Woodworking again: Grandma bids me fond farewell

By Dave Wood
Posted 7/30/24

After my mother died in 1945, my father remarried in 1947 and I was removed from my grandma’s and grandpa’s tender care in their big old house and resettled with my new family on the edge …

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Woodworking again: Grandma bids me fond farewell

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After my mother died in 1945, my father remarried in 1947 and I was removed from my grandma’s and grandpa’s tender care in their big old house and resettled with my new family on the edge of town, where city untreated sewage was released into the Trempealeau River next to my new home which always seemed to be full of my new cousins, rowdy, fun loving kids who made lots of noise and cheated at Monopoly, a far cry from Grandpa’s half block lawn and the silence in the seven bedroom house in consideration of the boarders Grandma took in after the Great Depression ruined the family’s financial situation. Monopoly? Grandma preferred Solitaire, which we both played endlessly, while Grandpa looked on, puffing his pipe.

My pampered self was doing badly, trying to adjust to my new noisy life, so one fine spring day, I decided, at age 10, to run away from home! I figured I better go over to my former residence and tell Grandma, who worried so much about me and my health that she insisted I wear long-john wool underwear until May lest I catch cold.

Grandma was taking down crisp white boarders’ bedsheets from the long clotheslines that stretched across the side yard when I broke the news: “Gramma, I’ve decided to run away from home.” 

She took a wooden clothespin out of her mouth and replied, “Davey! Running away? Why ever for?”

“Because I don’t care for living by the sewer and my new relatives who cheat at Monopoly—They put two hotels on one property and charge double when I ……”

“Land on them?” replied the durable old lady. “That’s pretty bad, and I can see your point. And you’re running away. So be it, but we’ll all miss you. Where do you plan to run to?”

“Just AWAY,” I replied emphatically.

“Well, it’s late and you better get going soon, wherever it is, but hold on…”

She went into the house and soon returned with two sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. Her specialty was pink baloney, minced onion and hard-boiled egg (to “stretch” it) and mayo, all pulverized to mush in her cast iron grinder. “One for supper and one for breakfast,” she explained, and also presented me with Grandpa’s castoff corduroy cap with earflaps. “You’ve got nothing for your head,” she cautioned, “so be sure to wear it and use the earflaps in case it snows, for it’s still only April and you never know….”

She walked into the two-story barn, once used for great grandpa’s buggy team and now my favorite place on the whole great homestead where Grandpa kept his tools and his childhood toys, and Grandma stored items left by boarders who had either died or been kicked out of town. One schoolteacher was partial to Black and White Scotch whisky. Grandma threw away her empty bottles, but saved the cunning little black and white plastic Scottie dogs which hung from the neck of each bottle and they ended up in the barn. When neighbor Clara DeBow gave me her older son’s toy cow barn, I used it to shelter the dogs, pretending they were Holsteins. Another teacher, who played in a dance band, left several musical instruments. 

Grandma returned from the barn with my four-buckle rubber overshoes and an exotic melon-shaped mandolin, constructed with variegated strips of mahogany. “Put these overshoes on right now! They’ll help protect your leather when they wear out. Take this funny-looking guitar, so on lonesome nights it’ll keep you company and maybe someday you’ll learn to really play it. Go now before it gets dark.”

I headed West on Scranton Street, flopping in my galoshes, until I got to West Street, walked south for a block to the railroad tracks, and stared west. I immediately removed the wrappers of both baloney sandwiches and demolished them, made a quick U-turn and returned to my new home beside the fragrant Trempealeau River, certain now I would try to adjust—which I did, to tolerable effect, remembering that even Grandma cheated at Solitaire.

For years I kept my exotic, beautiful mandolin, a gift I will cherish, but never as much as I cherish my very foxy Grandma, whose clever ploy DID NOT save me from a picaresque life on America’s highways and byways, but DID propel me back into the loving arms of my new family, which, in the end, turned out to be just fine.

Dave would like to hear from you. Phone him at 715-426-9544.

Dave Wood, Woodworking again, childhood, running away, column