Grandpa William

This picture is dated January, 1957.  I don’t have very many pictures of my Grandpa William Scott, but there he is looking like he might prefer to be somewhere else.

My sister and I must have been given dolls for Christmas.  I’m surprised mine is still wearing clothes and has all it’s hair and no missing limbs.  (It’s not that I didn’t like my dolls, we just played hard.)  Once they were naked and bald and had full body tatoos my mother would throw them out.  And there would be all my sister’s cute little blonde beauties looking about the same as they did straight out of the box.

The china cabinet on the left is still in the family!  When we had it here it belonged to my Aunt M, was used by my grandmother, (who threatened us with fates worse than death if we marked it up) and eventually got passed on to Aunt M’s daughter.  She has the whole set including table and chairs.  This hutch was blonde wood with glass doors and considered very chic and elegant furniture in the 50’s.

I don’t remember that lamp with its mis-matched bulbs, but the drapes were pretty unforgetable.  They were bold reds and greens on a white background with splashes of vibrant lime and yellow.   That’s grandmas sewing machine on the right, and my brother is sitting on one of my moms home made hooked rugs.

In this picture my sister is four, I am seven, and my brother is ten.  Grandpa is seventy three.  He died less than six months later in May of 1957 shortly after my eighth birthday.  So I suppose we can forgive him his unsmiling face. I remember how sad I felt for him when he was so sick.  Before that he was always quietly happy, very polite, truly gentle.  He helped me out when I was learning to ride a bike but didn’t give me very clear instructions about using the brakes.  I ran into the back of his pontiac to stop.  Grandpa was a hard worker.  He put up with grandma. He loved his family.

We found a poem my aunt wrote about him – perhaps it was a school assignment, or maybe she just felt like writing something nice about her dad.  My mom kept a copy of it and this is what it says:

My Father

Who gets up every morn at break of day

To light the fire and milk and feed the hay

And then comes in to eat three bowls of porridge?

My Father.

Who says when Mother firmly shakes her head

“Oh let them go this once,” – no sooner said

We’re out the open door with thanks to whom?

My Father.

Who kills and plucks the rooster by request,

Then eats the neck (he says he likes it best)

And then goes off to bed when company comes?

My Father.

Who carries in the wood and pumps the water

When blizzards blow and when the days grow hotter?

From one who knows –

Your ever grateful Daughter.

Perhaps it was written in a hand made birthday card.  I don’t know the circumstances, but I love the sentiments.