grandpa

Grandpa ran the sawmill out behind the lumber yard on Hwy. 29 south of Salisbury, NC.  Sometimes, I would get to go with him and play on the mountain of sawdust, a by-product of the mill.  Inevitably, in the summer I would end up barefooted and shirtless, climbing to the top of the sometimes 30 feet high cone, then jumping, flipping, sprawling down to the bottom, I would be bathed in the rough but soft sawings, for hours at a time. 

At lunch time, Grandpa would shut down the huge diesel engine that powered the monstrous blade and shuttle, jump into his late 40's model Ford pickup, a weathered peach color, and rumble off to not always the nearest two-bit diner for a grilled cheese, fries, and ice-cold Cheerwine from the tap.  Most everyone in those places knew my Grandpa, and would usually sound off as he walked in, "Hi, Mister Burke!"  He would usually reply announcing which grandchild he had with him, and the name which of his children produced them:  "Got my grand-boy, Aubrey, with me today.  Martha's boy..."  There was always some universal conversation in session that begun when the place opened, and ended when the last customer left.  Someone behind the counter would ask Grandpa about the sawmill, he would answer from the bar, someone from a table in the corner would comment, on and on, until we'd had our fill of Cheerwine, and it was time to go back to work.

Many late afternoons there would be a couple of cane-poles in the truck, and on the way home, Grandpa would suggest we "find us a fishin' hole."  We would trek off into some deserted place, far off the beaten path, back into the woods on logging roads not visible from civilization.  And just when you thought you might be there, nope.  He turned down a cowpath into what seemed like a meadow in another dimension.  And there would be a pond or a stream with hungry fish waiting to bite our hooks!  I often wondered how in the world could Grandpa possibly know about all those places where there was always fish that were most always biting.

Just riding in the truck with Grandpa was an adventure.  I do not know if I hold any kind of a record, but I logged many, many hours in the passenger seat next to Grandpa.  Beside the fact that he seemed to think the painted divisions in the lanes were merely suggestions, he knew layers of history about nearly every place we passed. Going by the new Food Lion he pointed out where the old logging road went in, when he started clearing that field, who lost a finger or broke an arm not being careful with equipment, etc.  After several years, I knew stuff about other people's grandpas and uncles that they did not know, if I recognized the last names!  Sometimes Grandpa, deep into a tale, would turn his head around as we drove by for many, many seconds (seemed like minutes) at a time.  I could see him really seeing the old scene, and feel the pride he felt of being part of progress shining off him like sunbeams.  But some of the times like that, I could see what he could not-the 18-wheeler coming at us as we had drifted into the other lane!!  One of my many reasons for believing in God was that Grandpa and I cheated death on many occassions driving all around the rural roads of North Carolina and Virginia!!

Grandpa was a big man, not fat, big and strong as a horse; six feet plus standing up, with broad shoulders and rough hands.  He had a full head of snow-white hair on his big, square, irish head, blue-grey eyes, a big irish nose, and cheshire grin.  He wore "overhauls" or jeans, a long-sleeve flannel shirt always with a white "under-shirt", and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  He wore laced work boots on work days, which we helped him out of  when he retired from the dinner table into his recliner, T.V. remote in hand.  His deep voice boomed like thunder when he was out of sorts, and jolly the rest of the time.  He loved to sing and play his old fiddle. 

Lots of times when we were out riding, we would sing the old hymns of the church and talk, talk, talk about anything and everything, just taking our sweet gypsy-old-time every where we went.  Grandpa had plenty gypsy, or what he called "hobo" in him.  As a child, he left those old Appalachain hills for some crazy adventure.  He told me all about the hobos during the Depression years, who he always wanted to be like.  He said they were the most noble group of people a person could hope to meet.  They always shared what ever they had, be it small or great.  Grandpa had a few "politically incorrect" views, if you will.  But he was always kind to everyone.  I can see there was a lot of that "hobo nobility" in my precious old Grandpa.

The way I see it, nobility is nobility, hobo or king. I'm just grateful for my time with my old hobo-king.  Some things are better "caught" than "taught."  What Grandpa was pitching has certainly enriched my life in ways no school, church, or government ever could.