Chapter 2

Dad and my Grandpa Hayter

Faris Edward Hayter was born the day before Christmas 1917, in Bristow, Oklahoma. I’m pretty sure the doctor came to the house to birth him. They did that a lot back then. Though I never heard, I’m pretty sure the doctor grabbed Dad by the hair and let him hang there a minute before he slapped his bottom. Dad’s bottom, not his own. That would be stupid. However, the momentary hang was largely responsible for Dad’s premature balding. That’s what I’m thinking. If Dad has hair in heaven, I’m not sure I’ll recognize him.

Oh, and back to where he was born. Bristow was a small farming community that became an oil boom-town, and, eventually, a smaller town with nothing to do. At least that’s the way it was when I first visited the place back in the ‘50s. And, that’s the way I left it the last time I left, which was likely the last time I’ll ever have to leave it. (Try to keep up, people. There will be more on family visits to Bristow later. Like you, I’m pretty eager.)

I don’t know if Dad’s birth year resonated at all with you. It was the same year our country involved itself in the Great War, or as some called it, “The War to End all Wars”. If you’ve seen the movies, you realize that, eventually, we had to number our World Wars. So much better than “The War after the War to End all Wars.” (Side note: We’re just up to two World Wars as of this writing… unless you consider the war against terrorism to be World War III. I don’t really care to get into that. Dad didn’t really have any big take on terrorism. Other than he was against it. I’m pretty sure. Thing is, he just wasn’t alive when we declared war on it. Enough on that.)

Truth is, my dad had little to with any wars… or their naming. His little wobbly feet had barely touched the ground when The Great War ended. That’s unfortunate, ‘cause you give that kid a pacifier and a sharp stick, and he would’ve been there. What I’m thinking.

1918 -- Picture of Grandpa holding Dad (left) and Mamie Eisenhower (right) Not certain about Mamie. Might be one of Dad's cousins.

It wasn’t long after Dad was born that his dad, Ed, decided to leave Bristow for Sapulpa, a town 20 miles east of Bristow. The man was a world traveler. It was in Sapulpa that Grandpa Hayter ended up owning a grocery store… or dry goods store. Hard to tell what kind of store it was from the picture. It just shows Grandpa and Grandma standing in front of the place, no sign in sight. The caption on the back says that it was a store that Ed and Pearl owned in Sapulpa. Dad never said much about it. Begs the question – Why don’t we ask parents and grandparents about stuff while they’re alive? When they’re dead, it’s so much harder to get a straight answer. Make a note.

1919 -- Dad while in Leningrad. Sure what it looks like.

I'm sure Dad would’ve told us a lot more about Grandpa had we ever asked. It’s absolutely pathetic how little you care about old stuff when you’re a kid. You just don’t think any information that doesn’t relate directly is ever going to be of any consequence. In truth, Dad may have told me a great deal about his dad, and I just tuned him out. I doubt it, though. I didn’t tune Dad out all that much. The guy might ask a question or two, and it would’ve hurt him had he known I wasn’t listening. You could tune Moms out. Just about had to. Not Dads, though. I don’t know who wrote the book on that, but somebody must’ve.

From what little I did picked up concerning Grandpa, the man was a carpenter and a sharecropper. That means he must have owned the store for a short while. During that while, he must have done pretty well for himself, because I found a picture or two of the guy all dressed up in a neat suit. He even had a car. That would make you pretty close to rich back then.

When Dad was just a kid, his Mom left. That would be Grandma Pearl. After she remarried, she stopped being a Hayter. That happens. First time I called her anything it was Grandma followed by her first name, Grandmother Pearl. Not, Grandmother Followed by Her First Name. That's another one of those stupid things. The story about Grandma Pearl's leaving is a doozy. The stuff of scandal. I’ll cover it in the next chapter. Pay attention, ‘cause I don’t wanna have to tell it twice. For now, it’s enough to say that Grandma Pearl was a pistol.

I’ve got a pretty good idea why Grandma didn’t take Faris with her when she left Sapulpa. You will, too, after you read the next Chapter. As it turned out, I’m glad she didn’t take him with her. I believe Dad learned better stuff from Grandpa.


Dad picked up some carpentry skills from his father. You’d have to consider both of them craftsmen. I’ve got a desk downstairs that Dad made when he was in high school. It’s more intricate and better constructed than any piece I ever saw come out of the shop class at my school. I’ve also got a small toolbox that belonged to Grandpa. It’s sitting in the corner of the study. That and two poems are the only things I have of my grandpa. The man worked hard and did well by his son. And, thoughts of him are a handful of people away from being completely lost. That’s the way of many fathers of fathers.

