Playing cow pasture pool again

I arrived at the driving range on Belle Isle Monday night a little after 7 p.m. I opened my trunk, pulled out my golf bag and tried to unzip one of the pockets. The zipper was frozen and would not budge. I tried another pocket and encountered a similar result.

I guess I should pull my clubs out more than once every 11 or so years. But the last time I played, I played with Gumpy the summer before his heart valve replacement and pancreatic cancer diagnosis and a part of me couldn't see enjoying cow pasture pool without him. 

My clubs have made at least five moves with me since I last played with him. Each time, I think I should just sell the clubs instead of lug them to another location and each time, I decide against it. They've collected dust for the past two years in our basement. 

They saw the light of day because a few colleagues were playing in a best-ball tournament and needed someone else to fill out the foursome (the foursome was never filled, by the way). I decided that I should try again and if I really didn't enjoy myself, the next time my clubs would see daylight would be at our neighborhood yard sale. 

The first few swings were rough. My muscle memory was gone. I couldn't find my stance but I'd bought a large bucket of balls to hit and I hate wasting money, so I pressed on. Eventually, I remembered a few things and the swing started coming back. I would hit a ball well and smile, knowing that Gumpy would have been encouraging me. I would shank the next one, and I would smile knowing that Gumpy would have told me what I needed to do differently on the next swing. When I walked off the driving range, I was sore and on a mission to find a new bag.

Today, armed with new golf shoes, a new bag and 36 new golf balls, I hit the links for the PRSA Open. It took a few holes, but I finally started to hit the ball pretty well all things considered. I can't muscle the ball the way I used to, which is probably why I was able to hit the ball pretty straight when I did make good contact, a fact that would have amused Gumpy to no end. When I had a bad shot, I didn't dwell on it like I used to, which would have made Gumpy proud. I was able to enjoy Gumpy's favorite game him physically there with me, even though I felt closer to him than I have in years. 

All the good memories I have of playing golf with Gumpy came dripping back to me, hole after hole. I'm glad I pulled the clubs out of the basement and I promise, it won't be another 11 years before I bring them out again.   

The end of a shaving era

Gumpy's electric razor finally stopped working a few weeks ago.  It was a decent razor.  Nothing fancy, just a plain electric razor with a small trimmer.   It couldn't have cost more than $40 but it was always good for a decent, quick shave. 

So it's back to the disposable razors that seem to last for two shaves before my baby face painfully lets me know I need to get a new razor.  Regardless of shaving implement, I still chuckle a little every time I shave thinking about Gumpy.

Any discussion about my grandfather and shaving has to start with his mustache.  He loved that mouse-pelt under his nose.  When I was a kid he favored the handlebar look, complete with goose grease, otherwise known as mustache wax to those outside the family.  As he got older, the mustache transitioned from a Rollie Fingers-esque creation to something more subdued.  Every so often, he would talk about trimming it off for good but he kept the mustache for at least 35 years. 

The mustache was more than just facial hair, it was the mark of a man who knew that a well-kept appearance was key to being successful in whatever someone wanted to do.  And God had given him one body to take care of during his time on Earth, so it was part of his covenant with God to keep a neat appearance. 

Staying true to that covenant led to the first time I remember feeling that I was finally able to help him.  He was in the Cleveland Clinic recovering from heart valve surgery and my sister and I drove out to visit.  We arrived during a heated discussion between my grandparents about what Gumpy would eat for lunch.  Ema insisted he eat the fried chicken and Gumpy insisted she was trying to make him worse by feeding him chicken.

When the peanut butter sandwich arrived and he ate a bit, we were able to talk Ema into taking a break from her diligent care giving.  That is when Gumpy asked me to help him shave.  That little electric razor, the same one that recently gave its life trying to fight through my stubble, was charged up and ready for the task.  But Gumpy had been sick for months before his surgery and was a little too weak to get the job done without some help.

I don't remember the old boy ever having a beard, just the mustache.  He disliked the way stubble felt on his neck, so he was vigilant in his daily shaving routine.  We started there and finished the job in a few minutes, leaving the mustache in tact for trimming later. 

As I finished, you could tell he felt like a new man.  He felt just a little more normal that afternoon.  He felt like he was doing his best to keep his covenant.  And I felt like I was finally able to do something meaningful for Gumpy. 

When he passed away a few years later, Ema asked me if I wanted the razor.  As a practical matter, I really needed one at the time.  Disposable razors are expensive, especially when you have a baby face like mine, so part of me was happy for the gift.  And the razor could be looked at as a good allegory for his life.  Dependable, easy going, great at what it was designed to do and purposeful.  So I accepted it without hesitation and did what any good Midwestern grandson would do with it.  I shaved regularly.

Alas, now it is time to purchase a new razor.  I think I might spend a few extra bucks and get something a little fancier.  Maybe one with a trimmer that always works.  Or maybe one designed to help men with sensitive skin keep from feeling like another layer of face has been removed. 

I am going to miss that little razor.   

My new suit

Until very recently, the work I do rarely requires wearing a suit on a regular basis.  As I become a better writer and my reputation within Detroit social media circles grows, I find myself in more situations where I need properly tailored suit.  With somewhat of a heavy heart, I realize my days of being able to go to every meeting in jeans with a t-shirt and sport coat are numbered.

I have a few suits but only one of them has ever fit properly so I end up just wearing one suit everywhere, which isn't a good look when you start having more than one meeting per month that requires better attire.

Since Gumpy took me suit shopping for the first time, I have gone for a few on my own with mixed results.  Finding a good tailor is the difficult part for me, so I was more than a little hesitant to go this time.    

Walking into Sam's Tailor Shop, I could hear Gumpy's voice in the back of my head reminding me of his guide to buying the right suit.  Make sure it is 100% wool, worsted wool if you can because it will last longer.  Make sure the sport coat does not pucker up between your shoulder blades, it is a sign of poor tailoring and lack of attention to your appearance.  A well tailored suit is always a handsome suit, so spend the money to make sure it is tailored correctly.  It is better to be conservative with style and color, this is an investment that should last several years so don't make your suit choice too trendy. 

