A MAN OF FEW WORDS
The country song “Grandpa Tell Me About The Good Old Days” is playing on the radio. When I hear the song, it always makes me think of my own Grandpa and the good old days as I remember them. “Were they as good for him? I wonder.
Grandpa was known by most everyone as Poppy. I don’t know how the name originated, but I think it must have been because of his fatherly affection towards anyone younger than himself. He was totally selfless, and had to be one of the kindest men I have ever known.
Poppy spent most of his life in the small mining town of Glo, a meager under-developed little area. The only reason the town existed at all was the lone coal mine, Glora. He worked in that coal mine, not because he enjoyed it, but due to lack of an education, he was not qualified to do anything else. Though he labored hard, he barely earned enough money to survive. Most of his earnings were spent at the Company Store, for nothing more than necessities. It seemed ironic, that the same people that gave him his pay for working in the mine; got most of the money back because they also owned the store.
Poppy lived in one of the company houses on the main street of the mining town. All of the houses were almost identical and sat in two straight rows, divided by an unpaved street. Some of the houses were built on stilt-like foundations to escape the floods that occurred often. The slightest amount of rainfall caused the nearby creek to swell out of its banks.
At that time I had decided that Poppy’s house must be one of the neatest ones on the street. My Granny was an immaculate housekeeper and everything looked so warm and comfortable. A wire fence surrounded the yard. A roughly lain brick sidewalk led up to the steps of the porch. The house, like most of the others, was painted what most people referred to as company store yellow-and you don’t have to wonder where the paint was purchased. On the right side of the porch, hung an old comfortable swing, padded with cushions and almost hidden from view, by a thick wall of Ivy growing up some wires attached to the ceiling. On the left side of the porch were two white metal chairs leaned up against the railing. Handmade flower boxes built on top of the railing were filled with colorful and fragrant blossoms. My Granny loved pretty flowers.
I remember sitting in that old swing, slowly swaying back and forth and feeling the dry summer breeze blowing through my hair. The sun would be going down and I knew Poppy usually came home about that time each day. From time to time, I would slip down from the swing, run down the steps and climb upon the front gate to gaze down the road. After what seemed like forever, Poppy would appear from around the corner, walking slowly up the unpaved street; his dragging feet stirring up the coal dust that covered the road. I knew by Poppy’s listless movement that he was physically drained, by working in the cramped crawl space of the cold damp mine all day.
Poppy was of small stature and looked somewhat frail. He was wearing a hard hat with a carbide light attached and his clothes and face were covered with black coal dust. Working in such bad conditions just to exist, would have made most men rough and aggressive. Somehow he was able to overcome his demeaning plight. Even the black dust couldn’t hide the softness and love in his blue eyes. His shoulders were slightly bent, probably from working in low narrow spaces for such long hours. I wonder sometimes if the situation had also bent his spirit.
The old battered aluminum dinner bucket that he carried always brought a smile to my face. I ran to sit on the top step to wait for him and he would come through the gate, smile and without saying a word, handed me the old dinner bucket. The old bucket was round and had three sections that stacked on top of each other. The middle section held my surprise. I always knew there was a treat inside, usually a lunch cake or some type of dessert. Poppy faithfully held to this ritual everyday. I wondered why he never ate the special treats himself, since they were intended for him. Clutching my surprise, I would hand the bucket back to him and follow close behind him as he went into the house.
The living room was small, but cared for with pride. The room was furnished with an old maroon mohair sofa with crocheted doilies placed over the back and on the arms. Nearby sat a large rectangular table displaying family portraits. Between the fireplace and the door leading to the kitchen was Poppy’s favorite spot--a soft comfortable chair that matched the sofa.
Poppy walked into the kitchen where a tub of hot soapy water was waiting for him. He closed the doors and left me sitting on the sofa waiting patiently. When the doors reopened, he came out freshly bathed and wearing a plaid shirt and bibbed overalls. The black would be gone from his face and I could see how pale his skin looked. He never spent much time in the sun, because most of his daylight hours were given to the burdensome coal mine. He would sit down in his chair and pat his knee. That was my signal to scramble down from the sofa and climb onto his lap. Poppy was a man of few words. I can’t recall ever hearing him say, “I love you” but that wasn’t necessary. Somehow I just knew.
Written by: Gloria Martin Marcum