Lessons from his dad

Grandpa and Dad, July 1958

Chapter 2 (continued)

I don’t know much about the relationship Dad and grandpa had. I don’t get the picture of them sharing a great deal of their emotions with one another. Not sure many people did back then. Not on the farm, anyway. Dad said that his dad never spanked him. He did box his ears once.

I never heard of that before, but Dad demonstrated it to me. Didn’t apply any force or anything, he just took the palms of his hands and put them against my ears. Then he made rubbing motions. If he had applied force it would’ve hurt like everything. When I asked why his dad did that to him, Dad said it was because he talked back to him once. Grandpa was getting ready to do some plowing or planting in a place that was not likely to produce much. Dad told him that the idea was silly. That’s the word he used. “Silly.” Grandpa boxed his ears for that. And, then told him, “Never call a man a ‘fool.’” I could’ve argued all the way to the Supreme Court that Dad never called him a fool. Just that his action made little sense. Even really smart people do unwise things. Hey, I go to bed wearing one sock. What’s that make me? -- Beg pardon?

Regardless, Grandpa didn’t like his son telling him he did something silly. Considered it irreverent. Saw it as talking back.

I think Dad and I pretty much had the same relationship as he and his dad. I never once corrected my father, even when I knew him to be wrong. Just didn’t seem the wise thing to do. The seven of us kids seldom gave the man cause to spank us. I believe he only spanked me three times. I can only recall “the why” of one of ‘em. He spanked me for lying to Mom, when I didn’t… technically. When I yelled to Mom that I “wasn’t” wrestling with the neighborhood kids, I really wasn’t wrestling. I had been when she yelled, but I had stopped wrestling long enough to tell her I wasn’t. So, technically, I was telling the truth. And, I would’ve explained it to her had Dad not been watching the melee.

Like his father, Dad didn’t care too much for technicalities. I didn’t even bring up the fine point of “not wrestling at the moment I said I wasn’t.” I just took the spanking like a… well, like a crybaby. Like I mentioned earlier, at no time did any of us seven kids need Dad to spank us. If he said he was disappointed in us, that’s all it took. I wish I’d been brave enough to tell him that. “Dad, no need for the belt. You had me at ‘disappointed’.”

Now, Mom really needed to spank us… bless her heart. Dad, never. It was partly our fear of him and partly our desire to please him. A touchdown in the big game, a game winning homerun, a four-year scholarship… something like that. Never came close.

I would’ve done anything for my daddy. Fortunately, he never asked me for anything big. Never asked me to hit, taunt or write a mean letter to anyone. Quite the opposite. The man taught me respect by being respectful. I never remember him instructing us to say “Yes, ma’am” or “Yes, sir” or “Thank you.” We just always did. We apparently caught onto the notion that it was what Dad expected. He was always polite to other people. Even to people younger than he was. Even to mean people like that one lady at Wyatt’s Cafeteria. “Thank you, ma’am,” my dad would tell her.

Odd, but Dad never cared if we said “Yes, sir” TO HIM. I think it made him feel less close to us. We never said, “Yeah,” or “nah” or “Not me!” We’d say “Yes” and “no” and “I’m sorry.” Twice I got blamed for stuff I didn’t do, ‘cause I didn’t want to talk back to Dad. I just said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Dad was okay with that. Had I tried to explain that Dennis was the one who left his bike in the driveway, well, it wouldn’t have come out good for either of us… I imagine.

Dad and Grandpa, with Dennis to the left, me in the middle, and Larry in front of Grandpa

Yes, Dad seemed to father pretty much the way his dad did. Didn’t hug till the later years. He was not one who’d ever care to hear about your dream. (I’m my father’s son in that respect.) Definitely shied away from anything emotional. That’s probably why he never really shared with us a great deal about his father.

Of course, I’m pretty sure there were plenty of times in my life when I could’ve learned more about my grandpa had I just asked, but I was far from caring. The family visited Bristow, Oklahoma two weeks out of ever year, where we spent 90 percent of the time with my mom’s family. Visits just down the road to Grandpa Hayter’s house were considered real snoozefests. We’d sit in the living room and listen to Dad and Grandpa exchange stories about people and times that seemed more than a little remote to us.

Grandpa would talk in a quiet rasp. He was hard of hearing and his speech was difficult to understand. It would’ve broken my heart for him to know how boring we considered our visits were to be. I’m not sure he ever had a clue, because he always seemed genuinely pleased to see us. As the end approached, he became more and more sentimental about things. So much so, that on one occasion, when we loaded up to head back to Texas, Dad neglected to tell Grandpa that we were leaving. When Mom asked why weren’t stopping to say bye to Grandpa, Dad just shook his head and said, “I couldn’t bear to see him cry. It bothers him so much when he thinks we’re leaving.”

I was a teenager when I heard Dad say that, and it absolutely broke my heart. To think that I cared so little about the old man who cared so much. Grandpa died on my birthday, August 20, 1967. It was the summer after my high school graduation. The whole family took the trip to Oklahoma in two cars. My brother Dennis and I rode with our oldest brother Larry in his car. Our sisters Susan and Lynda came along. Dad drove Mom, Jill and Alan in the ’65 Pontiac Tempest.

