Grandpaw Ain't Listenin'

Grandmaw Hutchins did have an infectious laugh. When she was delighted with something she was delighted with it and expressed that delight freely, even if the joke was on her.

I remember one summer day sitting with her and Grandpaw under the shade tree (y'all remember the shade tree don't ya?) and she was talking at him about all sorts of subjects. Every few minutes she'd pause and glance at her husband, whence he'd smile and say in his quiet, genteel manner, "Yes, Mae."

She'd continue her monologue about fixin' the chicken coop or weeding the garden. Eventually she would again stop to check if he was payin' proper attention. "Yes, Mae," Grandpaw would respond.

Onward and upward for Grandmaw Hutchins. She'd go off on another mini-harangue about what needed doin' or what was coming up and at each break in the action Grandpaw would respond with a grin, "Yes, Mae."

After one more affirmative response she looked at me and her eyes grew big and she proceeded to laugh out loud, in her uninhibited, wonderful cackle, exclaiming, "That old man ain't got his hearing aid on!" She thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She surely knew he'd done it purposefully.

Grandpaw just answered simply, again as if on cue but with a twinkle in his own eye, "Yes, Mae." I think he figured she was onto him.

Insect Death Penalty

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was the most mild mannered, easiest going man I have known. Nothing seemed to bother or rankle him. He just moseyed on with his life.

Of course, using the word nothing is rarely accurate. There's always something, the famous 'they' say. And there was something with Grandpaw. If he got strung by a bee, that bee had too die. It. Had. To. Die.

Before even tending his wound, Grandpaw would grab the fly swatter which hung by his back door and begin stalking the culprit. With a stealth generally found only in the most experienced ninjas, he would make his way quietly through the house, keeping a steady eye on the miscreant, waiting for the right opportunity. Eventually the insect would settle somewhere, to be stunned in the next instant which brought death by the hard, fast, and true slam of Grandpaw Hutchins' mesh weapon. Justice had been served, North Carolina style.

Then he would become again mild mannered Grandpaw Hutchins. I loved that man.

Grandpaw's Bedtime

Me Grandpaw Hutchins went to bed at 9 o'clock every evening and rose at 5 the next day, like clockwork. If you were a visitor, you could stay as long as you wanted and have whatever you liked from the kitchen. But he was calling it a day. 

One night as several of us were gathered around in the front yard he looked at his pocket watch and saw the time. On rising, he explained his courtesy, adding, "Don't even worry about making noise, because I'm taking out my ears." He removed his hearing aids as he spoke.

That was a load off our shoulders.

No Yankee

One of the key things in talking to Mom these days are to ask questions which stimulate her mind, which make her think. Consequently, I try to get her to reflect on her life.

Yesterday on our usual Sunday drive we went out about 90 miles southwest of Detroit, into a heavily farmed area of Michigan. Seeing the tall corn, I asked, "Did you guys have corn on the farm?"

"Oh yes," she answered. "I shucked corn until I was sick of it. But we all had to work back then." Mom went on to talk about those childhood memories.

"Those look like bean plants," I remarked about another field.

"Them's snap beans," she said, explaining how once they were picked, you would snap the dry beans into smaller pieces to cook and can for the winter. "Mom had to can a lot of beans so we'd have food in the winter."

It's fun to hear her talk, and I genuinely like it. But after awhile I couldn't help but tease Mom a bit. "You ever thought, growing up as a young girl in North Carolina, you'd end up a Yankee?"

She paused, soon saying quietly, "No, I can't say as I ever considered that." Mom became silent. Hmm, I thought, that didn't get the reaction I expected. 

She was only working up to her real point. After a few seconds she said emphatically, "I may have lived most of my life in Yankee territory, but I ain't and never will be no Yankee!"

American by birth, Southern by the grace of God, that's me Mom.

I Swear, North Carolina

It was a good day playing license plate bingo yesterday. I saw 35 states and 6 Canadian Provinces. One I distinctly remember was North Carolina, because I swore at it.

I don't mean any offense to my North Carolina friends and family of course. But here I was, traveling northbound on I-465, the beltway freeway which circles Indianapolis, Indiana, in the far left lane because my exit was coming up, well, on the left. I was doing about 65 or so. It was well over the posted limit but I was keeping up with traffic flow as you're supposed to, and I had to be there for my exit.

It was raining but not a torrential downfall when North Carolina leaps in front of me. I don't mind that, really. Cars, though not typically from North Carolina, often enough jump into the lane ahead of me when I'm driving. But then this one brakes suddenly, causing me and however many folks behind to brake suddenly. North Carolina slowed to under 40 miles per hour in the fast lane of Interstate 465 in slippery road conditions. It makes your body seize up, anticipating that either you're going to hit them or someone else will hit you from behind.

What made matters worse was that, in being able to get around the car, I saw the two passengers clearly looking at their cell phones, pointing and arguing about something (I assume directions, but whatever) as they drove. As I got back in the lane (remember my exit approached) North Carolina casually slipped across five lanes of traffic to the far right. 

