Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb

by Herschel Cobb

  Susan said, “I don’t think Granddaddy ever comes in here. I think he really prefers to live at Tahoe.”

  Reminded of what we were doing today, I responded, anxious to get going, “Yeah, so let’s have some breakfast and get going to Lake Tahoe.”

  Although the master bedroom did not give up any secrets, my chance meeting in the night added immensely to my sense of trust and assurance with my grandfather. He’d confided in me, enlarging and strengthening our bond, and my outlook on my own life. He had opened up an entirely new dimension to my understanding. With me he wasn’t a legend. He was a man who battled and suffered because he wanted to be the best at what he did. Those scars up and down his legs told a different story than the ones in the books that had dismayed me. I knew my grandfather couldn’t be cruel like that. I knew all too well what true cruelty was. The man who was teaching me that it was all right to trust people was another type of legend altogether. I needed to learn how to shoot straight in this life. He knew I didn’t have a father who could teach me. So he was making sure he provided those lessons himself.

  When summer ended, we returned home to Santa Maria. Our mother’s behavior continued the same patterns: she consumed a quart of Old Crow each evening, mixed to make Manhattans, seldom ate dinner with us, preferred to go out in the evenings or lie in bed in her room watching TV with a tumbler of milk and bourbon. On weekends, she slept until noon. Susan was careful to close all the doors leading from the kitchen because Mother became furious at the smell of bacon cooking.

  Our house was a block from the high school, an easy walk that allowed me to come home for lunch, which Susan always fixed. I went out for the basketball team in the fall and the tennis team in the spring, spending my afternoons at school playing sports. By the time I arrived home, it was near dinnertime. One afternoon on a Thursday in early winter, basketball practice was canceled and I went to visit a buddy, Griff McClelland, who lived a couple of blocks away. When I headed home, around 4:00, I saw a new black Oldsmobile 88 parked directly in front of our house. I’d seen it before, at the Coca-Cola plant, when its owner was in my mom’s office. His name was Jerry, and he was a “manufacturer’s representative.” Susan usually met Kit after school and took him with her to a girlfriend’s home where they studied and he played. The side door to our house was locked, as was the patio door and front door, although I heard music playing when I knocked. Mom answered, asked me why I was home, and when I told her, she instructed me to go play at a friend’s house and come back at dinnertime.

  I went to where Susan was, asked her what was going on, and she said, “Mom has boyfriends. This is Thursday, it must be Jerry.”

  I responded, “How did you know?”

  “I made the same mistake, only on a Tuesday, and it was a man named Ward, from Los Angeles. They each don’t know the other exists. Stay here and take Kit outside.”

  On those evenings, we didn’t see her; she stayed in her room, door locked, and we took care of ourselves. The same thing went on all winter and spring. Susan fixed our breakfast and dinner. Most days, she also fixed my quick lunch, so I could gobble it down and run back to school to play sports.

  The following year, after our visit to Grandma and Granddaddy, was the same, except for a real stunt, which would be repeated, but the first time was a shocker. We’d grown used to Mom’s drinking and being late; Susan was raising us, in any case. We avoided contact, ate dinner, and I did homework. On a Wednesday night, I got home from school at the same time as Susan, and we found a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. We didn’t think anything of it. Susan fixed us dinner, and we anticipated Mom would come home. She didn’t. Not that night or the next. When Saturday night arrived and Mom still had not come home, Kit and I took our sleep blankets and made a camp in Susan’s room. We were all in this together.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, the bedroom door burst open, the light went on, and there was Mom with a strange man. She wobbled near us. “Meet your new father . . .” and she said the guy’s name. I blinked a few times and stared. They were both drunk. Mom slurred, “We were married in Mexico last night. Aren’t you happy to have a father?” None of us said anything. She spit, “Ungrateful little . . . ,” mumbling, taking his arm, and leaving. Susan immediately locked the door.

