He was never Grandfather, or Grandpop, or Gramps, or even Papa. To me, and my many cousins I assume, he was always Grandpa. My paternal grandfather outlived my grandmother by a few years, passing away when I was thirteen years old. He was the only grandfather I had since my maternal grandfather had died before I was born. He had been born in eastern Illinois in the late 1800’s and moved to Arkansas sometime after my father was born in 1908.

As was the case with my grandmother, I don’t remember a great deal about his life. Perhaps this is because almost all the men in our family didn’t talk much about their past. Or, maybe, it was because I was too young to believe that the past was important. The few things I remember are experiences we shared or that I saw him share with others.

My grandfather was a farmhand after he moved to Arkansas. He was not, as far as I know, a sharecropper but simply someone who worked on a local farm for some unknown wage. At that time, the work was hard. There was little mechanization but lots of manual labor. He did this work until he was unable. In my early life, I remember only couple of things. The first was that he worked from early morning until late in the evening – work hours defined by dawn and dusk. When he came home at night my grandmother would have supper ready to eat and then he would often sit on his front porch until time for bed. In the summer, this was often with my father and uncle as they listened to St. Louis Cardinals baseball on the radio. I never remember my grandfather saying a cross word in those days. About the only time I remember him being at home during the day was when the weather prevented farm work. One clear memory I have was sitting on his porch one day as he sharpened his shovel for the next day’s work. I don’t remember what we talked about, if anything, but sitting with him was important to me.

As he became older and no longer worked on the farm I spent a bit more time with him, especially during the summer. I remember walking to the Post Office with him each morning (about a half mile each way) where we waited for the mail to be delivered. Then walking back home where he worked in his garden. The garden was important because it kept him busy and supplemented the family’s food. The garden was small when compared to many but the care it was given could not be compared.

After my grandmother died, his health went downhill. With no one able to provide daily care he moved to a nearby nursing home where many of his friends also lived. My father and I went to visit every two weeks or so as did my uncles who lived nearby. Unfortunately, his time there was short and soon he was laid to rest, by my grandmother’s side and near other family members. He and my grandmother had few of the things that we take for granted these days. They heated their home with an old wood burning stove. A four-room house that was home to their sons, at times very crowded I’m sure. And for many years, on an unpaved street. Still, I believe they were happy and hope they are still together and happy now.