I walked right over to the suits and Ali, the tailor, starts showing me different looks.  I decisively chose the third suit I looked at, a nice Navy blue with a subtle medium tone blue pin stripe.  We measured for tailoring, I paid and left with my claim ticket to pick up my suit.  

Yesterday I picked up my suit.  It looks great and I couldn't ask for better tailoring.

More importantly, purchasing this suit gave me the chance to replay a few memories of Gumpy in my head.  It gave me a chance to remember just how much he enjoyed exchanging the cowboy boots for dress shoes or a golf shirt for a dress shirt and tie.  I was able to enjoy the memories of the day we spent shopping together and chuckle again at some of the stories he loved telling about his days negotiating contracts for the union. 

I can't wait to buy another suit. 

Gumpy meets Ema, her version

For many years, my understanding of my grandparents relationship came through Gumpy's stories.  We spent many hours on the golf course and many more working around the farm together.  Since his passing, I've prodded Ema a bit more to get her version of things.

Gladys and I stopped by the farm a few days before our second wedding anniversary to spend some time with Ema.  It had been a few weeks and she wasn't feeling her best, so we were all hoping a little company would help revive her spirits.

We talked about a lot of things that night, like the vacation she took with her parents her first year of teaching in Waldron.  And the subject of Waldron took us to the subject of how my grandparents met.

Ema had been teaching in town for a few months.  She lived with Kate Fox, who was the owner of the Waldron Telephone Company.  Her house was a few blocks from the school, which convenient because everyone at Waldron High School had the same lunch hour so they could go home for a proper meal before the start of afternoon classes.

This particular day, it had been raining.  She started walking with an umbrella in hand when a car pulled up.  Inside the car were a few of her students including Mary Lou Farnham and her older cousin Elbert (Gumpy) Carpenter was behind the wheel.  Ema had been warned about him, he did have a reputation for enjoying barley pops and a good bar a bit too much.  Her students insisted she ride with them, so she got in the front seat.

As she walked into the house, she could feel Kate's look of disapproval.  Ema decided to leave a little early so she could avoid the inevitable ride back to school.  With a block to go, she hears a horn blaring.  The car that was approaching was Elbert's, and the girls insisted she get in to ride the last block to school.

A few weeks later, he asked her if she would go with him for a cup of coffee.  Reluctantly, she agreed.  When he arrived, Ema saw her four squealing students in the back seat, excited that Ms. Hallenbeck was going on a date with Elbert.  Unbenounced to Ema, Elbert had made it a routine to take Mary Lou and her friends to a teen dance in Fayetteville, OH every Saturday, where he would drink coffee in the back with several other chaperons.  They sat in a corner and talked for much of the evening.

And as the saying goes, the rest is history.

Golfing with Gumpy on Father's Day

My favorite memory of Gumpy on Father's Day was the year my grandparents took us to Idaho to visit my Uncle Jim and his family.  It had been only a few weeks since my dad declared that he wasn't going to be living with us any longer, which was the beginning of my tumultuous teenage existence.  I was angry, confused, hurt and generally unpleasant at best to deal with.

We arrived in Lewiston a few days before Father's Day with the fifth-wheel in tow, which gave us plenty of room for two sets of golf clubs, mine and Gumpy's.  I am not sure of the exact sequence of events, but somehow we decided to play in a father-son golf tournament at Bryden Canyon Golf Course.  The course was on top of a bluff overlooking the subdivision Jim lived in, which was the most remarkable thing about the course.  It played fairly easily with little water to contend with, which was well suited to my game.

It was overcast and occasionally drizzly the day of the tournament, which I suppose is a rarity given that the course still boasts it only receives nine inches of rain each year.  Jim teamed up with his step-son Reid and Gumpy teamed up with me.  Since Gumpy nor I knew our handicap, that was determined by the score of our first two holes.  Luckily, those happened to be my worst two holes of the day.  

The format of the tournament had the "father-son" combination rotate shots, so I would take every other shot regardless of how well I was playing.  I remember stroking a few worm-burners (the term Gumpy preferred for shots that never made it off the ground) and missing a few easy putts those first two holes.  Gumpy played his steady, straight as a string game.  He never hit the ball hard but usually struck the ball pretty straight which helped him keep his scores reasonably low.  We ended up having a pretty decent score, good enough to avoid humiliation.

We usually walked the golf course, so this tournament was a bit of a treat for me because we rented a cart to ride in.  This was also the first time I was allowed to drive a golf cart, so Gumpy spent the entire day coaching me on how to accelerate and stop properly.  We avoided mud puddles and he was very adamant about me not spinning the wheels in the mud.  The only reason I remember that is he watched Reid do it and knew I probably wanted to follow his path, so he put the kibosh on me pretty quickly. 

On the surface, this memory seems pretty unremarkable and I really do not want to give it weight than it deserves.  Gumpy and I played hundreds of rounds of golf together, this certainly was not our first nor our last.  We had already signed the best buddy contract and I was just beginning to understand that my dad wasn't coming home.  

What makes it remarkable to me is that this is the first Father's Day I didn't spend with my dad and Gumpy just stepped in.  There were no grand speeches, no proclamations, just his calming presence that I came to rely on.  This is my second Father's Day without him, I have no idea how I would have gotten here without his presence.  Thanks Gump, I miss you.  

Skinny the Baby

When I was 14, my grandparents took my sister and I on a wild adventure to Washington, D.C.  Okay, wild is a bit much.  The closest thing we got to wild was watching our first drug bust in a parking lot inside the Great Smokey Mountain National Forest.

The trip was fun, even for an angst filled teenager.  We went to the Lincoln Memorial, took a tour of the White House, wandered around the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and walked through the Vietnam Memorial.  When we left D.C., Gumpy pointed our little fliver (his affectionate term for a car) west to take us down the Shenandoah Parkway and the Blue Ridge Parkway, which were filled with gorgeous vistas that I still appreciate today.

One thing that is burned into my memory of that trip is the little song he liked to sing.  He started teaching us the words to Skinny the Baby until Ema told him to stop.  We only learned the first verse and by the time he thought I was old enough to be taught the second verse, he could no longer remember the words.  