  On Monday evening, Mom emerged from her room. The guy was gone. She fixed herself a drink and returned upstairs. The same thing happened two other times that year, only different men each time. In between, Susan and I were careful on Tuesdays and Thursdays, having our dinner quickly and finding something to do. We also avoided cooking bacon on weekends, or making noise inside the house before noon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Spencer Lane to Cave Rock, Through Lodi

  The next summer, I was more excited than normal as I anticipated our trip: two incredible weeks at Lake Tahoe in August, the warmest and best month of the summer. The water would be slightly less icy than in July. Sky Water Lodge, the vacation spot next to Granddaddy’s property, would be full, and hopefully I’d meet other teenagers to join up with. At age fifteen, I had my driver’s permit and I was hoping he’d let me use the old Plymouth station wagon stored at his cabin.

  While we discussed our plans, Granddaddy mentioned to Susan he might have a surprise for her on this trip. We tried to guess, and he allowed us three apiece, but we didn’t get anywhere. On the morning of our departure, a heavy fog was blowing through his oak tree and over the roofline, bringing with it a chilling breeze, so we quickly set our bags next to his Chrysler Imperial, said good-bye to Grandma, watched her wave her small glove-covered hand as she departed 48 Spencer Lane, then rushed inside to see him.

  Susan’s surprise was waiting for us. She had often asked Granddaddy why he never dressed up, and this morning her request was answered. He stood before her, arms open, elegantly attired. Dressed up would be too casual a description. He wore a freshly pressed pale beige gabardine suit with an eggshell blue vest, white shirt with cuff links, blue silk tie, and his best summer shoes with white-laced tops and brown leather sides. He held a wide-brimmed Panama hat in his outstretched hand. Susan beamed in approval, and he laughed warmly as he hugged her.

  Granddaddy sat in the passenger seat while Louise drove, and we three barely filled half the huge backseat. We would take the Dumbarton Bridge over the south end of San Francisco Bay and proceed east. As we neared the entrance to the bridge, the fog was thick and blowing hard, the windshield wipers were on, and visibility was poor. It was cold, and the car heater whirled. The bridge was old; concrete pillars held up huge wooden beams and side rails, and the driving surface consisted of wide wooden planks covered by asphalt sheets, so the pounding of the tires rolling across sounded like we were slapping back at the waves splashing against the underside of the planks. The bridge ran only a few feet above the turbulent bay, and the white-capped waves easily splashed through the side rails onto the surface. I thought it was exciting watching waves made by our tires splash by my window, almost as if we were at sea in the Chrysler. Granddaddy was visibly concerned, saying he didn’t like this at all, cautioning Louise to drive slowly and take care. The eight miles across the bridge seemed like its own dangerous adventure, and we were all relieved when we returned to solid ground on the other side of the bay.

  Soon we began to ascend toward Livermore and the Altamont Pass, thirty miles away. When we passed over that first mountain ridge, the fog dissipated, the wind blew warm, and the sun shone. As we neared Tracy, the heat of the Central Valley began to bear down on us.

  Granddaddy, getting hot, took off his shoes. Sitting more comfortably in silk socks, he chatted about how rough his hunting trips in Wyoming on packhorses had been, and this was not much in comparison. Nearing Stockton, via the two-lane roads that were the norm at the time, it was broiling hot. Rolling down the windows didn’t help. He unbuttoned his vest, loosened up his tie, and told us he wanted to go through Lodi and pick up some fresh fruit. Along Highway 99, we passed through Stockton, and
when we stopped for gas, the outside thermometer read one hundred degrees! It was only noon and I knew the severe heat would arrive toward 2:00. Lodi, half an hour up the road, was a farming area, and if there was a town, we never saw it. His route was along the back roads where he knew the fresh fruit stands, supplied and operated by local farmers. By this time Granddaddy had his tie very loose, the top two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, cuff links dangling, his suit jacket back with us, and his hanky in hand mopping his brow.

  He directed Louise to stop at a makeshift shack, set back from the intersection of two country roads near some fruit trees. The open front of the shack had a counter filled with flats of fruit, mostly apricots, with stacks of flats of fruit in the back. He got out in his stocking feet, shed his vest and tie, and made directly for an ice cooler next to the shack. He pulled out a Coke and guzzled it down. Mopping his face, he began talking animatedly to a gentleman with sun-soaked skin. At first I thought the man was angry that Granddaddy took a Coke without paying, but as they talked the man patted him on the shoulder like they were old buddies. He grabbed a Coke himself and pointed to some flats of apricots and the nearby trees. I got out, went over to them, and Granddaddy handed me a Coke, saying, “Just one.”

