Heading down memory lane....

Yesterday's blog got me thinking about my Grandfather, Earl. He wasn't much of a talker. When I was little I remember him up and outside the farm letting us feed the hogs. Mostly though I remember him as he was in the last years of his life; sitting in a recliner.

He was a quiet man. I can remember coming into his farmhouse and sitting in the second recliner next to his talking to him for a few minutes. He would ask me questions about how I was and what was going on at school. Nothing earth-shaking, but comforting all the same.

There are two really good memories that I have of him. The first was at my Aunt Lorene's house (left in the picture next to her brothers, my Uncle Cockeye and my father, Russ) for one of her big holiday dinners.

All the women were in the kitchen cooking and talking. The men were in the living room watching football, the kids were either inside or outside playing games. My Aunt Lorene called everyone to the table and those in the living room started getting up to head into the kitchen. I was the last person in that line and as I stood waiting to get into the crowded kitchen I heard this little voice calling, "Cara. Hey, Cara."

I looked around the room but didn't see anything.

"Cara. Here...down here."

I was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and I turned to my right and looked down. The recliner had fallen backwards with my grandfather in it. He was reclined with his head and upper body on the floor and his legs straight up in the air. I was horrified. My first real concern for an elderly person.

Not so for my grandfather. He chuckled and said, "Do you think you could help an old man up out of this predicament?"

Turns out everyone just walked right past him on their way to the grub. I frantically yelled for my father who came and laughingly helped my grandfather up and into the kitchen.

The second great memory I have of my Grandpa is my favorite.

I was probably ten, my brother seven. We were visiting him at his farm. It was morning and we were at the kitchen table eating breakfast while my father stood at the stove cooking. Both my brother and I had glasses of fresh goat's milk in glasses before our plates.

I barely tolerated regular pasteurized cow's milk so warm milk straight from the udder of a farm goat was enough to cross my eyes permanently. Yuck.

I finished everything but the milk. My brother and I asked to be excused, but when my father turned around and saw that I hadn't touched my milk he shook his head. "Drink your milk!" he said in his big booming voice.

I whined.

Dad yelled, "Drink your milk."

I whined some more.

Dad responded with, "You are not going anywhere until you drink that damn milk!"

He turned back to the stove, and I sadly stared at the yucky goat's milk. Suddenly, without one word spoken, my grandfather reached over, picked up my milk, drank it all, and put it back where it had been. He then returned to his breakfast as if nothing had happened.

I sat there stunned, not knowing what to do. What the what had just happened? I was a straight-laced kid who rarely did the wrong thing and this totally threw me off kilter.

Then my father turned around, saw that the milk was gone smiled happily and excused me from the table.

Still, I sat there unsure what to do. I looked over at my grandfather as if to see what that was and he gave me a slow wink. Our little secret that wink said.

We never discussed it, and I never told anyone the story until years later after he had died.