The first verse:
Went downtown to see my lady,
Nobody's home but Skinny the Baby.
I was drunk and he was sober, 
He blew his nose and he knocked me over.

If you know the rest of the words to this song, please share them with me.  It's been 23 years since I learned the first part, I still want to know what Ema wouldn't let him tell me!

My watch

I don't wear the watch Gumpy gave me for my college graduation very often.  I usually save it for special occasions or big meetings where I think I need just a little edge.  I wore it last night again, this time for the graduation ceremony at Maple Valley High School, which I attended to help hand out the awards for the Maple Valley Memorial Scholarship Foundation.

My high school graduation was not much of a milestone for me.  Sure it was important but we had moved to Traverse City in my Sophomore year of high school, so I had little emotional connection to my school and going to college was already a forgone conclusion in my mind.  That high school diploma was more of my ticket into college than a piece of paper to celebrate.  Family came out to visit and I had a graduation party with my best friend at the time, but it is not the graduation I am most proud of.

That day came six years later when I graduated from Oakland University with my Bachelors in Political Science.  Walking across stage at the Meadowbrook Music Theater, shaking Dr. Nesbary's hand first then having Dr. Klemanski hand me my diploma was an incredibly memorable experience.  I had worked hard, paying for school myself and I felt like I had earned every drop of ink on that certificate.

Afterward, we had a party at my Aunt and Uncle's house with family and close friends.  Gumpy gave me my watch that day, telling me just how proud he was of me.  My watch was just like his watch that I had admired for many years.  It symbolized that Gumpy was proud of me and my accomplishment.  It is a gift that I will always cherish.

Twelve years later, after aggressively fighting cancer for years, he began to really worry about me having something to remember him by.  He came back to the watch as the one accessory that a man needed to complete a professional look, and he wanted to give me a watch like his.  Whenever he was worried that I didn't have a watch, I would remind him that he gave me one just like his for graduation.  He would usually seem shocked, then pleased when Ema reminded him that I was correct.  And I would always be a little bit heartbroken, knowing that he could no longer remember one of my favorite days with him.  He desperately wanted to win his fight to the death with cancer, so he did everything he could to win.  The aggressive chemotherapy treatments that were meant to extend his life did just that, they extended his physical time with us.  Those same treatments robbed us all of the best of Gumpy.

When I wear the watch now, I always pause for a minute.  The green and red leaves that surround the 12 and 6 positions are a bit understated.  Citizens watches are not spectacular timepieces, they are functional.  I pause not for the beauty of the watch, although I find it to be a nice looking timepiece.  I pause with a twinge of pain, knowing that my proud, strong grandfather could no longer remember the moments in our relationship we both cherished.  That pain quickly fades to a smile, because putting the watch on gives me another reason to think about why Gumpy gave it to me and the college graduation tradition I hope to continue.

My Early Memories of Gumpy

Memories can be fickle.   They can be vivid one day and fleeting the next.  They can cause great sorrow and happiness without rhyme or reason.  

For me, looking through photos gets me headed down a sentimental path.  Going to certain places, eating certain foods and talking with family can trigger other memories.  Memories are full of fact and imagination since our minds do not like gaps in stories.  Ema reminds me of this on occasion because she remembers the childhood of her children in a very different way than they do.

I have been struggling with some of my memories lately.  Nothing bad per se, just the fact that I have few vivid memories of Gumpy from my early childhood.  The amount and varied hours he worked have something to do with this lack.  The big factor, the one I have been reconciling lately is the fact that my Dad was an active influence for me until I was 13 years old.

My dad was a pretty good father until the lure of pot, cocaine and alcohol proved to be irresistible.  There were endless games of "Monkey in the Middle" in our hallway, countless hours of playing catch and practicing baseball fundamentals.  We would listening to Ernie Harwell and Paul Carey announce Tiger baseball, interspersed with his memories of listening to Chicago Cubs games as a kid.  We use to have boxing matches in the living room until I learned how to knock the wind out of him.  I had a happy childhood filled with great memories.

Those memories have been causing a bit of pain lately.  It has been over 12 years since I last spoke with my dad and I had given up on him being anything but a junkie long before then.  When my dad could not be a father, my grandfather stepped in.  While he could never be my dad, Gumpy allowed me to grieve the loss of my father while giving me a steadying presence.  It was his influence that allowed me to escape my teenage years with minimal scarring.

The pain of my memories comes from wishing I had experienced those things with my grandfather instead because my grandfather remained steadfast in his love for me and our family.  It has been a year and a half since Gumpy passed away and the void left in my heart is sometimes paralyzing.  It is up to me now to provide that steadying presence.    

I do have great memories of Gumpy from my early childhood.  I was pretty young when he taught me how to test an electric fence without getting poked.  I do remember hearing WITL 100 blaring on the tractor radio when he would be pulling into the barn.  I was always pretty excited when I got to go back to the woods and help him get another load of wood to keep the fireplace warm.  There was a trip to Mackinaw with my grandparents that I am sure was more fun for me and my sister.  The irrational kid in me is begging for stronger memories right now, and I am left unable to satisfy that demand.

The strongest memories, though, are from when I was 13 years old until Gumpy passed away.  It was then I learned how to treat other people.  It was then when I learned about work ethic.  It is when I learned what it meant to love and want the best for each member of your family.

Memories are little more than movies of our lives that we continue to edit and view again through out our life.  The script has last minute changes.  Characters make appearances, some longer than others.  You are always learning different ways to tell the stories.  While some of my movie might leave something to be desired in terms of storytelling, I made myself an attentive apprentice to Gumpy.  I hope he approves of my production skills.  

How to Win at Golf

By the time I was in college, my golfing routine with Gumpy had changed.  I went to the farm once a week during the summer, so I only had the chance to work on my golf game once a week.  Gumpy, however, practiced almost everyday.  While I had the strength and size advantage, he countered with superior knowledge of the course and cunning.

That cunning manifested itself in the form of big chores for me.

One morning, Gumpy decided that the tree on the edge of Shaytown Road on the old fence row next to the chicken coop needed to be chopped down.  It wasn't much of a tree and it was too close to the field for Gumpy's comfort.  We quickly got to work with his old Stihl chainsaw.  The tree came down pretty easily and the branches were trimmed off quickly, so we decided to head to the golf course.  Gumpy won pretty easily because my arms were shaking so much I couldn't properly grip the club.  

