Dinner with Grandpa

When Bob and I were small, less than ten years of age, we would occasionally go to our grandpa Hyde’s for Sunday dinner. Mom would load us in the car and drive us the 1 ½ miles from our house at 79 R St. in Salt Lake City, downtown to their little apartment at 320 East 1st South. We entered the apartment building through two large front doors which took us into a small lobby with a large bank of mailboxes mounted on the side wall. We then took the several stairs down which would lead us to the lower level where grandma and grandpa lived. The long hallway was dimly lit and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Grandpa was a pipe smoker, so I guess he contributed his share of smoke to the place, although the pipe smoke is a sweeter smell and much more pleasing than the stale cigarette smoke.

We would walk down the hall to the third door on the right and knock; as soon as the door opened we were swept into the open arms of our Grandma Ruby and Grandpa Frank, not to be released until an ample supply of warm hugs and kiss were bestowed upon us. After our greetings and hellos, Mom would start helping grandma set the table or disappear into the kitchen to help with the meal preparation, while grandpa would sit back in his well worn, overstuffed, brown leather chair and start fiddling with his pipe. The chair had big round arms on it; the kind that would invite two young boys to climb up and snuggle back into grandpa’s arms. This was our favorite time of the visit, and it was here, in that overstuffed leather chair, that I formed the very best memories that I have of my grandfather. Grandpa would settle back, wrap his arms around both of us and look at us through half closed eyes to ask us if we had ever heard the story about ……...; he would then start to spin us a tale. Grandpa was a master story teller. He told the kind of stories that would keep us motionless, glued to the arms of that wonderful big overstuffed chair, and wrapped up in his great big arms, with our eyes and attention sharply focused on his every word.

First thing that had to happen, before any serious kind of story telling could begin, was to light up his pipe. I guess it made him think better; for when he told a story he would blow those perfectly round smoke rings and trick our imaginations into believing that we were right there participating in the story. Often he would tell us stories about where he worked; down in the boiler rooms of the old Judge Building in Salt Lake City. He was a self employed mechanic and had worked maintenance on the boilers in that building for years. Some of his favorite stories he had to tell were about that boiler room and his dog Boots.

Our grandpa Hyde had a dog named Boots. This dog was about the most intelligent dog known to man. He would fetch grandpa’s slippers, the newspapers, he would feed himself, pick up after himself, and even light grandpa’s pipe for him. We could listen to those stories that grandpa would tell of his dog Boots for hours.

Boots would go to work with grandpa down in those boiler rooms every day; they were inseparable. Grandpa told us that he had even taught Boots how to take over the boilers for him in case he ever got sick. One of grandpa’s friends was a metal worker and had made grandpa a small metal casting of Boots, which to this day I still proudly display as a doorstop to my office.

A few mild stories about his work, his dog Boots, or anything else that would enter his mind, and then
grandpa would settle back and get down to the serious business of telling the real stories; the scary ghost stories. The kind of tales where witches would eat the little children and trolls would hide under their beds. As he talked, his voice would get low and very intense. His eyes would narrow and before we knew it we were sucked right into the story as an active participant. As the suspense of the story increased, so would the size of our eyes. Our mouths would hang open and our fingers would dig deep into grandpa‘s arms out of sheer terror.

Just as the punch line was about to be delivered, grandpa would talk ever so softly, lean his head slightly forward, and then he would let out a blood curdling scream; he would pop his false teeth out and grab the both of us in his big arms and draw us in close to him; then we would all laugh and scream with delight.

My grandpa Frank died at 76 years of age, when I was just 17 years old. I still remember the funeral; the family was all seated together in the front row of the chapel with the casket right in front of us. I can still see the sorrow on my dad’s face as they wheeled the casket out from the room. In one last bid of farewell and affection he lurched forward from his chair to hold on to the casket, longing for just one last time to be wrapped in those great big loving arms of my grandpa Frank.