I Loved Grampy

by Bill Melchior



  I LOVED GRAMPY

  by Bill Melchior

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1)INTRODUCTION

  2)CHAPTER 1 MY DAD

  3)CHAPTER 2 MY GRAMPY

  4)CHAPTER 3 GRAMPY AND GOD

  5)CHAPTER 4 THE FISHING TRIP

  6)CHAPTER 5 GRAMPY’S SICK

  7)CHAPTER 6 THE FUNERAL

  INTRODUCTION:

  I LOVED GRAMPY

  My grandfather was the best grandfather a kid could have. Most of my memories were fond ones. Everyone in the family called him Grampy. People always seemed happy when he was around. He loved me unconditionally and taught me so much about life.

  My name is Bill. I would like to share with you how much this one loving individual influenced my life.

  CHAPTER 1

  MY DAD

  Dad traveled a lot. Being a traveling sales representative for a pharmaceutical company took my dad away from home at least two weeks a month. He covered four states: Missouri, Iowa, Kansas, and Arkansas. Grampy became my surrogate father. He knew the importance of a male influence on boys and Grampy was determined to mold me into the same honorable young man he’d molded my father into all those years back when my dad was a kid. You could see my grandfather’s influence on my dad. They shared many of the same ideas and mannerisms. Both were conservative, God fearing men who respected God, family, and country.

  Dad could be loving and understanding, but you had better shoot straight with him. He had no patience for excuses or a song and dance. This was another trait he got from my grandfather.

  Dad was a stern man who made the rules but he was always fair. You knew exactly what he wanted. Follow the rules and everything was fine. If you didn’t follow the rules there were consequences for your transgressions. I can recall once being told to cut the lawn on a Thursday night when I was seven years old. It was to be done by noon on Saturday. Noon on Saturday rolled around and the lawn hadn’t yet been cut. Worse still I was watching Saturday morning cartoons without a worry in the world. Dad came into the living room at noon, shut off the television, and quietly said, “What were you supposed to have done by noon today?” I knew perfectly well what I was supposed to say, but I decided to be a funny man. I quipped, “The grocery shopping?” His sarcasm indicated his displeasure, “Okay Mr. Wiseguy, the lawn needs to be cut and the garage cleaned by three o’clock today or no television for a week.” At three o’clock both chores were done. I would rather not eat for a week than give up television.

  Dad and I loved sports. We especially loved baseball and football. We watched football on Sundays during the football season. The American Football League started in 1960. Before that there was the National Football League. We had the Sunday routine down. Eat breakfast, go to church, turn on the television when we got home and watch an afternoon of football. We raided the cabinets for any snack foods in the house. Many times dad threw some hot dogs on the grill and we ate them while we watched the game.

  He and Grampy shared their love of baseball when he was a kid. A tradition was being passed down from one generation to the next. This is where I developed my appreciation for a good hot dog and soda. To this day I cannot go to a game without having a hot dog and a cold cola. The other benefit of doing this is if the game isn’t any good, at least the food was great.

  Mom usually did laundry or sewing while we watched the games. When she did laundry she would take the clothes off of the clothesline and jokingly say, “One person doing all of the work.” Back in the day we did not have a clothes dryer- everyone hung their clothes on a clothesline to dry. The clothes always smelled so fresh when they were brought in from outside. After gathering the clothes, mom would join us to eat. She wasn’t that interested in sports but she did enjoy a hot dog with us. Thinking back on it, I wonder if she really enjoyed the time or was just relieved not to have to make dinner for herself.

  During the baseball season we had the same routine if it was the weekend. Since dad was gone a lot, it made it difficult to watch sports together during the week.

  This shared time was high quality for me. I cherished it. It gave us the opportunity to talk about everything under the sun. Dad would explain the rules and strategies of football and baseball and I’d soak it up like a sponge. His manner of teaching was just like Grampy’s. He would take time to explain things in detail, then he would see if you knew what he said. If he was teaching you to throw a ball, he would demonstrate and then make you do it on your own. Both were believers in teaching you how to do something so you could do it when they weren’t around. I treasured that time with my dad because it was limited.

