From Betsy: Grandpa's last year

As I entered adulthood (my 20s) and began moving around a bit, my visits to Quentin were less frequent. However, after Grandma died I went to live with Grandpa for what ended up being the last year of his life. It was during a turning point in my own journey in life, transitioning from a search to “find meaning in life” to discovering a relationship with God — one that actually led me to life with Grandpa.

When I moved in, he announced, “I’ve been cooking for many years. Now you can do the cooking!” I informed him that I didn’t really know much about cooking, to which he replied, “Then I’ll teach you!” And that he did — from beef vegetable soup to boiled chicken potpie to fried chicken and homemade French fries to corn meal mush (first hot for breakfast, the next day sliced and fried, sometimes made with scrapple) to potato bread to doughnuts and raisin rings and peanut butter candy. We didn’t use written-down recipes. I learned how to trust my taste.

Grandpa told me that everyone loved his bread and candy but no one had learned how to make them. Of course I said I’d love to learn, as did Uncle Pete and Uncle Paul. I have yet to venture making the candy by myself, but someday I will surprise everyone.

Grandpa had a variety of cars over the years. I doubt that any of them were new. He’d buy them used and keep them running, usually by his own repairs. The two that I remember were a gold Hudson and a DKW. The Hudson he had when we were children. I remember because it was so big and I was so little. I loved the smooth, curving look of it. When I climbed into the back seat and the door what shut, I felt as though I had sunk into a big pillow. I couldn’t see out of the window or the door, and the back of the seat went up very high. When Grandpa started driving, it felt like riding on a cloud — no bumps. To this day, if I were ever to have a classic car, I’d have a gold Hudson.

The DKW I remember as Grandpa’s last car. I had heard comments from some of his children that he probably shouldn’t be driving anymore, but — how to tell him?! He asked me if I’d like to drive it, and did I think I’d be able to handle five forward gears — on the floor. I said I’d try, and with much relief I took to it. He was impressed with my efforts and from then on I always got to drive when I was there. Whew!

I loved to go to town (Lebanon, that is) with Grandpa. He had certain stores for certain items. Kugler’s Fish market for oysters; A&P for Bokar or 8 O’Clock coffee; Weiss Markets for general goods; and Fry’s Market on Colebrook Road for Martin’s Meats.

For my 26^th birthday, Uncle Jim and Aunt Gerry wanted to throw a surprise birthday party for me at their house in Lebanon. They asked Grandpa to go along with a story that they were going to take us out for a Chinese dinner. I think it was a hard thing for Grandpa to do, being the very honest man he was. But here’s how it went: He didn’t look enthusiastic. He asked me if he had to wear a suit. Then: “I guess I’ll have to shave.” Then: “I don’t like Chinese food.” With all his foot-dragging, I was convinced he was just coming along to this Chinese affair to humor his family. He was so proud of himself when the surprise came off without a hitch and he hadn’t spilled the beans.

One day Grandpa said his children wanted him to continue his biographical efforts to include his life up into married life and children. He asked if I would write it down as he told the story. So — he would sit in the big old brown stuffed rocking chair in the kitchen (I believe it was first put there for Grandma) and I would sit at the kitchen table and write as fast as I could.

During that year, I was transported back in time. He would tell me about life in the early 1900s and sometimes we’d take a drive and explore places he’d not been to in a long time. There was a man in Cornwall whose name I can’t remember, a self-professed expert on area history. Grandpa would consult with him on places like Penryn Park (The train would take you there; it’s in the woods in the same area where the Boyer reunions are held now.) to see if they still existed.

Uncle Sam (Grandpa’s only living sibling at that time) would come down from Catasauqua and stay overnight in Quentin. Then Grandpa and I would drive him to his A-frame cabin in the woods, just down the dirt road a bit from “the old homestead” where they grew up. He’d stay there by himself for a few days, and then we’d reverse the process. One time the three of us went to the stone foundation remains of No. 62, the home where they grew up. They came upon two huge rocks at the edge of the road and argued over which one they had chipped away at as boys. The times that Uncle Sam stayed with us were precious — late evenings of two 80-plus-year-old brothers remembering. If only I had had a tape recorder going.

One time they were discussing (or was it arguing) about Great-Grandpa Boyer’s Civil War saber. Every year at the reunion the saber would be passed from one sibling to another for the year. I had a feeling that Grandpa had had it for more than a year. A day or so after Grandpa died, Uncle Sam came to the house. The first words out of his mouth were, “Where’s the saber?” After it was securely in his possession, he warmly greeted and visited with us all.

Every evening Grandpa and I would sit in the living room, he in the chair in front of the window by the sofa and me across from him at the other end of the sofa. I would read to him the “funnies” — Dagwood and Beatle Bailey; the sports article related to the Phillies; the obituaries, and the headlines from the front page of the Lebanon Daily News. If the Phillies were playing, he’d listen to the game on the radio, getting up to go to the kitchen for a handful of peanuts, later pulling from his shirt pocket a couple of Rolaids. If there wasn’t a game, he’d listen to a talk-radio program and at midnight a Christian program called Nightsongs which was mostly quiet music. Once a week there was a German (or maybe Pennsylvania Dutch) preacher he liked.

One evening he had made several trips back and forth between the living room and kitchen, putting a pill under his tongue and checking the big-dial clock on top of the piano. I asked what was wrong. He said he was having some chest pain. I was going to call the doctor, but he said not to. When I asked him again, he was adamant that I shouldn’t call. He sat down in his chair. His head went back and his breathing changed. I called 911 but by the time the ambulance crew arrived, he was standing on the shore with Grandma, they were both healthy and just as he had pictured their reunion so many times that year.

He never talked to me about faith or God, but after Grandma died, he had a number of visits with Reverend Baseshore of the Cornwall Methodist Church. I think he wanted there to be no doubt about his getting to where Grandma had gone.

Grandma and Grandpa were a major source of love and security in my life. No matter what had happened or how long I had been away, I was always welcomed with a big bear hug — sometimes with Grandpa’s strong body odor (because deodorant was not for men), and usually with sharp whiskers rubbing my cheek because he was happy to have the freedom not to shave after he retired. They never criticized me or showed disapproval of any sort, even when I was trying to be a hippie and couldn’t seem to find my way. There were no lectures, just love and acceptance. They knew who I was at the core and always believed that I would make it to where I was supposed to be. Well, here I am and there you have my memories from age 61. I’m about to become a grandparent myself. May I provide what I’ve received and make a safe place for this new generation.

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