Obligatory Introduction Setting the Stage for Grandpa

I am only allowed to use a finite number of words
To describe an infinitely interesting man
I will do my best to let you know the humorous side
Of my Grandpa, as seen and heard firsthand

It only takes a single glance at the family picture to pick out the happiest and most unique of them all. That would be my Grandpa. His real name was Edsel and he was a constant reminder that even with the worst of first names, there was always room to live and laugh ones’ way into the hearts of others.

It was easy, if not natural, for those on the outside looking in to label this 6'4, 250 pound Weeble-Wobble-statuesque man who always wore workpants and drank his whiskey straight, as a simple minded country alcoholic, a sinner who didn’t believe in the Lord Jesus Christ Almighty Savior of All. Those of us whom he called family and friends knew him differently. My Grandpa did things in his own way, in his own time, and died just the way I remembered the first time seeing him.

Sitting in his chair, drink in hand, and reading the local paper. He simply closed his eyes as easily as he had opened them 63 years before.

While my Grandpa’s death didn’t occur with any great drama, his life certainly contained enough to have the preacher out to the house every so often to “check in on God’s children.” A former deacon in the Church, there was still a contingent of men and women who wanted to see this former man of religion find his way back into the promised land. They would visit, on different days than the preacher, to see how he was doing, find out about his green house business, and do a bit of prodding to see if he wanted to come on back to church.

“I got plenty to do and be around here as it is. I don’t know quite what else you are offering me.”

was the usual answer.

And it was the usual way he lived his life, from my Mama’s stories up to my own time with him until his quick death.

If I had to summarize my Grandpa into a single sentence it would be something along the lines of

“Now that was interesting.”

That was my Grandpa and here are a few of my memories of this man who made my mom cry on more than one occasion and laugh on many many more.


The Short Version of Grandpa and the Case of the Missing Moonshine

While my Grandpa had some of the most varietous of people visit his home, from the religious to the whino, the one that sitcks out the most wasn’t the welcomest bunch you’d like to have over for Sunday supper.

It was Federal Agents.

The way my Mom tells it, on a particular fine Sunday afternoon, when her and her 4 siblings were out in the back yard picking pecans, a nice array of black cars and a van pulled up. Having not read the handbook on Southern hospitality, one group of men, without any explanation, grabbed all the kids, and started helping them into the van. The final destination was State of Georgia Foster Care.

Meanwhile, another group of men, were busy placing Grandma and Grandpa under arrest. Apparently, Grandpa had been making quite a living, and having quite a morning hangover, thanks to his populace of moonshine in his backyard.

As they are reading him his rights and getting ready to perform a massive gun attack on the barrels of moonshine standing behind him, Grandpa asked the kind Federal Agents what they had against homemade wine. Mom said she never seen such a smile on Grandpa’s face, as he walked the agents up to his barrels, uncovered the contents, and poured them nice little mason jars full of the finest blackberry wine you ever did see. No one knows how Grandpa knew they’d be there, but he did. The night before, under the cover of darkness, he spent his sleeping hours rolling in barrels, some empty and some with wine in place of the moonshine.

Grandpa was prepared for the day’s activities and I’m betting this was pre-orchestrated the night before. The visit ended with Grandpa asking the Captain of the black car bunch if he’d like to do the honors and say a toast….

“I’d like to thank the Federal Government for taxes and welfare!”

was all they heard as Grandpa helped himself to a slug of wine and a nod of thankfulness, while the Federal Agents grudgingly packed themselves back into the cars.

Why Grandpa Doesn’t Swim Naked Anymore

My summers from age 5 til age 12 were spent with my Grandpa and Grandma in a very secluded section of land tucked between 3 cow pastures and a fishing pond at the end of a un-marked dirt road. I logged in 4 to 8 weeks a summer living there with them while my parents got busy doing things parents do when their kids aren’t around, like running naked in the backyard or something like that.

And speaking of running around naked in the backyard…..

It all started about 2 weeks before I arrived to stay the next month with my Grandma and Grandpa. My younger uncle had caught a 3 foot alligator in one of the ponds and decided it was time to make use of that oversized aquarium they had sitting outside next to the pool. The alligator, affectionately named Shi’thead (pronounced Shi-thed), would spend his evenings in the aquarium and his daytime napping around the pool while my uncle and I would swim. Young alligators are notoriously addicted to Cheetos and are as sedated as a fat cat if one keeps them leashed and full of those cheesy and salty sensations.

