Granddaddy’s Journal
When Granddaddy quit climbing on houses doing his carpentry and roofing work, he came to live with us on our farm. He was Mama’s father, but he got along just fine with all of us including Daddy--except when it came to his daily journal. The journal was not a problem for probably the whole first year Granddaddy was there, but then the expertise it gave him as an authority on the time of events sometimes got in the way--like the November thing I remember when I was ten years old.
Daddy said, “We killed hogs on November the 4th last year and--”
Granddaddy shook a finger and interrupted. He went to get his journal and flipped pages. “No, Harry,” he said, “It was November the 6th. I got it right here on my journal.”
“Well, whatever--it was the first week of November,” Daddy said, “and it was cold as the dickens.”
“It was sixty degrees,” Granddaddy said, his finger on the number in his journal.
“I’m going to town,” Daddy said, slamming his old straw hat on his head.
“I’d go with you, except,” Granddaddy said, “all the stores will be closed. This is the first Wednesday afternoon for summer store closing. It’s right here in my journal.”
“I’m not going to the stores,” Daddy said, “I’m going --.” He didn’t finish the sentence. I’m pretty sure Granddaddy would have had more information he didn’t want to hear.
Still, don’t get me wrong. Granddaddy and Daddy got along fine most of the time. Granddaddy could repair anything including farm machinery, which saved Daddy a lot of money and he liked that. Since Granddaddy couldn’t drive--Daddy would take him all over the country to all day Sunday singings even though Daddy didn’t care much for gospel quartets himself.
It wasn’t that Granddaddy didn’t know how to drive a car. He did, but the family stopped him driving because, as Mama put it--he liked to nip a bit too much. At first, I didn’t know what that meant, but then I caught Granddaddy slipping up the ladder to the barn loft, opening a big wooden box and taking out a liquor bottle. I had noticed he would sometimes stagger around a bit, but I thought that was because he was old and his ‘rheumatiz’, as he called it, was bothering him.
“Pop,” Mama said one day, “I bet you’re spending more on your nipping than on your medicine. Do you think that’s right?” I know Mama meant the right thing to do, but Granddaddy went and got his journal.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s right here ‘one quart Four Roses’ on June 17th $4.25. Robertson’s drug store--$7.63, and that was all pills-- didn’t include my pipe tobacco. You wanta know what kind of pills?”
“No,” Mama said, sighing.
Granddaddy continued, “The tobacco I got that from Jeb at the little store for--,” he paused, licked his finger and turned a page, “40 cents the next day. That was two pouches.” he said, looking at her over his glasses and wiggling his eyebrows.
Mama gave him a playful shove. “Pop!” she said, but this time she laughed.
Daddy’s brothers Uncle George and Uncle Joe Lee argued over the sale price of Uncle George’s tractor. Two fifty or two seventy-five?
Uncle George said, “Lila’s Pap will have it in his journal. They whistled down the highway in Uncle Joe Lee’s old windowless truck.
“Get your journal,” Uncle George demanded.
“What for?” Granddaddy asked.
“ Joe Lee owes me two seventy-five for my tractor.”
Granddaddy said, “I only jot down important stuff.”
Uncle George slammed his hat to the ground and said a spiel of cuss words. “Two fifty,” Granddaddy said. Then he laughed revealing his stubby little teeth.
They left with Uncle George still cussing
. I said, “But, Granddaddy, you didn’t check your journal.”
“So? George’s cussin’ just cost him twenty-five dollars.”
Granddaddy loved geography. During WW II he pointed out places named in the world news on the radio. People would stop by our house for Granddaddy to show them where the action was. It caused Granddaddy to have to put a glass over his world map to keep from so many fingers punching at places--sometimes with dirty fingers or with long painted fingernails. He did some mumbling about it, but I always thought he enjoyed putting on his show of information--especially since his formal education had stopped short of the seventh grade.
During war time, Granddaddy recorded longer pages of detail in his journal. He wrote about the war and the boys we knew who were drafted or joined up. He wrote it down when they did anything special and always if they died-- and where it happened if he knew. Besides the pain of loss, it made his record-keeping less exact than he liked when one of our own was listed as ‘missing in action.’ He seemed more thrilled than anyone except the family, when a missing one turned up alive and well. That got underscored in his journal in blue.
Today I peeked in his old journal once more and read-- “July 6. Temp. 89 degrees. Bought Epson Salts for 60 cents at Robertson’s. I helped round up Joe Henry’s cows. Jesse joined the church Sunday. Saw old Mack Smith first time in ten years. He’s been in Detroit working the cars. Lila’s Dolly cow birthed a bull calf.”
Many years have passed, but none of us can be ignorant of the details and incidents of our daily lives in those years just before, during and after the big war. How could we? They were all carefully noted in Granddaddy’s journal.
The End
|