Out of Africa

Last night, in a vain attempt to find my prom dress to re-fashion into a halloween costume for my daughter, I stumbled across a box my Grandma had given me of some of my Grandpa's war momentos.

That's Grandma and Grandpa pictured, circa late 1950s. Most of my happiest childhood memories involve staying at their house as a little girl. My Grandpa died in the spring of 1987. I was a sophomore at the UO at the time. I came home to see him because I knew he was ill. I was glad to say goodbye, but I wish I hadn't seen him that way. My Grandpa, as you can see by the picture was a big, solid guy. Before he died he was an emiciated, frail man. Three days before he died I visited him. He could barely speak but he told me he loved me. I left 2 carnations by his bed, his favorite flowers. That was the last time I saw him.

As I get older, I realize my Grandpa and I have a lot in common: a love of reading, being a history buff and a insatiable love of chocolate. My Grandpa was diabetic, so my Grandma strictly monitored his intake of sweets. Grandma and I used to bake our special recipe of chocolate chip cookies. I always snuck a few extra to Grandpa. When my mom was pregnant with my sister Tina, she craved Reese's peanutbutter cups. My Grandpa told her he would buy a case and split the case between them. Of course, I am a huge, huge Reese's peanutbutter cup addict- seriously. Whoever invented them is a GENIUS. I especially like the minis as the chocolate to peanutbutter ratio is just right.

But, I digress. So, tiring of searching for the prom dress, I crack open the box. Inside the box are a few rings with notes attached to them and my Grandma's handwriting. She was incredibly organized and detailed. I had heard the story about the rings years before from my Grandma. My Grandpa probably spoke a total of 8 sentences to me about the war his entire life. It just wasn't something he talked about.

On July 4, 1943, a German bomber was shot down in North Africa. The Germans who survived were taken prisoner. My Grandpa told one of the prisoners that their plane was shot down on his birthday (Grandpa, older than most of the "Greatest Generation" was born July 4, 1902) The German, the plane's bombidier, apparently a jeweler in civilian life melted down the propeller of the downed plane and fashioned two rings for my Grandpa...on a plain metal one and one emblazoned with an "S" for Grandpa's last name. I suppose these were birthday gifts...knowing my Grandpa, he probably was as genial, funny and laid-back as he was later in life and told the German the birthday story somewhat jokingly. However, he carried the rings for the rest of the war, through North Africa, Italy and France, and back home to Portland, Oregon to be tucked away in a cigar box.

The White Owl cigar box had other random momentos from the war years. Coins from Tunisia, Algeria, and France. A 50 cal. bullet, to which Grandma attached a note- "Bud retrieved this bullet out of a rock wall in North Africa during World War 2- 'The big one'"- Why Grandpa retrieved the bullet and carried it with him for the rest of the war is lost to history. Also included was a patch from his uniform, his war ration book, with plenty of stamps left, and a wrist band compass. A collection of metered stamps carefully cut from the sides of envelopes. The first stamps were from 1939 all the way until 1985. All the stamps were unique and beautiful- I suppose it was just a little side hobby of collecting these little bits of stamp art he found interesting, also tucked away in the cigar box.

In the bigger box were all the books my Grandpa wanted me specifically to have. Oregon Trail history books and his favorite book of all time, Isak Diensen's "Out of Africa" a note said "a first edition from 1938"- Even though my Grandpa only completed 8th grade, he was an extremely well read man. He used to encourage me to read (I didn't really need encouragement) and he would say "Stupid is no way to go through life."

I knew my Grandpa, of course, long after the war, after he had retired from his career as a commercial fisherman on the Columbia River. When I was little, my Grandpa didn't talk much. In the morning while Grandma made breakfast, he read the paper. I would sit next to him and make faces at my reflection in the toaster at the end of the table. Every once in a while he would glance over at me and smile and quietly chuckle. He would sense Grandma was coming back into the room and poke me in the side- the signal to quit goofing and sit up straight.

Most of my time was spent with Grandma- in the kitchen, picnics at the park, "adventures" to downtown Portland on the bus. I also played barbies, and made necklaces (time with Grandma is a whole other blog post) The only game I played that my Grandpa took some interest in, was "Dude Ranch"- my Grandparents had a box of toys for us kids. One was a lot of plastic fencing, horses and two kinds of cowboys. One kind had very bowed legs and fit on the horses, the other had set legs on plastic, so they couldn't ride the horses. The guys who couldn't ride the horses, I called ranch hands- they stayed on the ranch (also known as Grandma's footstool) The others were cowboys who went on cattle drives. Unfortunately, there were no "cattle" in this playset, so wooden alphabet blocks served as my "herd." They were driven across the vast livingroom prairie, my Grandpa would look up from his book, and ask "How's the herd?"

To make the game interesting, while the cowboys were herding the cattle, a tragedy often occured back on the ranch. Such as an earthquake (overturned Grandma's footstool) or the ranch hands abandoned the ranch for the "big city" (aka the couch) leaving the cowboys to return to broken fences. Grandpa often had a comment "Reliable ranch hands are hard to find" or to Grandma: "Earthquake at the Dude Ranch today" Grandma: "Oh my!"

Sometimes I snuck away from Grandma to watch Grandpa at his workbench downstairs or playing pool at the pool table he had in the basement. The basement was his habitat. His pooltable, his woodworking bench. He even had, by today's standards, incredibly wholesome "pin-up" girl pictures from the 1940s up on the walls.

At night my Grandma would tuck me into bed, tightly, (REALLY tightly like not moving tightly) but I would crawl to the edge of the bed and I could see my Grandpa in his chair in the livingroom, and shout goodnight to him, blow him a kiss. Sometimes I would crawl down and make more goofy faces to make him chuckle. The signal to stop would be him clearing his throat and lifting his book up as Grandma entered the livingroom. I scrambled back up into bed.

Just for a little while last night holding those books, I remembered what it felt like being 8 years old again, on a summer evening, I would bring a glass of lemonade out to my Grandpa who used to sit out on the porch in the evenings. I used sit next to him and he put a big arm around me and silently, wordlessly watch dusk settle in on the quiet neighborhood.