Grandpa......

The old man was special to me.  There was a depth to him that set him apart.  He was a dreamer, a spiritual whirlpool that could---and did---mesmerize a young boy.  

As a youngster himself---just 17 years old or so---he was whisked from his rural Missouri home to serve with the American Expeditionary Forces in the great WWI.  Oh, what an education he got from that!  Sometimes he would talk about the time he spent in France, and I loved hearing about his experiences there.


Grandpa's Handwritten Caption at the Bottom Reads "Full War Paint".  Taken in France C 1917. 

 The man---Fred was his name---or, more correctly, Frederick---came from a dirt-poor background.  He was born on the American prairie, and his family had no money.  Apparently, however, they did have love, which I have come to understand is all anyone really needs.


Grandpa and Me at Chicago's Comiskey Park for a White Sox Baseball Game, C 1954

 He seldom raised his voice; but when he did, people listened.  He was quiet most of the time, and people used to say that my grandma was really the leader of their home, because she was much more vocal.  But people were wrong about that.

When he was 86 years old, grandpa fell one day at home and broke his hip.  They took him to the Veteran's Hospital.  He languished there for two months.  Grandma was there with him the whole time. 

A Favorite Photograph of My Grandparents

And then one day they came into the waiting room and told us that the old man had passed away.  My mom, grandma and I went to see his body.  Grandma touched him as he laid there.  "He's so cold....." she said in a low, sad tone. 

He died in 1986---a quarter century ago.  Funny, you know, how  he lives even today within me.  It's almost like he never passed away at all.