Two things about the occasion of Grandpa’s funeral have stuck in my mind. I remember absolutely nothing about the funeral itself except for Uncle Fred. I had no idea I had an Uncle Fred. But, there he was at the funeral. He was Grandpa’s brother. Older, younger? I have no idea. Just an old man with a bit more hair than Grandpa. All during the preliminaries of the funeral – the day before viewing and the socializing that takes place up until the singing starts – Uncle Fred was as composed as could be. He was laughing and carrying on just like he was having a good ol’ time. But, when his time came to step up and view the casket, the man broke down. He got to sobbing so much that Daddy had to hold him up to keep him from slumping to the ground.

At the time, I thought the man was faking it. How could anybody be so jovial one second and then crack up like that? He knew he was at a funeral to begin with. The thought of his brother’s passing couldn’t have sneaked up on him.

Wasn’t a year or two ago that one of my ex-high school students died. A great kid. Teacher’s seldom admit to favorites, but Josh was one of mine. At his funeral I met one of my old teaching chums. As we stood in the long line to pay our condolences to Josh’s parents, we began talking and laughing about old times. I mentioned some great moments with Josh and some of his classmates. Finally, I made it to the front of the line where I shook hands with Josh’s dad and hugged his mom. Then I took two steps toward the casket and saw Josh. Instantly, my heart sank. I even got dizzy. Josh’s mom more or less held me up and whispered words of encouragement.

There’s just something about passing a casket that makes it… well makes the finality of it sink in. At that moment I knew exactly how my Uncle Fred felt as he stared down at his brother. It was the first and last time I saw my dad’s uncle. Couldn’t even tell you where he was from. Like I say, I had my own concerns and problems to stew on.

The second memorable happening caused by Grandpa’s passing involved the trip from Texas to attend the funeral. This will mean little of nothing to so many of you, but it turned out that Grandpa Hayter passed away the week that the first of the last two episodes of “The Fugitive” were to air. Dr. Richard Kimble was the fugitive. He was played by personalitiless David Janssen. Janssen did a super job, too. Not sure I ever missed an episode during the four year run.

When it came time to bring the series to a conclusion, I was going to be on the road to Bristow, Oklahoma for Grandpa’s funeral. I couldn’t believe it. I’d make it home in time for Part II, but Part I was going to be a miss… unless. Like I said, I was riding with Larry and my older brothers and sisters. I could talk to them about hating to miss “The Fugitive”, whereas, had I been riding with Dad I would’ve just sat in the backseat and taken my lumps. No Fugitive for me.

But, with Larry driving, I had a chance. The Fugitive aired at 9:00 p.m. We left Pasadena a little after six. We were just this side of Corsicana when we started looking for a place to stop. I told Larry that if there were a house by the side of the road that looked inviting, I’d get out and ask if we could watch TV with them. We never found such a place. Plenty of houses, but nothing looked all that inviting just after dusk.

Finally, I persuaded Larry to pull in at an old Mom and Pop motel outside Corsicana. There was a light on in the office that shown a marginally inviting aura. The brothers and sisters couldn’t believe I had enough nerve to try to force myself on others, but I jumped out of that car and headed to the office on a mission. It was totally out of character for me. Desperate I was.

When I entered the office area, I discovered that the office was no more than a part of the owners’ living room. There was a bar just inside the door that separated the customers from the rest of the open room. Just the other side of the bar was a card table with two elderly couples playing canasta. No one stood, but one of ‘em said, “Howdy.”

I gave ‘em a scattered howdy and then mentioned The Fugitive. Their TV wasn’t on Channel 13, but surely they realized that Dr. Kimble would be finding the one-armed man tonight. They had no clue. “He’s never gonna find that one-armed man,” the old lady with her back to me said. I assured here he would. And, it’d be that very night. I couldn’t get through to them. They started jumping from one topic to the next. Completely ignored the teenager in the room. I eventually thanked ‘em, and walked out. I’m not sure they ever knew when I left. Not sure they even realized I was there. They were too engrossed in cards and in small-town talk with old friends.

When I got back to the car, they could tell by my disposition that my mission had failed. “I couldn’t get through to ‘em. I gave ‘em everything I had, but they wouldn’t believe me. I don’t think they were from this world. ‘He’ll never catch that one-armed man,’ one of the old ladies said. Criminee!” Why did the only four people who knew nothing about the Fugitive have to be at that motel?

Larry, Lynda, Susan and Dennis were much less tore up about it than I was. I really believe Larry or Susan could’ve gotten through to those four pod people, but they didn’t want to try. Didn’t want to come across as pushy. Sheesh.

I never did see Episode I of the final two episodes of The Fugitive. But, I did see Episode II. They pretty much rehashed all that happened in the first episode, but it wasn’t the same. I’m just glad that my grandpa never had to learn how upset I was that his dying ruined my TV night. I eventually told Dad what I did, and he took it well.

Truth is, Dad never faulted us for being bored out of our wits during our visits with Grandpa. Mom is the one who was most put out with us. And, it wasn’t even her dad. It was one of the few times when Dad was more understanding than Mom… about anything. Try to figure.

Grandpa not too long before he passed away