All I know of the Great Depression is from what I’ve read in books, seen in documentaries and movies, and heard my Dad tell on nights the family gathered to munch popcorn, drink Kool Aid and listen to stories of the old days.

During the Depression, Grandpa farmed 40 acres for a widow who lived a few miles east of Bristow near a muddy tributary called Little Deep Fork Creek. Grandpa and Dad worked the land with an old plow mule. I don’t know if the crop was split perfectly even with the landowner. All I know is that Grandpa made little of nothing. Dad said that after selling the corn crop one year and paying off the bills, Grandpa reached into his pocket and took out a five dollar bill. “Faris,” he said. “This is all we’ve got to show for a year’s worth of hard work.”

Autumn: Ed Hayter

It’s November late in Autumn, winter not far away
The fields are brown, corn long gathered at the close of a summer’s day.
We toiled through the long dreary summer, through the sweltering heat
Trying to earn our clothes and a few bites to eat.
Now I wonder in days gone by and days that are before,
The ones that work the hardest are the ones that suffer more.
It seems to me that it should not be, since the earth was made for all.
After we toil through the summer heat we should have some thing left in the fall.


Dad and Grandpa must’ve planted a small garden around the old house, located just off highway 16 east of town. I imagine that because of Grandpa’s prayer about cow-peas. I’m not sure what kind of pea a cow-pea is, but I imagine it’s from the black-eyed family. Regardless, Dad said that before one particular meal, Aunt Mary and he bowed their heads as Grandpa prayed. “Dear God,” he said, “Thank you for these cow-peas. The same today. The same tomorrow. The same forever. In Jesus’ name, AMEN!” It was the prayer of a man barely holding onto a frayed rope of faith.

It’s never wise to press a guy with a weak grip on a frayed rope of faith (say that three times.) But, press an unthinking life insurance salesman did. It was in the midst of the Great Depression. Dad said Grandpa was out plowing the 40-acre field with their mule… Bessie. (I have no idea. Just sounds about right.) As Grandpa plowed, Dad walked a distance behind and busted up clods with a hoe... uh, a stick with a chopping thing on the end.

While this drudgery was going on, Dad noticed a rather stylish car for those parts pull up and stop at the edge of the field. A nice-dressed man got out, stooped to get through barbed wire fence, and made his way to my grandpa.

My dad just kept hoeing, but he did look up a time or two to see what was going on. He said that after about five minutes of conversation, the man in the suit lit out across the field towards his car. My grandpa tossed the reins from his shoulder, let the plow drop, and took out after the man. Almost caught him, too. Had it been earlier in the day, he probably would have. The man ripped his pants on the fence, but got clean away.

When grandpa got back to the mule, my dad met him. “What was that all about, Daddy?” he asked. Grandpa righted the plow and tossed the reins back over his shoulder. “That yahoo was trying to sell me some life insurance,” he said. “When I told him I couldn’t afford it, he told me that if I gave up chewing tobacco maybe I could.”

The salesman had no empathy for a man who lived from day to day. Dad said that the only enjoyment my grandpa had in life came from his chewing tobacco. My dad said, “Yeah, that insurance salesman didn’t seem to know or care about that. Your grandpa didn’t need to be lectured by the likes of him.” No question about that.

There’s a fine line between too much insurance and not enough. Insurance is there to help when the worst comes along. Grandpa was already in the midst of the worst. No amount of insurance could get him out of the life’s storm he was experiencing.

Ed Hayter (My Grandpa) -- Always the farmer

Oklahoma Dust: Ed Hayter

Oklahoma, where the wind blows and the ground is very dry,
The dust is getting thicker everywhere up in the sky.
It sifts in the through the windows and it comes in through the door.
It settles on the chairs and beds and also on the floor.
You breathe it every breath you take, you get it in your nose.
You get it in the food you eat and it settles on your clothes.
You cough and sneeze and blow your nose and wipe it out your eyes,
And everywhere you choose to look it’s ever in the skies.
Now if it doesn’t rain, it’s a sure thing there will be nothing raised at all.
And we will be in an awful fix when our notes come due this fall.


Let’s end this part of Grandpa’s chapter with that poem. I’ll finish off with a story or two more about Dad and Grandpa, next time.