This is a big deal, so we are going to be celebrating this major event for quite some time. In anticipation of the big day, I thought I’d re-post a piece I wrote about my grandfather, recalling the time that my sister and I visited with him and rode around in his Jeep. Those were wonderful days that definitely call for another visit.
My Grandfather
My sister and I came into my grandfather’s life at the perfect time. He was old enough to be well-seasoned in life, young enough to still have fun, and very, very cool. I always thought of him as very dashing and debonair — he was the only real grandfather I knew who had a tuxedo in his closet. A former commercial pilot as well as a pilot during World War II, he always had exotic stories to tell of his adventures in faraway places. Most important, he knew how to relate to kids, he knew what made us tick, and he knew how to help us have fun.
My grandfather had a topless, old World War II Jeep as his main mode of transportation. He had attached a vice to the right rear bench seat and used it as a dog leash holder for his best friend Perky. When we would visit, first on our agenda would be to go for a Jeep ride. As a parent, now, I shudder when I think of the safety issues no one ever considered back in the day. Considering we took the Jeep everywhere — on the highway, winding country roads, rocky unpaved roads, and amidst stop and go traffic in the city — we are lucky to be alive.
No seat belts? Check. No roll bar? Check. Nothing for us to hold on to except for the back of the two front seats? Check. No canvas or light weight cover for bad weather? Check. No padding anywhere? Check.
As if to compensate for the extremely un-child friendly vehicle, our grandmother always made she we were bundled up good and snug, presumably because it was a bit drafty with all that wind constantly blowing us about. It had the added advantage of offering us limited protection from street burn in case we ever lost our grip and were flung out of the back of the vehicle. Our bundling consisted of oversized people coats — think of adult jackets on children under 12 — and either a cowboy hat or a scarf attached to a strange visor to keep our hair from becoming a snarled mess. For some reason, my sister always got the cool granddad plaid shirt jacket and cowboy hat; I was relegated the matronly grandma coat and gaudy print scarf. I suspect they used to laugh at me much like we laugh at the dog when we put rain boots on him. If camera phones had existed then, my dorky picture would have been blasted to their military friends all over the world.
Sometimes we would run errands, going to the grocery store or the post office. Our favorite “errand” was going to the local winery. Far from the glamorous Napa and Sonoma wineries you see today, this one looked like it was at the end of an unincorporated street with no zoning laws and lots of strolling chickens, slowing moving farm vehicles, and free range dogs. The tasting room was an add-on to the winery owner’s home and always smelled of whatever delicious creation the missus was whipping up for dinner. A bell would ring in the house every time someone stepped inside the tasting room door. If her husband wasn’t in, missus winery owner would put down her hot pads, turn the spaghetti sauce on low, and step through the door from her kitchen to the tasting room to tend to her patrons. My grandfather would sample wine and always take home a bottle of red, while my sister and I would sample grape juice and take home a gallon of the only red.
If we weren’t running errands, we were exploring Bear Mountain, driving through Spooks Canyon, sneaking quietly through the spirit camp imagined ghosts escorting us until we left the property, driving across unpaved fire trails in search of short cuts across the mountains, out to the Calavo packing plant, to the mushroom farm or to the egg ranch. We would examine the properties of the patch of quick sand down the road from his home, pick avocados and cukes for ridiculously low wages, dance the polka with him at the local Bavarian eatery, or dine out at Lawrence Welk’s place, which excited my sister and I only because we were able to see the dancing Barbie and Ken dolls.
Patriotic to the bone, once he agreed to let my sister and I raise the American flag on the 15 ft flag pole in front on his house, only to discover later that we raised it upside down, the universal flag signal for distress. He would just laugh at us and our silly antics, as if we brought him as much joy as he gave us.
Not even close.
