Читать книгу The Poignant Years - Horace N. Robinson - Страница 9

He was the granddaddy of all granddaddies. Suckled in the Civil War, he was already an old man when he suffered through the Great Depression of ’29.

He sat on his porch in a white, homemade wooden chair fluffed with pillows most of the day, except when he ventured out into his garden late in the afternoon. His shiny white beard was half as long as Santa Claus’ and his mustache resembled his contemporary’s, Mark Twain.

His voice was muffled at 95, but his hand was always ready to wave at passersby, especially if you were a kid on a bike. In fact, most kids had been instructed to “be sure to wave at Granddaddy Lamb.”

Granddaddy lived with his daughter who took in ironing and with his special granddaughter, Nellie Rose, who would never be able to leave their neat, two-bedroom house.

Through the Eyes of a Child

Granddaddy Lamb

It was a good summer day and Skippy looked for his buddies Jacky and Jasper. Jacky was helping his dad mow the lawn, but Jasper was just sitting on his bike, doing nothing.

“Hey Jasper—want to go to the store and get a sodie pop? Grandma said we couldn’t afford one ever’ day, but today is sodie pop day.”

“Yeah, I got a nickel—let’s go. Want to walk or ride bikes?”

“Let’s walk. It’s always fun to talk to Granddaddy Lamb. He is always laughin’ under his big beard, even though you can’t see it. Him and Nellie are always sittin’ on the porch.”

“Well, I can’t understand him too good. He’s awful old.”

“I can because when I mow his lawn he follows me around and talks to me all day. But it’s a good job—they pay $1.50 and Nellie cooks peanut butter cookies and gives you all you want. —There they are, just like I told you, him and Nellie on the porch, and there’s Granddaddy already wavin’ at us.”

“Whir go?”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Where are you goin’?’—Goin’ to get a sodie pop Granddaddy.”

“Brang me one.”

“I understood him that time.”

“Got Grr friend?”

“No, Granddaddy—we are not old enough to have girlfriends.”

“Ye got wrts?”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You got warts?’”

“What difference does it make if you’ve got warts?”

“Jasper, I ain’t kiddin’ you—if you got warts he can take ’em off. He took mine off.”

“How does he take ’em off—cut ’em with a knife or somethin’?”

“No knife, he just mashes on ’em real hard and then tells you to go bury a dirty dish rag and forget about ’em. Look at my arm—see any warts?”

“I don’t believe it but I do believe he’d make a good Santa Claus with that big beard, if he could just talk good. Say Merry Christmas and Ho, Ho, Ho, clear.”

“You’re right, Jasper,—Hey let’s get our Pepsis and go to your house and pump up our tires and go spin out in the sand on 10th Street.”

“Yeah, let’s do it. I got the only pump in the neighborhood.”

“I know.”

Skippy pumped and pumped and filled his tires as hard as a rock so he could spin out in the crusty sand and skid half way around when he hit his brakes.

The two boys were riding as fast as they could down 10th Street when they saw Paul Johnson—the tallest boy in the neighborhood—standing in Granddaddy Lamb’s garden.

“Jasper, what’s he doin’ in the garden—standin’ and kneelin’, standin’ and kneelin’?”

Skippy and Jasper slowed down and coasted on their bikes.

“Skippy, call Central and get an ambulance! Granddaddy Lamb is down! Mrs. Morris has a phone.”

A few quick pumps and the boy was there, but Mrs. Morris had already made the call. Skippy spun out back to the garden—he could see the tall green bean vines and Granddaddy’s white hair with Paul bent over him.

The boy walked slow down the bean row—his heart thumping—while Jasper stayed in the street.

“Paul, did he die?”

“His eyes are already set, Skippy.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“They are open but they aren’t seein’ nothin’. I’ll just hold him in my arms till the hearse gets here.”

Jacky had gotten through with his lawn mowing and joined Jasper in the street—both of them were afraid to look. A siren went to wailing and the boys began quaking inside. This siren was a black car that drove right up 10th Street and skidded to a stop where the bicyclers always spun around. It was the Sheriff. The boys had seen him before but didn’t know his name.

He had his full police suit on and ran quick to the bean row where he knelt by Paul and Granddaddy Lamb.

They talked soft. Skippy couldn’t hear what they were saying. It seemed to be something about closin’ ’em at the funeral home and the hearse is a comin’.

Jasper and Jacky finally got brave enough to come up the bean row. About that time, the Sheriff stood up and walked straight toward the boys, leaving Paul and Granddaddy in the bean row.

“Is Granddaddy Lamb dead?”

“Fraid so, Son,” and he patted Skippy on the head.

“I’ve known that old man for fifty years. He was a good one.”

“Yeah, he took my warts off last year—he probably had magic—Me and Jasper and Jacky all feel like cryin’, but we’re gonna hold it in.”

“Are you sure you boys are gonna be OK?”

The trio nodded.

“I need to go see about Nellie Rose. I hear her a cryin’. You boys understand that she knows but she doesn’t know. Hope I can break it to her gentle.”

“Sheriff, what’s gonna happen to Nellie and her momma?”

“Well nobody is gonna hurt ’em, that’s for sure. I’m always around and Chunk Murray lives right next door. He could rassle a Grizzly Bear and whup it.”

“But who is gonna sit in Granddaddy Lamb’s chair?”

“You mean who is gonna take his place?”

“Yeah, we’ll miss him wavin’ at us and jokin’ us and stuff. He was always fun even if we couldn’t understand ever’ word.”

“Boys, I don’t know all the answers—all I know is that things can’t get so tough but what the Good Lord and good neighbors can handle it.”

“Thanks Sheriff—and you can come to our neighborhood anytime.”

“You bet, boys.”