I started this blog entry a couple of days ago, right after leaving work early to go be with my Mom after I found out that her father, my Grandfather, had passed away sometime Monday night. I had wanted to detail something about his life to let everyone know what an amazing person and true hero he was, but I have been finding it difficult to do that in such a way as to not sound like some sort of biography which, I feel, loses something in the translation. But I am still going to try.
I could detail numerous stories I have heard about my Grandfather and still not come close to telling them all, or doing any of them true justice. I could talk about his many years as an avid L.A. Dodgers fan, of knowing Tommy Lasorda on a personal level, of being able to park right up front whenever he wanted. I could talk about his dealings with the Teamsters Union in his capacity working in management for various trucking and transport companies, of facing off a few times with Jimmy Hoffa himself. One great story related to that my Mom told me yesterday: There was once an occasion, while working for CME Trucking in the L.A. area, that the Teamsters needed to serve my Grandfather with papers or some sort of order to appear during a particular hearing regarding something or other. My Grandafther knew they were going to serve him and expected it (being management had its bad points sometimes), but he also had heard that the down-low rumor was that either a group within the Teamsters or somehow affiliated with them also wanted to talk to him...and when I say "talk" it comes with that look and tongue-in-cheek reference to how movie mobsters always want to just "talk" and take someone for a "ride". On one particular day, two very large men parked across the street and came up to the door. My Grandfather assumed they were of the not-so-legitimate group, got his Mossberg hunting rifle out (the one he could hunt elephants with...) and told my Grandmother with a growl, "Open the door..." And that is what those two completely legitimate process servers faced. The papers were dropped and their coats flurried behind them as they beat a very hasty retreat. It was a different time...
My Grandfather was born in Missouri in 1919, although there is even some dispute about that; his marker will read 1918, just to be safe as several documents show one or the other date! He grew up with something of a Tom Sawyer-esque upbringing, creating schemes to earn money with his brothers and friends, dirt poor but happy. He played baseball in school and showed such talent that he was offered a scholarship to USC, but the family was so poor that they could not afford to pay his day-to-day living expenses. Ever since, however, my Grandfather retained a love of all things USC and watched as many sports events as possible that featured their teams. It was during The Great Depression that the family moved to California, settling in Turlock, because "that's where the truck finally broke down." There is some question as to when he was added to the roster of the L.A. Angels (not the later-formed MLB team, but rather the minor league Angels) but it had to be sometime shortly after settling in CA. It did not, however, take long before he was scouted and then signed to the Chicago Cubs (who used the Angels as their minor league affiliate), using his signing bonus to buy his first car. His sports career, however, was not destined to be as World War II broke out. I believe it was in late 1942 or early 1943 when he completed his basic training as an Army Ranger (1st Sergeant, 4th Ranger Battalion), he shipped out to Africa by way of England. Somewhere around Gibraltar his transport was torpedoed. It was pretty much touch and go, with the military chaplain giving all those aboard last rites. In the end, they made it through, being towed back to England, back to America to join another team and ship out again. He spent time in North Africa and Tunisia before moving on to Sicily and Northern Italy, as well as taking part in the key battles at Anzio and Monte Cassino. He met General George S. Patton several times (to which point I can recall, while watching George C. Scott's portrayal of Patton, my Grandfather laughed, "You know, he (Patton) really was a goddamn son-of-a bitch!"...but he said it in such a way as to show his admiration), and even witnessed the aftermath of the hanging of Mussolini. His determination and bravery helped him make it through and back home. He finished out his time in the military working with a trucking and transport group, which is the industry he went into after he was discharged.
My Grandfather never judged anyone. He gave everyone he encountered the benefit of the doubt and did his best to help those he came into contact with either through work or even from his time in the Army, giving people jobs and assistance whenever and wherever he could. He woke early everyday to exercise, to swim, and then go to work. He loved his wife and his family without reservation, even as much as some would accuse him of being a workaholic. Again, it was a different time and people had different values. One did what one had to do to better oneself ans support one's family, even if that meant staying late or working long hours. I am sure he must have complained from time to time, but I never heard it. His smile was infectious and his laugh resounding. Even after retiring (several times) from his chosen industry, the contacts he had made and those he had helped in some way during his career always sought him out to do consulting work to help them build their businesses. And he would help them out. That's just the kind of guy he was.
As many things as I could recount, there is one aspect to my Grandfather that I will never forget. When my Mom became pregnant with me at the scandalous age of 16 (in 1966), she had to face much criticism, even from her own family. For a time, she was ostracized by her own mother, my Grandmother, for bringing this disgrace upon the family name. As I have said, times were different; my Grandfather felt his role was more outside the home, "bringing home the bacon", while the day-to-day functionality of the home was given to and ruled over by my Grandmother with an iron fist and resolve of steel. He had no choice but to go along with her choices. And as disappointed at the situation as I am sure he must have been, he never once criticized my Mother. He would make secret trips to see her and I after I was born and we were living in various places with various people, not all of them altogether savory characters. He would try to help out whenever he could. He loved my Mom unconditionally. She was never a "disgrace"; she was his daughter and I was his grandson and he was going to make sure he made every effort he could to see us, goddamn it. Its the old pictures of those moments, as with those taken after my Mother and Grandmother reconciled (not too much longer after my birth) that stick with me. I feel so glad that both my daughter Sloan and my son Devlin were able to experience him in their lives, but get sad knowing the forthcoming twins will have to be satisfied with the stories.
I have had a stepfather that I never really seemed to connect with for most of my younger life and a father whom I did not know until just this past year or so. The single most important man in my life has always been my Grandfather and I can only hope that even just a little bit of his integrity, his honor, his strength, and his great sense of humor has rubbed off on me. He was truly a great man, a great hero, and just simply a great person to know. We all have flaws and we all make mistakes, but if I can claim to have been a fraction of what he was if I have the good fortune to make it to 91 (or 92, as the case may be...), I think I can honestly say I did a good job in this life.
Goodbye, Grandpa. I love you and will miss you.
SPT, July 15, 2010