Having not learned my lesson, a the next summer we decided to break up the concrete floor in one of the barns before our golf game.  He wanted a new cement slab to park his truck on while my grandparents wintered in Florida, and to accomplish this, the old floor needed to go.  Woodchucks and raccoons had compromised the old floor by tunneling underneath it, so breaking the old floor apart sounded like a pretty easy job.  All it required was a jackhammer.  

By this time in Gumpy's life, he wasn't much good for heavy lifting.  In his words, he was too heavy for light work and too light for heavy work.  So I hoisted the rented electric jackhammer into the back of the truck and we drove back to the farm.  

The actual breaking of the concrete floor didn't take as long as either of us had estimated.  Once I figured out a rhythm, the jackhammer worked slicker than the hair on a schoolmarms leg.  A project we both figured would take at least four hours was done in one hour.  It opened up plenty of time for a quick nine holes of cow pasture pool.

Feeling pretty strong, I was confident I could take the old boy, so I agreed to go to Mulberry Fore in Nashville, MI with him.  It was our secondary course.  We both loved Centenial Acres in Sunfield but we decided on Mulberry Fore to avoid the golf leagues.  Playing on the new nine at Mulberry, our first hole was a nice 350 yarder.  Nice and straight with open grass on the left and a tree line on the right.  Gumpy stepped up and stroked his trademark straight-as-a-string 180 yard tee shot.

I confidently approached my tee shot.  I knew if I killed it, I would be able to drive close enough for a nice chip shot onto the green and a shot at a birdie.  I wound up and took a hefty swing.  When the club hit the ball, I yelped in pain and almost lost my grip of the club.  My forearms were so tight and sore from controlling the jackhammer that I could barely stand the pain.  Needless to say, my approach to the game was much different that day!

I think I beat Gumpy in golf once or twice in my life.  We played a lot of golf together but he always seemed to be a little sharper in the short game than me, or a little more prepared than me.  But most of the time he won because he was just a little too clever for me.  

    

I Still Give Thanks With Gumpy

My last Thanksgiving with Gumpy was terrible, yet I would not trade the time with him for anything.  The chemotherapy and radiation treatments left his body in a weakened condition, which caused his hemoglobin levels to drop to dangerously low levels a few times.  The first time this happened, the treatment was so aggressive to bring him back that it induced congestive heart failure, leaving him restricted on the amount of fluid he could take in for the rest of his life.

The pain caused by bodily functions now compromised was excruciating, leaving him in tears on several occasions.  I sat in the one bathroom at the farmhouse with him for several hours that Thanksgiving, trying to help him get through the torment of his failing body.  

Remembering that day is unfortunately easy, but I embrace happier memories of Thanksgiving with the old boy.

As a kid, I loved going to the farm for Thanksgiving.  We lived on the back 40 acres, so we would hop in the car and ride the half mile up to the house.  Sure, we could have walked up there as we did all summer but Thanksgiving was always at the tail end of firearm deer season, so walking on our own property was occasionally dangerous.

We would leave as soon as the Thanksgiving Parade shows on Channel 6 and Channel 10 went off the air.  Mom would have Rebekah and I bundled in sweaters to keep us warm.  I would bounce into the farmhouse because it was always so warm and smelled so tasty.  To keep my appetite at bay, Ema would have orange and grapefruit slices out, which I always used to enhance my smile.  Gumpy would be in the basement, tending to the Florida room so I would wander down to see if I could help stack firewood or tend the fire.

Mom and Aunt Moose would be busy trying to help Ema get the dining room and food in order.  For most of the year, the dining room in the small house was used as an all-purpose room.  Ema used it as more of an office, with her desk in one corner of the room and paperwork stacked on top of the dining room table.  Gumpy used it as a changing room.  You would find his wallet and pocket change on the table with his dirty jeans draped over one of the chairs.  Family meals were usually eaten at the kitchen table, with the exception of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

By the time everything was ready, at least two members of the King family would have arrived to share the meal with us.  As we gathered around the table, Gumpy would start the family grace,

"For these and all other blessings, the Lord make us truly thankful.  Amen."

Dinner would end and we would leave for Grandma and Grandpa Lingholm's for our second Thanksgiving dinner.  Afterward, we would return to the farm for desert which was always a pumpkin pie with whipped topping and the occasional apple grunt.  In most families, a grunt would be referred to as an apple cobbler.  However, Gumpy called it a grunt because you wanted to grunt when you pushed yourself away from the table after eating so much of it.

There was little remarkable about the day itself, other than the opportunity to spend a day with family, which was why Gumpy always seemed to enjoy the day so much.  As with many traditions, life got in the way.  It started with Ema and Gumpy retiring and spending much of the winter in Florida.  Mom moved us to Traverse City after she divorced her first husband and that tore away a bit of the tradition too.  Now I've remarried and I've spent the past few Thanksgivings in Tampa with Gladys' family.

What remains of our tradition are the memories of enjoyable times with family and the basis for a new tradition of my own, an evening to reflect on how much I love Gumpy.  Happy Thanksgiving old boy!

Handing me the car keys

I'm not exactly sure when it started, but I drove almost every time Gumpy and I went somewhere together after I started college. There was little begging on my part, usually he just tossed me the keys on the way out the door.

What made this remarkable was how much he loved driving himself.  Few people could ever drive the right way.  He was very particular about how someone should drive, so much so that he would not let my mom drive his truck without appropriate lessons.  Even after administering the lessons, he still wouldn't relinquish the keys to his truck to her.

I know his penchant for perfect driving started when he asked his dad for permission to drive the family car for the first time.  A few years earlier his brother had borrowed the family car and had a wreck that totaled the two week old vehicle.  So Gumpy's dad let him borrow the car with the understanding that it would be returned dent and scratch free.

Even in his colorful late teens and early twenties, the car was always returned without a scratch.  He only had two speeding tickets on his driving record, which he received in Bellevue, MI.  After the second one, he told the officer that he would no longer be spending any money in Bellevue.  It was a promise he kept until he stopped driving.