On this fateful night, as it was most nights, Grandpa would get himself a good drunk on and sit in the pool naked. The pool was one of those large in-ground pools, much larger than most as Grandpa had decided he’d build it himself and double the size of anything a local contractor would even consider building. The corners at the shallow end of the pool were well rounded and positioned in such a way as to allow a crouched stance but with your head protruding from the water. Grandpa would sit in this corner late at night and lay a large raft over the corner of the pool. This would give him enough room to crouch down in the corner, with a raft covering him, and spend some alone time staring out at the stars with a good stiff drink.

And he usually did this naked.

Maybe it was too many Little Debbie snack cakes or maybe our imagination got the best of us, but what I do remember was at some point my uncle and I decided we would sneak out to the pool, an easy 75 yard walk, and release the alligator into the pool.

Getting the alligator out of the aquarium was easy enough. Simply put a stick in its mouth and when it clamps down, hold his mouth firm, pick him up, and transport as desired. The hard part was getting the alligator into the pool without Grandpa knowing it. We figured that if we at least got the gator close to the water, he’d get in but there is inherently something about chlorine alligators do not desire so well.

To make the transition from ground to chlorine water easier, we very quietly slid the alligator into the pool at the opposite corner and out of sight from the raft covered and “starry eyed” Grandpa. And as luck would have it, the alligator decided he didn’t mind the chlorine and he rather enjoyed the cool sensation of the water on a hot summers night. As the alligator started swimming his way toward the corner of the pool Grandpa was camped out in, my uncle and I hid behind the barbecue pit some 30 feet away and watched the scene unfold.

And so, on a moon lit night, you have naked grandpa, with his drink still sitting on the corner of the pool, with a raft over his head as he stares out into the vastness of his large and blue tinted pool, the raft producing a tunnel vision view of the scene before him. You have an alligator, 3 feet long, swimming in his direction at a steady pace, with his tail moving back and forth creating a miniature wake behind him, destined to make impact with Grandpa’s line of sight at about 10 feet from Grandpa’s face.

My uncle and I are giggling and hiding behind the barbecue pit watching this entire scene unfold, unknown what actually happens when a naked man in a pool encounters a gator at midnight.

Well, we know now.

“Good Gawd Almighty! What in Shit-Fire Damnation! Uggggg! Ahhhhhhh!”

I am not sure whom was more scared, the alligator or Grandpa but what I do know is that I have never seen a man of Grandpa’s size struggle so hard to get out of the shallow end of a swimming pool. His hands waving madly in the air, the raft still airborne from where he threw it high into the sky, his drink a distant memory as it meandered helplessly down the hill, Grandpa fighting against the resistance of water to make his way to the steps. The alligator was swimming wildly, his nose against the concrete pool, trying to find a way out. It didn’t help that he was working his way in Grandpa’s direction as he nudged the sides of the pool.

The time it took for Grandpa to make it from the pool to the house , about 75 yards, was remarkably quicker than the time it took him to make it 12 feet from the corner of the pool to the steps. Oblivious to the stickers that grew in the back yard, Grandpa bolted, butt ass naked, across the yard and went through the back screen door, not even taking the time to open it up properly. I can still hear these words ring out as my uncle and I hid behind the barbecue pit.

“Bobbie Nell! There’s a goddamn gator in the goddamn pool! Where is my goddamn gun!”

I can only imagine how this must have looked to my Grandma as this naked bear of a man came running through screen doors at midnight looking for a gun to shoot a gator living in the pool. What I do know is that when we got back inside, all I could see was a very angry, and naked man, holding a 40 year old shotgun, trying to put shells in it while water poured off his hands into the gun chamber. My Grandma could see the look on our face and she figured out what had happened quick enough to save the alligators life.

What she didn’t save was Grandpa’s pride. It took him a year to see the humor in that escapade.


Grandpa and Hunting for Cops

Most of the time Grandpa was a happy man, drunk or sober. He’d have his flare ups if he overcooked the barbecue or someone peed on his ferns in the greenhouse, but for the most part, he kept his cool.

Unless he found himself cornered by someone’s judgement. And then there was hell to pay. Always.