  Grampy and dad would take me to sporting events. It was the best day of my life when we would go to a St. Louis Cardinals doubleheader. Wow, a chance to see two games for the price of one. This usually lasted about six hours. I was never tired or bored. Of course, there is nothing better than a ballpark frank and a soda. I’d soak in the sun perched on the bleachers with Grampy, dad, and a hot dog, not a care in the world. Two games meant two hot dogs and two sodas. I made out like a bandit. Of course, I always wished it would never end. But there is an end to every great day. Nothing lasts forever. Mine would come on the long walk to the car after the best day of my life. Life as a kid never got any better than those long afternoons at the ballpark. When I went to bed on those nights, I’d dream of hitting the game winning home run or making the game saving catch. I will always remember my first big league baseball game. It was a hot summer day in 1959 at Sportsman’s Park, the home of the Cardinals. Dad, Grampy, and I were walking along the street on the way to the stadium when a man held up three tickets. He shouted, “Front row seats, half price.” He asked if we needed any extra tickets. At first dad said no we already had tickets. Then Grampy grabbed dad by the arm and said, “Just a minute.” He asked the man with the tickets, “How much do you want for them?” The man said, “Three tickets half price”. Grampy thought for a moment then he said, “I’ll take em.” Dad looked at Grampy like he was crazy. Grampy said give me the three bleacher tickets. He walked over to where the people were entering the stadium to sit in the bleachers and shouted like a barker in the circus, “Three bleacher seats, half price.” He sold the tickets in no time. Dad said, “Why did you do that?” Grampy explained, “Bill may never get a chance to sit in the front row again. Let’s go in and enjoy the day.” That was Grampy giving me another memory that would last a lifetime.

  As we walked into the stadium, you could not see the field. The tunnel blocked the view of the field. All of a sudden the tunnel ended, and there it was: this majestic cathedral to the national pastime. This was a religious experience. The sight was overwhelming. The mere size of the stadium alone was astounding. The white foul lines and batter’s box were in sharp contrast to the deep green grass and dirt infield. The bases were snow white. Flags representing each team at the top of the stadium blew in the breeze.

  That day was the first time I experienced a big league ballpark, a hot dog and a soda. Man it doesn’t get any better than this. That hot dog lathered in mustard and the cold soda on a hot day were perfect.

  The seats were in the first row by the bullpen where the pitchers warm up. We were close enough to talk to the players. I could have touched one if I’d leaned over when they sat down. That was against the rules and would have gotten us thrown out if I’d tried it

  We spent the afternoon listening to the players joke with each other. All of a sudden one of the pitchers, Bob Gibson, turned to me and asked, “Hey fella, do you have a brother?” I said, “Yes he is at home. “ Mr. Gibson asked, “If I give you this ball will you share it with him and let him play with it? “ My eyes were as big as saucers. I couldn’t believe it. It was a chance to get a real major league baseball used b
y actual players. I said, “Sure.” He flipped me the ball. I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I actually had a real major league baseball. This was Gibson’s rookie year. Who knew he would eventually go into the Hall of Fame? Who knew who else had touched it? Maybe one of the greatest players in the history of the game, Stan Musial, had touched it or hit it in batting practice. Now it was mine. Grampy reminded me, “What do you say when someone gives you something?” I blurted out, “Thanks a lot.” Mr. Gibson laughed and started warming up. Grampy and dad were always about being thankful and minding their manners.

  When I got home my excitement got the better of me. I had to go outside and play catch so I could be like a pro ballplayer. I did tell Mr. Gibson I would share it with my brother. My brother agreed to play catch. I felt this fulfilled my obligation.

  Now I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. I decided to play catch in the street. I didn’t think of the consequences of that poor decision. The asphalt street was on a small hill. I stood towards the bottom. My brother stood at the top. I had some developing to do before the Cardinals would have me. Neither of us threw well enough to keep the ball from hitting the street. We proceeded to scuff the ball every time we missed it. Finally, I said to my brother, “We are ruining this ball. Throw it to me one more time. Then let’s take the ball inside before we totally ruin it.” After all, this ball had to last me a lifetime. My brother rared back and lofted the ball over my head. It proceeded to roll down the street faster than I could run to catch up with it. Suddenly, I realized it was headed for the sewer. There was nothing I could do to stop the ball from going down the sewer. At this point everything seemed in slow motion. The ball seemed to take forever to get to the sewer and I was running even slower. I felt myself shouting, “NOOOOOOOOOO.” Basic instincts takeover at a time like this, two words kept alternating in my mind: ball sewer, ball sewer. Finally, the ball disappeared into the sewer. It was worse than just rolling down the sewer. It was as if the sewer gobbled up the ball.

  I stood with my head hanging down, defeated. My brother came running down the hill. He could have gone all day without saying what he said. He asked in an accusatory manner as if to blame me, “Bill, why didn’t you catch it?” I said “Because I couldn’t have caught it with a ladder.” If it wasn’t already bad enough, my brother said, “Wow, that’s got to hurt.” I knew I had found a dimmer bulb in the box than me.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. I slowly walked home. By the time I reached the front door tears were streaming down my face. Grampy asked what was wrong. I painfully relived every second of the story. Grampy said I am going to tell you some very wise words my dad told me as I was growing up. Keep these words in mind because you will use them often in life: “Don’t worry. Everything will be alright.” If it was really serious he would add, “Trust in God.” This hardly warranted getting God involved. Advice was being passed from one generation to the next. This was the first time I had ever heard these words. How would things be alright when my world was being destroyed around me? How can it be alright when I just threw a real life major league baseball down the sewer? Would anything ever ease my pain?