Talk about an accident waiting to happen. I think I was within my rights to swear at North Carolina. But only the car, not the state. I promise.

Teasing Mom

As we sat together on her front porch yesterday morning, Mom asked if there was anywhere to go. I said I wanted to go to Adrian. "Can I go?" she asked excitedly.

Of course I had every intention of taking her; it's what we do on Sundays. So I answered, "Sure. But it's 90 miles away and we'll have to hitchhike."

"Ok, but I'll get there faster than you!" she cackled.

I simply laughed too. I am glad she can still joke.

Anyway, we leave for Adrian, driving through southeast Michigan farm country getting there. At one point she remarked, "A lot of farms around here. I grew up on a farm."

Now it was my turn to needle her. "Oh yeah. That was in South Carolina, right?"

She could not bark, "North Carolina!" quickly enough. And the look of utter contempt she gave me was priceless.

Me cousin George and me Grandpa Joe

Me cousin George down in North Carolina was a crackin' good mechanic. Me Grandpa Joe up here in Detroit was a good mechanic too. Yet he also tinkered. The two ideas didn't always mesh, and that once led me to hide a truth from Joe.

My wife and I had borrowed Joe's Chevy Nova for a trip to NC to show our six month old son to me Grandpaw Hutchins. Charlie is the only one of our kids who actually met Grandpaw; we have a neat picture of him sitting next to Grandpaw on the couch of the old gentleman's living room. Anyway, a couple hours before we get to Carolina the car starts running rough. It got us there but I knew it might not get us back.

That's where me cousin George comes in. He was indeed an outstanding mechanic and checked it out for me.  He deduced, "The carburetor needs to be rebuilt. I can do for you for the cost of a rebuild kit." At that time such a kit was $13.

I hated to trouble him so I offered simply to buy a rebuilt carb for him to put on. You know, to save him time and effort. "That'll cost a lot more than you think," my cousin said, quite knowingly. But off we went to Sandy Mush Auto Parts. Sandy Mush North Carolina is where a lot my southern kin live.

We got there and George asks what a rebuilt carburetor for a 76 Nova cost. "$91," the counterman answered. I can still see George's head swivel towards me with a look of 'so what do want to do?' even though the look itself told me what he believed we should do. 

Of course I bought the rebuild kit and we went back to his garage to rebuild the old carburetor. 

I couldn't do much, the parts being far too small for more than one guy to work with, although I did help by cleaning out the three larger metals parts which made up the body of the carb. George had some kind of red-purple liquid that you could slosh a part around in and clean it up right fine; to this day I'd love to know what it was. In a little bit he had the carb rebuilt and installed and that old Nova simply purred. I've always been thankful to George for helping out a younger cousin who's money was tight.

Yet that's where my hiding the truth from Joe comes in. I knew, just knew, he'd mess about with that carburetor and it wouldn't be right when he was done. All I told him when I returned the keys and he asked how the car did was, "Just fine, Grandpa Joe, thanks again for letting me borrow it." I don't believe I even told me Pops that his nephew George had fixed it.

I still feel bad about that. But George did me a solid and I will never forget it.

Wither the Old Dominion?

Being on the road quite a bit I see many trucks and many truck lines. I've even learned where some of the companies call home, or, at least, where their trucks are commonly plated. If the truck has SAIA painted along the side of the trailer the license plate will be Louisiana. Heartland Trucking hails from somewhere in Mississippi. Bourassa trucks are from Quebec. You get the idea.

Yet one freight line vexes me as only a student of history can be vexed, and that is Old Dominion.

Perhaps a bit of historic background would be handy.

The State of Virginia is the Old Dominion. It became known as such because during the English Civil War in the mid-1600s it had largely sided with the British monarchy. As such, King Charles (you can be certain with a name like that he was one great king) after the War called it his reliable Old Dominion. 

What confuses me, what obscures the entire issue here, is that Old Dominion freight lines are headquartered in a place called Thomasville. In North Carolina.

This angers me. I have read for years that Americans don't know their history and up pops this heinously egregious example. North Carolina isn't the Old Dominion, doggonit. Virginia is. I want to know who's responsible for this confusion. The American Student has the right to know.

History teaching in these Unites States are in shambles, I tell you what.

The bee hunt

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was the most mild mannered, easiest going man I have known. Nothing seemed to bother or rankle him. He just moseyed on with his life.

Of course, using the word nothing is rarely accurate. There's always something, the famous 'they' say. And there was something with Grandpaw. If he got strung by a bee, that bee had too die. It. Had. To. Die.

Before even tending his wound, Grandpaw would grab the fly swatter hanging by his back door and he would stalk the culprit. With a stealth generally found only in the most experienced ninjas, he would make his way quietly through his house, keeping a steady eye on the miscreant, waiting for the right opportunity. Eventually the insect would settle somewhere, to be stunned in that instant before death by the hard, fast, and true slam of Grandpaw Hutchin's swatter. Justice had been served, North Carolina style.

Then he would become again mild mannered Grandpaw Hutchins. I loved that man.