And so it was, on the day when some 30 people were gathered over at Grandma and Grandpa’s house to enjoy good cooking and a bunch of laughs, that someone made an off hand remark about how wasteful it was for Grandpa to spend his money on a brand new .38 caliber semi-automatic pistol just because he “thought it was a good deal.”

I could see Grandpa shift a bit in his chair but we didn’t really get too worried. It wasn’t until Grandma agreed with that “wasteful purchase” statement that he disappeared into the back of the house, his drink still sitting on the floor. Whenever Grandpa bolted out of a situation AND left his drink behind, there was something cooking in his testosterone supply.

About 5 minutes later, Grandpa emerges with the pistol, holstered between his belly and his navy blue Dickey jeans. He sort of stood there, his demeanor inviting one more smart-ass remark. All was quiet for a few minutes until Grandma noticed the gun and remarked that “the gun Grandpa was wearing didn’t really work and was only good for show…like right now.”

And this was the exact moment Grandpa had been waiting for.

“This gun works just fine!”

he yells as he whips it out of his pants, jacks a shell into the chamber, and points the gun at the brand new Curtis Mathis television that was just purchased by Grandma for the living room.

“BOOM! BOOM!”

“See. It works just fine. It’s your damned TV that’s all messed up!”

was the only thing Grandpa could say before every man, woman, and child in that house ran our fannies off for the door, not knowing if he’d try to prove the unworthiness of other household items, mainly one of us.

I am uncertain if Grandma really wanted the police to show up when she jumped on the phone and called the local Sheriff, but Grandpa took it as yet another test against his gun supply and pride. Before we could get the ringing out of our ears, Grandpa met us all outside, dressed head to toe in camouflage, and holding his shotgun in one hand and a camouflage stool with a padded seat in the other.

There was only one entrance to the house and it was via a small dirt road. Grandpa, with remarks to the affect of “Tell that Sheriff I’ll be waiting for him!”, positioned himself right in the middle of the road, sitting on his stool, with the shotgun in his lap. If you were an outsider looking in, you’d think he was hunting ducks.

After about an hour, we all started to see the humor in this. Grandpa wasn’t really going to shoot anybody and he was just proving his point that he’s entitled to buy what he wants to buy and you’d better just leave his money and decisions alone. Grandma quietly called the Sheriff back and told him to not bother, that it was taken care of.

However, she didn’t tell Grandpa this. I didn’t readily keep time very well at the age of 10, but I do remember that Grandpa pretty much sat out there for the rest of the afternoon, just waiting for that Sheriff to show up. People came and went from the house, Grandpa gently waving to each person who rode by, wondering what in the hell this fool was doing sitting in the middle of the road with a shotgun.

As the night fell, Grandpa figured out the Sheriff wasn’t going to come out to the house, so he meandered his way inside, fixed supper, and rang the Sheriff himself.

“Sheriff, this is Edsel Wade. I sure missed you coming out today. We had some really good barbecue. And, by the way, I have money and I can spend it any way I damned well please. If you got a problem with that, you might want to stay home.”

Grandpa never apologized to anyone for his behavior that day. And no one who was there ever cornered that man again.


Grandpa and Making Deals

Grandpa was what you would call an Independent Colony Free Thinker. If he could, he would have waged war with any government agency threatening his way of life and ideals. A staunch “it’s none of your business” kind of man, he did everything in cash only. His taxes, and income/expense records, were so miniscule that he qualified for welfare the majority of the time he was alive, despite the fact he never lacked for anything and always had a wad of Benjamin Franklins in his pocket.

He never had to apply for a loan and he never hired anybody to build anything, from the house to the pool. He didn’t shop for groceries as much as most. He relied on taking things “where they walked or swam” and eating them in short order. I think the funnest thing I ever did during the summer was eat welfare cheese, sprinkled on turtle soup, while watching pirated satellite.

And he loved a good deal no matter how inappropriate the purchase.

For a living, Grandpa made his money selling flowers. He built 2 green houses in the back yard and grew ferns and other popular “show” plants. And every month, he would take his large van that looked exactly like an extended milk truck, to South Carolina to a place they called the “Jockey Lot.” From what I can gather when I went with him on one of his trips, it is a cross between a flea market and an outdoor camping site, except the campers are selling things while they camp.