  As I got older I understood the meaning of those words. Time has a way of healing, smoothing things over. I would come to realize that few things that happen are worth worrying about, especially if you can’t control them. Sometimes you just have to trust in God and let Him work it out.

  Grampy took me to another game where we had tickets for the bleachers. They call the people that sit in the bleachers “Bleacher Bums.” They were called that for good reason. Usually they drank too much beer and engaged in colorful language. The combination of drinking, the adrenaline rush of a good ballgame, and testosterone can cause grown men to do things they wouldn’t normally do. Add in a hot summer day and you have the potential for bad behavior. Many parents and grandparents would not expose their child to the gruff bleacher experience, but Grampy felt these were teachable moments. He would explain what was good and bad behavior. He let me see how bad people looked when they became unruly.

  I recall a day game in the middle of August. The temperature was 101 degrees and the sun beat down on us like fire from the heavens. It felt like you were in an oven. The heat and humidity were so oppressive it was hard to breathe. A gentleman around thirty years old was sitting two rows in front of us. He was a large man. I guess maybe he weighed three hundred and fifty pounds. He wore his Cardinal baseball cap backwards and had a cigar in his mouth. As the game continued so did his drinking. He took off his shirt in the sixth inning revealing rolls of fat and a tattoo covering his back that read, “As good as it gets.” Grampy turned to the guy next to him and said, “Unfortunately, that is probably true.”

  He had been shouting obscenities at the Cubs’ left fielder since the second inning. The more he drank. the more he cursed and the more animated he became. The umpire called the Cardinal runner out at third base in the seventh inning. This was the last straw for the big man. He stood up dropped his pants, and turned so his buttocks faced the umpire and shouted, “Call this out.”

  Many fans around us gasped, especially the women. I looked at Grampy and commented, “That man is so poor. I feel sorry for him.” Grampy exclaimed, “Why?” I answered, “Look he can’t afford underwear.” There the man stood with no underwear, only his pulled down jeans. The ushers promptly escorted him from the stadium. Grampy asked if I noticed how the man’s behavior got worse the more he drank. I told him I did. He pointed out that we should always be in control of the way we act. There were many chances to have teachable moments in the bleachers.

  There was another game when Grampy, my younger brother, and I sat in the bleachers. Once again a fan who had been enjoying his holy water from Anheuser- Busch became unruly. The fan had been shouting at the crowd and bragging about different things he could do. He said how he could hit a home run if he was given the chance. He expounded on his ability to throw a runner out from the outfield. All his braggadocio always ended in, “If I only had the chance.”

  My brother was intrigued by what he believed to be this man’s achievements. The guy was so drunk he shouted to the crowd, “I’m going to walk along this outfield wall.” My brother taunted him. “I’ll bet you can’t.” The provoked spectator quipped, “Oh yeah kid? Watch this.” He mounted the top of the narrow outfield wall and started to walk along the top of the wall. On one side was the field, on the other side the bleachers. He looked like Karl Wallenda on the high wire. After about seven steps he lost his balance. First he teetered towards the field, then towards the bleachers, then finally he fell to the field side and lay on the ground on the warning track. He was down for the count. The game was stopped and he was carted away by the police. The fans cheered wildly. One fan slapped my brother on the back and said, “Way to go kid.” My brother smiled from ear to ear until he saw the look on Grampy’s face.

  It was time for a bleacher lesson. Grampy spoke softly, “I want you to think about what you said to that man.” My brother reflected for a minute. He meekly responded with, “I didn’t think he would do it.” Grampy countered, “Well he did. Not only was that man arrested, he could have been hurt very badly. How would you have felt if that man had been seriously hurt? You need to understand that what you say can influence what people do and change the outcome of a situation. This can be positive or negative depending on the words you say.” My brother realized Grampy was right, but he still was impressed by his ability to get an adult to do something by challenging them.

  Usually, a sporting event was a joyous occasion whether we were watching it live or on television. It was not so on March 24, 1962. I was nine years old and sat down in our living room with Grampy to watch,” Saturday Night at the Fights.” On this night I came to realize there was a dangerous side to sports. Benny Kid Paret fought Emile Griffith. Grampy and I had watched many a fight in the past. We had seen knockouts before. This was different. In the 12th round Griffith cornered Paret and beat him senseless
. Paret’s lifeless body was propped up against the ropes. Finally, the ref stopped the fight but it was too late. Paret fell to the mat unconscious and motionless. He was taken to the hospital and ten days later he died never regaining consciousness. He was basically dead in the ring. This created a lot of emotions in me that I’d never experienced or associated with sports. Sports were supposed to be fun. No one was supposed to die. How could one man destroy another man with his bare hands on television as we all watched? I have never looked at boxing the same way since that night.