He never accelerated hard, always gave plenty of room between him and the car in front of him and would only slam on the breaks to avoid an accident.  He did not accelerate up to a stop sign, he would see the sign and take his foot off the gas, allowing the car to coast until it was time to stop.  When the car was up to cruising speed, he did his best to keep the flivver at that speed consistently.  Even when he was pulling a 5th wheel trailer, riding with him was drama free.

I must have picked up some of that because he rarely complained about my driving.  He would comment if I was accelerating a bit too fast for his liking and he hated when I would drive my customary five miles per hour over the speed limit.  Even with his occasional complaints, he always rode shotgun.  I still miss having him as my passenger.

My Grandfather's Music

One area of life Gumpy and I never saw eye-to-eye on was music.  If you look at my I-Pod, you will find a wide variety of music.  I love Urge Overkill, good trance, smooth jazz and I've learned to stomach some 80's music.  I could never get my mind around the bluegrass and country Gumpy loved.

When Gumpy was out in the field, he had a small radio attached to the fender of his Massey Ferguson tractor.  It was always tuned to WITL, Lansing's only country music station.  I watched countless episodes of Hee-Haw because my grandfather loved the show.  It is where I learned such ditties as,

Gloom, dispair and agony on me,

Deep dark depression, excessive misery.

If it weren't for bad luck,

I'd have no luck at all.

Gloom dispair and agony on me!  

Since I've been thinking about him a lot lately, I thought you might enjoy a few of his favorite tunes.  I know I am starting too myself.

The Zen of Lawn Mowing

Gumpy loved mowing the lawn.  It was almost an obsession.  Things needed to be just so over the two acres he mowed during the summer.  The length of grass was different depending on the season.  Spring grass was usually cut at the highest setting because the yard was full of weeds that had been cut for decades, so it grew too quickly for a short trim.  Late fall trimming always meant Gumpy would cut the grass as short as possible, almost scalping the yard.  In theory, this allowed the leaves to blow freely off the property, making leaf raking unnecessary.

I never really understood this obsession.  As a kid, it was fun to mow because it was almost like driving.  I mowed faithfully in college because Gumpy asked me to do it, not because I liked it.  Truthfully, I hate mowing the law.  I guess that makes my lawn mowing epiphany last week just a little ironic.

Since Gumpy became ill, Ema has relied on various friends and family members to do this vital chore.  Most recently, a gentleman from church had been doing the mowing.  What his work lacks in perfection is more than made up for by his dedication to fulfill his obligation to my grandparents.  Unfortunately, a heart condition has knocked him out of commission for a few weeks.  So I decided I might as well mow again.

The day I picked to mow was fairly rainy.  Conditions were less than ideal, but the job needed to be done so as soon as the clouds broke, I hopped on the John Deere riding mower (Gumpy called it the Cadillac of mowers).  The wet grass was just too heavy for me to mow at my regular breakneck pace, so I had plenty of time to think.  When I reached the stand of pines on the east side of the yard, I finally realized why my grandfather enjoyed mowing.

It was HIS time alone.  It was his time to think without interruption or distraction.  It was his time to reflect on what God had given him and what he would do with those gifts.

He was always busy; working for the railroad, farming the family farm, being an active Union member and his favorite duty of all, being a loving father.  He was devoted to his family, often making the two hour drive to his hometown of Waldron after work to pick up his mother so she could spend time with her grand kids and great-grand kids.  When he retired, he stayed active playing golf and helping me learn how to act as a man.  The Vermontville United Methodist Church and the Maple Valley Memorial Scholarship Foundation were always close to the top of his mind as well.

When I reflect on just how busy he kept himself, it made perfect sense that he needed a few hours each week to himself.  He regularly got that time sitting atop his riding mower.

Mind you, he never told me this explicitly.  The answer just felt right when I was mowing and as I continue to reflect on it.  After being his Best Buddy, Number One Farm Hand, Vice President and General Manager of Outside Affairs Eastern Division; I like to think I have a little extra insight into his thinking.

This epiphany points to something I constantly struggle with.  It is easy for me to just keep working instead of take a little time to consider my actions.  Maybe I need to mow Ema's lawn a little more often.

An Open Letter to Gumpy

Dear Gumpy,

It's been almost a year since you passed away.  Life is so much different without you.  Of all the things I miss, it's being able to pick up the phone and hear you tell me you are proud of me I miss the most.  You always seemed to know when I needed to hear you say that.  There have been so many days lately that I've wished I could just call and hear you on the other end of the line.  I get through by reminding myself that I have big shoes to fill for our family now that you're gone, and you would want me to stop crying in my beer.  You would probably tell me to stop acting like a suckling if you saw my tears as I'm writing this.

Yesterday was Mothers Day.  I think you would have been thrilled by the day.  Ema loved the new place that Gladys and I are living in now.  She liked it so much she started joking with us about making a place for her to stay.  While she thinks I am just being polite by saying this, I hope you know that she will always be welcome in my home.  Gladys is very supportive of this too.  All Ema needs to do is ask.  I know you wanted me to live at the farm to take care of her, but I hope you understand that my heart is in Detroit.  So even if she doesn't stay with us much, I will always watch out for your Chickadee.

As a family, we have tried to make sure she wasn't alone during the big holidays.  Gladys and I were in Tampa for Thanksgiving, so she had dinner with us at Gladys' mothers house.  Mary made sure Ema was home for Christmas.  Jim and Char visited her right around your birthday.  Mom and Rebekah took her on a cruise.  She really did not have too much time to sit and mope.

You wanted me to make sure my Mom and Rebekah are taken care of too.  Just so you know, I try but there is no taking care of Rebekah.  She takes care of herself and will tell you how you can help.  So I do when she lets me.  On the flip side, Mom has enjoyed our new apartment.  She's been over almost every weekend for something, usually with Haithem.  It reminds me a lot of Sunday nights at the farm, watching 60 Minutes, playing cards and eating popcorn.  Mom even calls when she gets home, the same way Mary would call when she made it back to Lansing.

By the way, I wish you were healthier when you met Haithem  He's kind, patient, an excellent carpenter and very intelligent.  Just who Mom deserves.