  It was hot, dusty, with no breeze or shade cover. Granddaddy and the man wandered toward the trees, then back to the apricot flats, jabbering away. He looked ridiculous in his stocking feet, dusty pant cuffs, two shirt buttons open, sleeves rolled up, the back of his shirt moist, fanning himself but perspiring noticeably.

  “Hersch, come over here, meet Martin Rodriguez.” I said hello and he replied, “Mucho gusto.” He held out a calloused, work-worn hand to shake, and he smiled warmly at me while he continued talking with my grandfather about this year’s crop. He spoke Spanish and broken English while Granddaddy mumbled some Spanish words but mostly nodded his head. Their figures cut a contrasting silhouette, with my grandfather still over six feet, rather rotund in the middle, slight of hair on top, pale complexioned, with light eyes, while Mr. Rodriguez might have been five feet, eight inches at the most, lean, and dressed in field work clothes and boots, brown skin with deep dark eyes and thick black hair, unperturbed by the heat. Droplets of perspiration trickled down Granddaddy’s forehead, cheeks, and neck. Mr. Rodriguez pointed to several flats, selected one, and handed it to me. Granddaddy pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Mr. Rodriguez. He didn’t take any change back, and I thought he’d made a mistake. I kept quiet, though, as I loaded the flat into the trunk. The two of them didn’t seem to notice, both vigorously shaking hands and smiling as they said farewell.

  Another fruit stand was on the next corner, with a sign for tomatoes this time. I didn’t see any rows of tomatoes anywhere nearby, however. Granddaddy, still walking around in his stocking feet, shirt open, perspiring all over, guzzling another Coke, greeted a man. This man’s name was Romero. He smiled warmly, greeted his old friend, talked for a while and offered Granddaddy a tomato from a particular flat. Taking a big bite, he splattered some of the juice on his white shirt. That taste was good enough for him and Romero handed me the flat. Granddaddy pulled out his roll, gave Romero a hundred-dollar bill, and climbed into the front seat, out of the sun.

  A quarter of a mile down the road, another fruit stand featured cherries, red and yellow. Only this time I stayed close to Granddaddy, and when he went for his Coke, I asked him before the owner came, “Granddaddy, you gave those men $100 for one flat. Is that the price?”

  “Nah, Hersch, a flat is a couple of bucks.” He knew I’d been watching and wanted to know what was going on. “Remember when I told you about me and that Negro boy working the mule in the cotton field in Georgia?”

  “Sure, it must have been hot and dusty. Like this.” I gestured around.

  “Right, and just as miserable. Not much ‘jingle,’ nothing extra. I’ve known some of these men for over ten years. Their work is hard—long, hot, dusty, everything I remember about that darn cotton field and mule. Overalls, no shirt, rocks in my shoes, plowing through hard red clay. Well, these guys have good produce, so I put some jingle in their pocket and maybe they have it a little easier, that’s all.” He was smiling again, like he knew I understood his reasoning now. He knew the man’s name at this new stand, said hi to his young daughter, and finally paid $100 for a flat filled with half red cherries, half yellow cherries. Luckily, the Imperial’s trunk was large, and three flats fit in easily.

  We crept along the back roads of Lodi, stopping at five or six more stands. Peaches, strawberries, more tomatoes, a couple of watermelons, several cantaloupes, and more peaches (naturally). At each stop, I stayed close to him, feeling more a part of his ritual. I stood next to him with sunshine scorching the top of my head, cups of water feeding my perspiration, my eyes squinting into the old, heavily lined faces, appreciative dark eyes of old acquaintances. Most of the men I met were Mexican, and one looked Japanese. Their children helped with their parents’ English while trying to broaden my grandfather’s Spanish repertoire, giggling at his mispronunciations. The roll of hundred-dollar bills wasn’t fazed and kept on coming; the smile on his hot, wet face continued, his conversations jovial, and his dusty, wrinkled, wet clothes a mess. The sun was repressively hot, but somehow it didn’t diminish his zeal for stopping, talking, drinking six or seven more Cokes along the way, taking delight in putting a little “jingle” into hardworking hands.

