Monday, January 23, 2012

MY GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE

I wrote this in memory of my grandfather.

When I think of my grandfather I always picture the old house in Tarzana. That's where I spent my first years. It was kind of a crazy house. The bedrooms started out as a garage, and the kitchen was an uphill climb from the entry. Yet, I remember how so many things there reflected my grandfather; "Pampa" I called him.

I remember how he once offered me a medal if I could open the false-drawer front under the kitchen sink. I remember cowboy boots, and the huge paper-littered desk in the entry hall, and the driveway that seemed a mile long to my boyhood eyes. Room additions, horses, and a real-live corral in the backyard are indelibly etched in my mind.

I remember Christmases, summer vacations, and walnuts--green, brown, and black--littering the lawn. And the smells... Cigar smoke, polish, leather, fresh plaster, horses and tack. Hay, oats, straw, coffee and harsh, astringent, liniment.

I remember my grandfather himself; stern and often impatient with eight noisy grandsons, yet often holding me on his knee, tickling until I begged for mercy. A hard man to adequately describe in this age of sensitive males, he would not have been ashamed to be called a "man's man." He was tough and crusty, with little patience for fools. Yet there wasn't much he wouldn't do for you at need.

I guess the picture that typifies my grandfather is him, sitting at the breakfast table before dawn, coffee cup in hand, solving the problems of a weary world.

I remember my grandfather, Edgar G. Resh.

2 comments:

Dan Smith said...

This makes me think of my own grandfather, Allen Smith, who will forever be my first and best mentor. May they both rest in the Father in peace.

Don the Baptist said...

Amen.