I'm not sure if you heard, but Gladys and I did get married.  She's the right girl for me.  I knew it when I met her and I think you knew it when you met her too.  August 7 will be our first anniversary and I couldn't be happier.  Hell, we went to a Toledo Mud Hens game the night we got married!  If that doesn't speak to how well she fits in, I don't know what would!  Ema gave me your wedding band.  I was honored that she let me have it because it gives me a symbol of your marriage and the sacrifices you both made to stay together for 58 years.

Of those promises I made to you, I work all the time to try taking care of the ladies in the family with varying degrees of success.  I'm sure you understand.  You left me with a hard-headed lot.  The keeping the rest of the family together is a little tougher.  It has been great to get the occasional message from Frank Walter.  The rest of us keep up by phone calls, Facebook (I know, you still don't get it) and from this journal I'm keeping of memories I have of you.  We all needed time to grieve and figure out how to live without you Old Boy.

That has been the toughest part.  We all knew you would not be here forever.  There is just no good way to prepare.  I keep trying to keep you alive in my heart by acting a little more like you.  I walk into the kitchen in the farm and declare, "A little faster if you can stand it," just like you did.  I'll cross my arms and pat my forearm the way you would in the middle of a conversation.  I love our family enough to do things that hurt me greatly to try keeping them safe, just like you did for me.  I'm still working on the patience and tact you practiced with me.  Someday I'll be good at it too.

We will make it.  Sometimes that doesn't seem as obvious as other, but I know we will be alright.  You left each of us with great memories and a fine example to live up to.  You left us all well prepared.  I love you, miss you and happy for you that you were finally able to make it home, where you deserve to be.

Love,

David

  

Gaining a Friend in Heaven

Tuesday, Gumpy gained a friend in heaven.  Ernie Harwell passed away after a nine month battle with cancer of the bile duct.  He was a true gentleman by all accounts; a man who was generous with his time, enjoyed life, worked tirelessly and had a wife who admired him until the end.  Kind of like Gumpy.  While they never met, I am confident they would have been fast friends.

I didn't have a portable radio as a kid, so I couldn't sneak a listen to Ernie and his broadcast partner Paul Carey very often.  In the early 80's, I was a bigger fan of George Kell and Al Kaline doing the occasional Saturday television broadcast of Tigers Baseball because it was an event that my dad and I would watch together.  Ernie's book, Tuned To Baseball was my first real introduction to the man.  My Aunt Mary gave me an autographed copy in 1985.  I don't think I slept much until I finished reading it for the first time.  I have been a big fan ever since.

It shouldn't come as a shock that I cried a little when I found out Ernie had died.  I cried a little when I found out he had cancer too.  Some of the tears were for the recognition that another piece of my childhood is gone forever.  Most of my tears were because just how much Ernie reminded me of Gumpy.  In a small way, I lost Gumpy all over again.

Both men were humble.  I don't recall hearing either of them talking about how much they had accomplished, instead they let other people do the talking for them.  They just did the accomplishing.  Both men were great at making people feel like they were the most important person in the room.  Neither of them were prone to critising people, although they both faced plenty of situations where normal humans would have felt justified criticising the Hell out of someone.

Both men enjoyed life.  You could hear Ernie's smile on the radio.  Gumpy's laugh was never far away. They adored their wives, their families and the people they cherished.  They loved the game of baseball and had plenty of stories to share.  They took the time to mentor the men who worked with them.  They were men of great faith, hopeful that they had done enough to please their maker.  

For them, I think their great faith was well placed.  I'm hoping they get a chance to finally meet over a cup of coffee at some dinner in Heaven so they can chat a little Tigers baseball.
 

Words of Wisdom

Saturday, Ema was lamenting the fact that she really had not left our family with any words of wisdom.  Her mother had a plethora of little sayings that she repeats to herself, like, "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right."  As we were talking about it, she mentioned that she thought Gumpy did not leave us with any words of wisdom either.

To me, our conversation was ironic.  I have learned so much from the actions of my grandparents that the words really did not matter.  Neither of them were braggers.  They just did the right thing.  I credit Ema with my love of reading and my fascination with our family history among other things.  This blog is dedicated to remembering many of the things that Gumpy taught me.  Yes there were words in our communication, and the non-verbal parts of their communication spoke to the integrity of my grandparents lessons.

We talked about how Gumpy treated everyone like they were the most interesting person in the room.  From the mechanic up town to the President of the Union, he genuinely was interested what they had to say.  I remember walking the course at Warwick Hills in Grand Blanc for the Buick Open when someone stopped him to talk about the Grand Trunk Railroad.  They hadn't seen each other in at least 20 years.  Gumpy stood right there and chatted with him for a good five minutes.  At the end of the conversation, the gentleman said, "Ed, it was great to see you again!" (Ed was his nickname when he worked for Grand Trunk.)

I asked if he even remembered the guy.  Gumpy said he did, barely.  The man clearly recognized Gumpy and it made the man feel better that a friend from so long ago was kind to him.  It just took five minutes and he made the man smile brightly.  With all of the time we spent together, I learned so much from observing those little moments.

Gumpy had a sincere affection and appreciation for people.  He taught me how to do this by doing it himself.  It is no longer a skill to be learned for me, it is something that is a sincere belief for me too.  Perhaps that is Gumpy's greatest legacy with me.

Gumpy Misses the Syrup Festival

Last weekend marked the first Vermontville Maple Syrup Festival since Gumpy passed away last May.  He looked forward to the festival every year during their retirement, as did the rest of the family because it was the first time each year we all came together as a family.  After a long winter away from home, he would meet us at the Vermontville fire station, where the Maple Valley Schools band boosters were serving pancake breakfast.  Being able to treat the family to breakfast always brought a smile to his face.

He rarely missed the festival.  In fact, the one time I remember him missing was the first time I had to come to grips with Gumpy's mortality.

The Vermontville Maple Syrup Festival is always on the last full weekend of April.  I was finishing my last paper for my last class of my last year at Oakland University.  Graduation was a few weeks away and I was really itching to get my stuff out of the dorm room and be done with college.  I enjoyed the experience but I naively could not wait to get my life started.  The day before my final paper was due, I got the call that Gumpy was in the hospital.