  The trunk of the Chrysler was large, but we couldn’t squeeze in the second flat of tomatoes; they were large, juicy, and easily squished. That flat rode with us in the back seat, passed between the three of us, for the rest of the ride to Lake Tahoe. Even in the late afternoon, when we left the last fruit stand, the heat was still scorching. Granddaddy was satisfied, but his shirt and slacks by this time almost resembled work-worn overalls, moist with sweat, full of dust, wrinkled and splattered with assorted juice stains. His own hard work had provided him considerable privilege and he knew it, so he lent a hand, without mentioning to us how much giving back meant to him. He was comfortable with himself, emanating an easy confidence I strived for as a young man.

  We followed Route 49 through old gold-mining towns, joined California highway 50 in Placerville, where the temperature read 103 degrees, and finally felt mild relief ascending into the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Granddaddy dozed off and on until sometime before Meyers, when he woke, looked around, and excitedly exclaimed, “Now, be careful, Louise, be real careful, don’t want a ticket. There are lots of police around here.” He practically chortled when we rounded a curve, and lo and behold, a highway police car was stationed right next to the road. He faked a startled yelp and turned to us, saying, “Look out, the police!”

  He’d gotten me so excited, I ducked when I saw the black and white, but quickly felt foolish when we passed it and I beheld a painted wooden cutout of a highway patrol car! The cutout was new that year, and Granddaddy delighted in joking with us. At heart he was always a jester.

  At Meyers, we took a series of shortcuts, avoiding heavy traffic on Highway 50 into South Lake Tahoe, and when we regained the highway partway through town, I heard Granddaddy shout, “Quick, here, turn in here.” Louise swerved into the parking lot of the Sportsman, an enormous hardware store, offering everything from light bulbs to small tools to large outboard boats and the motors to go with them. We traipsed after him, barely keeping up because he knew exactly what he wanted and where it was. He grabbed a hammer, a bag of large nails, half a dozen spools of fishing line, and then beelined to the rear, where he bought a dozen twelve-foot bamboo fishing poles and two boxes of hooks. Outside the Sportsman we ate a sandwich from a cart, somehow found room in the Chrysler to fit the poles, and continued through north along Highway 50, past Zephyr Cove, toward Cave Rock. Two hundred yards past the tunnel that goes through the rock, a small break in the highway pavement on the left marked the beginning of the road down to Granddaddy’s cabin. It’s eas
y to miss and that’s good, in that snoopers miss it, traveling onward to somewhere else.

  We didn’t unload the Chrysler but followed his direction to gather the poles and follow him. Taking the hammer, nails, and hooks, we walked around the cabin to the steps leading down to the lake. He paused to take in the view of the sun setting behind the mountains across the lake, and almost sang, “Come on, still a couple hours of good fishing left.”

  Intrigued by this new development, I followed. Once on the pier, he rigged the poles with line and hooks, bent nails in an upside down “U” in eight spots on the pier, secured the poles and announced that while we fished, he was going to take a nap. “Whoever catches the first fish, we’ll cook that for dinner.”

  He was visibly worn out. Heat and a long day on the road had done him in. I knew he was tired by how he trudged through the sand at the end of the pier and up the steps to the cabin. His pace was slow, labored, and he rested every ten steps or so. He was over seventy years old, but I’d always regarded him as invincible. A sour taste filled my mouth as I watched him climb doggedly and wearily up to the cabin. I had thought he would never weaken.

  While he slept, Susan and I watched the poles farther out the pier, where the water was deep. Kit manned two poles nearer the shore, where if he fell in, we could easily pull him out. We thought he’d be happy watching minnows. I knew big fish didn’t swim deep into the cove because the water was too warm. We might wait forever. The sun had set an hour ago, the light was dimming, and the temperature had cooled off only slightly. Fortunately, the large waves subsided when the sun set, the shoreline boulders were perfect for scampering on, and we could climb around while we watched our poles.