Grandpa owned a few “selling sites” there where he, like the other thousands of people, would bring their wares to the open market and make some money. To some people, this is how they made side cash. Grandpa made his entire living selling flowers in an outdoor flea market to people who spread the word on his behalf. He was charming enough to sell a garter belt to a nun.

But one of Grandpa’s weaknesses was “deals”. Anything that sounded too good to be true was exactly what he was looking for. And it was during one of my summers that I got a glimpse of several of his sometimes bad, and always odd, deals.

“Look what I got! Boys help me bring these in out of the truck! You won’t believe this!”

The look on my Grandma’s face told the story long before I knew the ending. Stacked in the back of his truck were boxes and boxes of TV’s he purchased from a vendor at the Jockey Lot Flea Market Extravaganza. From 20 inches up to 32, these boxes promised each room in his 5 bed room hand-built home a chance to tap into the pirated satellite and watch color television for the first time.

As my uncle and I started toting them into the house, they seemed a bit oddly weighted. Even a 10 year old knows that a television doesn’t roll back and forth and make jingling noises when the weight is shifted. And the televisions didn’t have the same weight as was appropriate for their size. The 32 inch TV box weighed 20 pounds less than the 22 inch TV box while the 20 incher required all three of us to get into the house.

So, there we were, Grandma, myself, and my uncle huddled around 5 large boxes of different brands of TV, from Zenith to Curtis Mathis, in the large living room. Grandpa was holding his pocketknife, grinning like a kid on Christmas day but with the adult fortitude to use a pocketknife, pacing around each box undecided as to which one he should open first.

“Let’s start with the Curtis Mathis!”

he spoke as he performed surgery on the duct tape holding the top two flaps together.

It occurred to me, at this point, that Grandpa had not even opened the boxes, somehow making their way from purchase to 2 days of personal transit without the least bit of fondling.

The look on this mans face was a cross between somber and hell-fire, as he pulled out brick after brick, packaged in tape and paper, from the large box....only to find himself the proud owner of a “maybe-12 inch” black and white television with the rabbit ears chopped off at the base so they would fit into the box without much fuss.

“Well Edsel, that’s quite the 32 inch color television you got there”

said Grandma, the only voice of reason in the house that wasn’t chuckling like my uncle and I.

The knife carvings became fiercer as Grandpa went from box to box, removing brick and newspaper and boxed up nuts/bolts, only to find various models of black and white television sets stuffed into the bottom. As he stacked the TV’s in the corner, still careful since they might actually work, Grandpa sort of stood there, knife in hand, look of dismay on his face, while his mind worked up exactly he would do to the man who sold him these televisions.

But, first, he had to at least check and see if the TV’s worked, apparently making the punishment for the bastard who sold him this "shit", less extreme than his conscience would allow.

And that required a good bottle of Dickey’s Whiskey.

At the end of the day, none of the TV’s made it into any of the bedrooms but he did find some good use for the bricks. They were found that evening politely shoved into the front of the TV’s with the gentleness of a rocket.


Just Grandpa

It never fails with me. I always find the real joy in knowing a person long after they have gone. I never savored those days spent watching him cook some of the best food and laugh some of the strongest laughs. I never admired his quirks and uniqueness the way I do now. We always judged Grandpa because of his affinity for alcohol and his lack of “religiousness”. Looking back at it now, Grandpa was more spiritual a person than I ever was. He lived in the day, was dedicated to his family, and never once lived life the way everyone else told him he should live it.

My Grandpa would have been a prime candidate for AA, the organization and therapists easily bestowing upon him the label of “functioning alcoholic”. But that label would be so unbecoming of him. My Grandpa lived out what was inside of him without any guilt or remorse. The price of admission into the realm of the human is birth and death. But the realm of the Spirit, the realm of what made my Grandpa, Edsel Wade, the kind of person he was, and still is, lives forever.

If anything, my Grandpa taught me that there must be a dichotomy within life. Summers require winter. Joy requires sadness. That which some call pain, others call pleasure. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, my Grandpa is still enjoying the things he loved the most about being human. Good friends. Good living. Good laughing. Good guns. Good pool. Good cooking. Good deals.

And Good drinking.

At the end of the day, I’m glad my Grandpa made a decision to do it his way. It would have been boring as hell with Deacon Grandpa running the show. And I would not be the kind of person I am today were it not for his uniqueness.

Grandpa, I’ll drink to that.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.01.2010

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