That year, Gumpy decided he wanted to golf with a few friends from Nashville, MI on his way home from Floriday.  Ema left him in North Carolina for a few days of cow pasture pool on her way back to Vermontville.  During his first day on the lynx, he felt a little tightness in his chest but thought little of it. The second day, the pain was impossible to ignore.  He refused to go to a hospital near the town they were in, he wanted to come home.  So Dave Mace packed up the car and drove the eight or so hours back to Vermontville.

This pain did not go away, despite every one's best efforts.  Ema decided he needed to get to the hospital quickly, so she called the ambulance.  One quirk with a volunteer fire and  EMS department is that it can take seemingly forever for them to arrive.  Everyone has to drop whatever they are doing, drive into town, suit up and get the rig going.  Since it was taking so long, Ema decided to grab a few lawn chairs and my grandparents sat waiting for the amublance at the end of their driveway.

Gumpy coded at least three times that Thursday night in Sparrow Hospital.  He was immediately put on the schedule for a quadruple bypass for the following Monday.  In the meantime, he was pretty heavily medicated and watched to make sure his heart could make it until he made it to surgery.

Since it was Syrup Festival weekend, we were all planning on making it to the fire barn Saturday morning for breakfast per family tradition.  In addition to breakfast, Ema usually volunteered to help with the chicken dinners at the Methodist church.  The house was generally full with visitors too, so there were always demands at the house.  Mary and I went to visit the old boy that afternoon, giving Ema a break and giving us some peace of mind.

That weekend marked the first time I had been truly concerned about how I would live without Gumpy.  He was so active and vibrant that it never occurred to me to be concerned, even after his procedure a few years earlier to clear out an arterial blockage.  I remember that weekend in 1998 as the first time I cried at the thought of losing my best buddy.    

The New Family Room

Gladys and I recently moved into a new loft in the New Center neighborhood of Detroit.  While she had to work on moving day, I decided to surprise her by having a few friends over to help complete a few big projects.  Mom helped clean the kitchen and arrange a few things in our bedroom area.  My friends Andy and Angela helped put together the Ikea furniture we procured to wall off a bedroom.  Todd helped jumpstart our final painting project.  In three hours, we accomplished enough to completely wow my bride!  Gumpy would have been proud of my feat, especially when you consider the plot he masterminded for Ema's family room.

Before Ema and Gumpy left for Florida the winter after his initial cancer diagnosis, he decided that the family room in the farmhouse needed a makeover.  There was the couch that Ema hated but refused to truly part with.  Sure, she tried giving it away to various family members over the years but none of us wanted the hideous red beast.  It was uncomfortable and odd sized.  The table lamps did not really fit the rest of the decor and the rest of the furniture was dated.  He recognized that she would never willingly change the look of the room, so he decided to do something about it.

Gumpy could be quite secretive when he wanted to be, and he proved it over the few months they were in the Sunshine State.  He laid out a budget for my mom and my aunt to stick with.  He had a few specific instructions on colors and furniture that had to go.  Since Ema bird-dogged him all winter, getting a chance to speak with him alone was difficult, yet they persevered.  He approved of his daughter's work and was ready to see his new family room.

The weekend before Ema and Gumpy flew home, mom and Mary sprang into motion.  There was the well-orchestrated trip to Ikea.  There was a family in a neighboring town that needed a couch for their growing family that could not afford to buy new, so family friends came to remove the beast.  Brice and Eileen stuck around to help prepare the new room.  While I was turning on the water and re-heating the house, Gladys was busy cleaning the rest of the house.  My Uncle Dave was diligently assembling our purchases.  Within a few hours, the room was transformed and the rest of the house was ready for my grandparents.

Mom and Mary drove my grandparents’ home from the airport a few days later.  I will let them describe the look on their mother's face when she saw her new room.  I can only imagine the look of satisfaction Gumpy had because I think it is similar my look when Gladys saw our furniture assembled.  He was thrilled that his daughters had so thoroughly carried out his wishes and achieved glorious results.  If you wanted to cheer him up on a tough day, you could just mention how he pulled off his surprise for an instant warm smile.

Gumpy would joke that when he married Ema, they had come to an equitable agreement on how to handle decisions.  He would take care of all the big decisions and his Chickadee (one of his favorite names for Ema) would take care of all the small decisions.  After over 50 years of marriage, there were still no big decisions.  Except one.  His decision to make sure his Chickadee was cared for and loved.

Political Rhetoric

I was a little disturbed yesterday when listening to the Craig Fahle Show on WDET in Detroit.  He was discussing the violent rhetoric that runs rampant from both the left and the right of America's political divide.  Everyone who was interviewed or who called in was more interested in getting in their zinger than they were in engaging in substantive talk about the issue at hand.  The entire debate reminded me very clearly of a conversation I had with Gumpy when I was young.

When President Reagan was elected for his first term, I was seven years old.  All I really remember of that election was how upset Gumpy was at the outcome, yet is was my first memory of politics.  Gumpy was open about his politics with me, even at that young age.  Dinner at Ema and Gumpy's was always accompanied with the Sony Trinitron TV blasting the CBS Nightly News, followed by the McNeil/Lehrer Newshour on PBS.  I would end up with many questions and receive many answers from Gumpy.  He was certainly passionate about his politics!

One day, Gumpy was completely exasperated by something he read in the Lansing State Journal.  It was probably something to do with the PATCO (Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization) strike because it was Reagan's shot across the bow to unions that he intended erode the gains unions had fought hard to win.  This was always a sore subject given the amount of work Gumpy did within the union to help his fellow members.  I had commented to him that I wished the President would just hurry up and die.

Gumpy stopped everything, turned to me and exclaimed, "Never speak that way about anybody, especially the President!  I might not agree with him but you NEVER wish death on anybody!"

It was the first and one of the few times, I remember Gumpy ever scolding me.  He was always a praise first type of person.  For him to address me like that was completely out of character and was absolutely sobering for me.  He really had a lot of respect for the office of the President, even when he did not agree with the person in office.  I watched him over the years always criticize an action a politician rather than criticize the person.

