feed his family. He loved his animals, his pet dogs and cats, as well as the cows and horses that he raised. He loved being independent, beholden to no one because he had his land. He was Irish enough to always value the land, and very proud of being Irish. He loved his family and he always, always loved his wife.
Not only did he value the land that he owned, but he valued education. He valued it so highly that he cut timber from his land for each of his children—to finance their college educations. My mother was the first one in her family to graduate with a Bachelor’s degree. And he valued the right and ability of his children to make their own decisions after they were grown. After all, that’s what he’d been trying to teach them all of those years—how to make good decisions. So whenever one of his children decided to move away, towards better opportunities, he always let them go, even though he missed them. And he was never afraid to show that.
He was a very brave man. My mom told me of one time when one of the many tornadoes that come through this part of Texas hit Hughes Springs. They were still living in the town at the time and they didn’t have a storm shelter. My grandfather ran into the girls’ room which my mom shared with her younger sister and grabbed them up and ran with them into the boys’ bedroom and put them into bed with her three brothers. Then he went back, got the girls’ mattress from their bed, put it over his children, and lay on top of them, protecting them with his body. Meanwhile, in the third bedroom, my grandmother was bending over the cradles that held the twins, protecting them. That tornado hit the houses on either side of my grandparents’ house, but missed them.
My grandfather lived 84 years without ever going to a hospital. If he got sick, then he and my grandmother doctored him until he got better, but he very seldom got sick. At 84, he was as mentally and physically capable as if he were 40. At 84, my grandfather had his first stroke. After that, he couldn’t do as much as he could before. He sold his farm to my parents and moved to a smaller house near one of my uncles. But he and my grandmother couldn’t look after each other anymore. She has Parkinson’s and he kept having occasional strokes. Neither of them would let someone into their house to help them. Despite the best efforts of their extended family, they just kept deteriorating. So the decision was made, about two years ago, for them to move into a nursing home.
My grandfather hated that. He had been so independent for so long and he didn’t want to give that up. It was painful, and there were many arguments. But it was so sadly, sadly necessary. My mom and I used to go visit them, almost once a week there. When I didn’t have a job I was able to go with her more, but after I got my job, she had to go alone or with someone else. And this past year, my grandfather kept getting worse. Every time he had a stroke, he would rebound, but never as much as he lost. He had developed cancer, too. His mind would wander. He would talk to George, but no one could tell if he was talking to his son or his brother. Last fall, my mother and I had a long, hard talk. We knew that if he survived until his next birthday it would be a miracle. That miracle happened. My grandfather and grandmother celebrated their 65th anniversary this past January, and a month or so later, we celebrated his 89th birthday.
After that, his decline became much more rapid. Two months ago, my mom and her siblings talked to my grandmother and they agreed that my grandfather should be given the Last Rites, while he was still coherent enough to understand and participate in them. He and my grandmother were always very religious. They were founding members in their local church and raised all of their children as devout Catholics. So the priest came to the nursing home and gave him the Rites. A week ago, I called my mom on the phone to talk about something else and she told me that my grandfather had had another stroke. She said that he was failing fast and that he wasn’t expected to live past the weekend. I promised her that if he did manage to live until the weekend, I would come back to Hughes Springs and visit him. I was never able to keep that promise. At 10:30 am Saturday morning my mother called me, and I could tell by her voice that he had passed away.
At 10:00 am, Saturday morning, the man I knew as “Grandpa”, the only grandfather I have ever known, died. Tuesday morning, we buried him. As I sat in the funeral home Monday evening, and as I went through the rites and rituals of death on Tuesday, I looked around at my family. At how many lives my grandfather touched. At how many of us owe our very lives to him. Ten children. 7 daughters- and sons-in-law. 29 grandchildren. 14 great-grandchildren, the newest only 2 months old. Numberless cousins and second cousins, some of whom I met for the first time at the funeral.
I looked through the book of pictures that my mom compiled, a labor of love undertaken in three short days, from dozens of pictures donated from everywhere. In this book were the pictures of his life, from boy, to man, to husband, to father, to grandfather and great-grandfather. How much of his life that I didn’t know and how much I had only guessed at. I listened to the stories that were told. I learned so much. And yet the fundamental thing about my grandfather, the heart and soul of his character, I knew very well already. I knew it very well, even though I hadn’t known him for as long or as continuously as some of my cousins, because it was something instinctive. It was the iron-hard determination to not give up, and not give in, to work hard, to strive more, to give life your best. And it was the heart-deep pride at being what you are, no more and no less. I am very very proud, and very very honored to have this man, Frank Sylvester H- as my grandfather. I am proud to be his granddaughter.
I was not the one who most grieved for his death. That was surely my grandmother, because after all these years, they still loved one another, and I grieve to think how alone she must feel now. And my mother, and her siblings, they surely grieved more than I, to lose such a father. And my cousins, who grew up running around his farm, they also grieved greatly. Yet I grieve as well, because I will miss the man that I knew as Grandpa. I will miss him greatly. Yet I also know this death as a kindness, that it relieved him of pain, of the shame of a failing body that could no longer do what he wanted it to do. I feel sadness. I feel grief. I feel relief. Most of all, like I said, I feel pride.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
...
Date: 2004-09-23 05:25 pm (UTC)My thoughts are with you.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 05:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 06:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 06:08 pm (UTC)Your grandfather sounds like one hell of a guy. I'm sorry I never had the chance to meet him except through your words.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 08:00 pm (UTC)You have made me respect someone I have never known. May he rest in peace.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-23 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-24 06:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-24 07:13 am (UTC)...and that is befitting of men possessing the highest of honour, valour and core dignity.
(my thoughts are with you; be well.)