From then on, Gumpy and I would focus on the political issues.  Informed debate was the order of the day when politics was the subject.  There were several times we did not agree, President Clinton and the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) was one of those times.  Our national security was one of those topics where we rarely found common ground.  Yet the debate was not personal, and that is what spurred my intense interest in politics.

That is what disturbed me about what I heard on the radio.  Callers on both sides of the aisle were more interested in getting off pot shots than about making a meaningful contribution to the conversation.  The guests were more interested in steering the debate toward issues of their interest, not the issues they were on the air to discuss.  All seemed to refuse to directly answer questions.

People venting their spleens do nothing to move our country forward; it serves only to further divide and enslave us.  People engaging in honest, informed dialogue can kick start ideas that help us create a more just society.  I am glad I had Gumpy to teach me that lesson.  

Our Last Roadtrip

In honor of a few friends who are participating in Chevy's South by Southwest Confernece roadtrip challenge, I will tell you the humorous tale of the last true road trip I took with Gumpy.  In case you want to know more about the roadtrip challenge, you can learn more at Team Detroit's website or by following the #DETChevySXSW hashtag on Twitter.  They're having fun I tell ya!

The winter after Gumpy was told he had pancreatic cancer, he decided he still wanted to go back down to Port Charlotte, FL to spend the winter.  There was a ton of coordination needed for this to happen successfully and Ema was certainly busy.  Getting visits scheduled with his doctor down there, arrainging for in-home physical therapy and scheduling the visiting nurses to come check on his intraveinous port were only the tip of the iceburg.  Ema did it without complaint.  

Part of the reason he was so weak was a blood infection he developed before they were scheduled to leave.  The chemotherapy and radiation had stopped the tumor growth while almost destroying the man. He had congestive heart failure after a bleeding incident that landed him in the hospital that August for almost two weeks.  He would tell you that his body was in a weakened condition but his fighting spirit was not.

My grandparents always made it a point to be home by before the Vermontville Maple Syrup Festival the last full weekend in April.  And Gumpy loved making the drive home.  We never discussed why, but I know I love the funny little things that happen on roadtrips.  The scenery in this country can be breathtaking and there is an uncertainty about a trip that appeals to me.  I like to think those were the reasons Gumpy liked roadtrips too.

Anyway, it was somehow decided that I would drive them home that year.  Gumpy was too weak to drive and Ema would have too much to manage with driving a grumpy Gumpy.  So I flew to Fort Meyers where my grandparents picked me up, we went to dinner at Bob Evans and I started packing their Buick Rendezouz.  I mention the packing because that is always a chore.  In an effort to not be wasteful, my grandmother likes to haul things back and forth from Vermontville to Port Charlotte.  This step is always the most painstaking in the journey because we never have enough room for everything we need to bring home.  Ever.

The next morning with a packed car and a summerized park model trailer, we hit I-75 for home.  Gumpy was always a masterful backseat driver.  There was never any question in your mind that he was perfectly in tune with everything you were doing behind the wheel because of his constent stream of comments.  When he was in good health, I was usually immune to such chatter but he was not feeling well and had been unable to drive for almost a full year so he backseat drove with reckless abandon.  Mostly about my penchant to do the speed limit on the interstate.  I feel it is highly important bordering on necessary to be going the speed limit.  He did not.  Our ensuing discussion was resolved when I reminded him that I had the car keys and could run faster than he could if needed.  

Which brought us to lunch at the great American classic eatery Bob Evans.  Gumpy loved that place.  Usually he would order the fried mush, but he decided to repeat his choice from the previous night which was sausuage gravy and biscuits.  His appetite was as strong as ever and he plowed through his lunch like a warm knife through butter.  This would normally be unremarkable except he decided that he wanted to go to Bob Evans for dinner.  He started about 4:30 by saying at every exit, "I think there's a Bob Evans at this exit."  When we would pass the exit with no sign of his resturant, he would usually say something like, "Balls.  Well, maybe there's one at the next exit."  This cycle repeated itself for what seemed like an eternity.

Remarkably, there were no Bob Evans resturants in Atlanta.  In fact, there were none in the entire state of Georgia.  I found this out by placing a frantic call to my sister at 5:30 in the afternoon to inform her that she better go online and find me a Bob Evans or she would need a new brother.  She helped anyway.  To my chagrin, she told me that the next Bob Evans would not come until we were in Kentucky, a full days drive away.  So we decided to stop at the next best thing, which was a Cracker Barrel.  And he ordered the sausage gravy and biscuits again!

Gumpy had lost so much weight during his cancer treatments and ensuing infections that we all hated to discourage eating.  At one point, his oncologist told us to forget his diabetes and just feed him a lot of whatever he wanted to eat.  Ema and I hated to discourage his food choice for the third meal in a row, but we were both a little concerned about the consequences.  Fortunately, after we found a hotel to spend the night at, our concerns proved to have no merit and he slept soundly.

However the next night we were not so fortunate.  You see, our breakfast that morning took us to another Cracker Barrel because Gumpy insisted on a good country breakfast.  Which consisted of sausage gravy and bisciuts.  Again!  For lunch, Ema and I refused to stop anywhere that might serve his favorite meal.  When we stopped in Troy, OH for the night, we found yet another Bob Evans.  And again, Gumpy ate the sausage gravy and busciuts.  For five meals in three days, sausage gravy and buscuits.  We knew something had to give.  And it did.

In order to save a little cash coming home (or to be frugal as Ema would say), we all shared a hotel room.  I had insisted on staying somewhere decent on the second night so I could sleep without cramping up.  The trip was exhausting for all of us, so we were in bed pretty early that night.  After a few hours of sleep, I heard Ema trying to wake Gumpy up and could here the most horrible sounding passing of gas you could imagine.  His diet finally caught up with him with such voracity that none of us got much more sleep.  

The drive to Vermontville was mercifly short that day.  Much of the drive was completed with the windows open so we would not be asphixiated by the noxious fumes of Gumpy.  When we arrived at the farm that afternoon, I was ready for my ride back to Detroit.  I was tired, a little cross, full of good stories, unsolicited advise and a few more memories I will always cherish.