My Grandpa lived with us, with a few intermittent gaps, from about 1947 to his passing in 1961. In my lifetime he worked at Union Station (Railroad) In Kansas City, moving baggage carts to and from the trains. Roy A. Porter was neither a good husband nor a good father. My mother was next to oldest with five brothers. Her mother was a frail, sickly woman who required at least as much nurture as she was able to provide and my mom filled two roles, big sister and surrogate mother. In the 1920’s, Roy left his family for long periods on sketchy schemes that never panned out. The money he was supposed to send home never met their need and they survived on charity.
My parents courted for a year before they married in 1930. Roy refused his permission and threatened my dad. Mom was savvy to his bad behavior all of her life and called his bluff. She told him if he would not sign for her to marry that she didn’t need his permission to get pregnant and he could add another mouth to feed at their table. My grandpa lost that battle and signed the paper. That netted a thin, troubled truce between may dad and the old rounder. Grandma Lottie died in her sleep in early ’46. By the fall of ’47 Roy couldn’t maintain a residence by himself and couldn’t draw social security yet. My mom Dorothy negotiated a deal with him to a live with us, all of it on her terms. He didn’t like being outranked by his daughter and her husband who never liked him to begin with. He had always been able to have his way but not any more and his pride was bruised beyond repair. It was either our back, upstairs bedroom or live in his car.
I was 9 at the time. My brothers were 12 and 3, neither particularly interested in Grandpa but the two of us grew a different kind of kinship. Mom called him ‘Papa’ but my dad wasn’t about to call him anything that familial. He just called him by his name, Roy. We learned early on that the old man liked be recognized in the morning; “Good morning Grandpa.” to which he would reply in kind. One day I greeted him with, “Good morning Roy.” He was taken aback, paused and replied, “Good morning Bub.” and went on about his business. His rank in that house was #3 and I don’t think he wanted to make waves but he needed to save face, even with a 9-year old. From then on I called him by name, Roy and he called me Bub; as if it were an insult but time has a way of softening insults. If any of us other than my dad tried to call him Roy he would correct them, with an implied “and don’t forget it.” My bothers and cousins wanted to know why I got to call him Roy but their interest waned and it became the norm. One way or another, between the two of us, I had risen to his rank or he had dropped to mine. I paid attention to him, found it entertaining and educational as well to ask him provocative questions like where he got his calendar with a naked lady for every month and then punctuate my leverage with, “I like February best.” We talked about planting trees and bird poop on his windshield; I never was his equal but certainly enjoyed privilege and tolerance that we kept between us. In a few years we had enough dirt on each other to explode the family. We both felt safe indulging in unauthorized activity, knowing neither would not betray the other. When I went too far teasing or taking liberties that even I couldn’t get away with, I let him catch me and give me swats which was absolutely against my mother’s rules. I knew where he kept his booze and ‘Girlie’ magazines which were not supposed to be on the property either. We manifest our own brand of (Honor among thieves).
I asked him about his alcohol consumption and sex and he would put me off. I kept on with the questions until he gave up, gave me something he thought I would believe and we kept each other’s secrets. He had women friends come to our house with him sometimes, just to prove he had a family and a roof over his head. I asked him if he used ‘rubbers’ and he would fake anger but his growling and disapproval was mostly camouflaged laughter. For a decade we were like spies in our own house. In the Army I was home on leave before shipping out for Okinawa in 1960, found him with two of my uncles, drinking wine. I asked if he had been getting any and he shot straight back with his own question. “How ‘bout you, you been getting any?” I told him I was, so much that I had to start taking naps in the afternoon. He laughed and slapped his leg, offered me the bottle. That was the last time I saw him alive. He failed at everything that called for taking care of family but he appreciated having a #4 who he outranked. Beyond that we had bent and broken rules, unforgivable as it was, we didn’t care.
In 1961 he was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack when he had several more, one after another and at 75 his body gave up. I am anticipating my 85th birthday this summer and wonder how Roy would have navigated the 1960’s, another decade with its hippie culture, free love and smoking weed. I was an adrenaline junkie and never took comfort in the hippie experience. I didn’t approve but then neither did I judge. I was too busy with my own business. Here I am remembering my grandpa and the lessons I learned in his shadow. They say that as long as someone remembers your name and your smile, part of you remains. DNA is in there as well but we tend to value the conscious, memory link. I’m just feeling a little nostalgic. Whatever one’s place in time you want it to fit, and with luck to feel good.
My parents courted for a year before they married in 1930. Roy refused his permission and threatened my dad. Mom was savvy to his bad behavior all of her life and called his bluff. She told him if he would not sign for her to marry that she didn’t need his permission to get pregnant and he could add another mouth to feed at their table. My grandpa lost that battle and signed the paper. That netted a thin, troubled truce between may dad and the old rounder. Grandma Lottie died in her sleep in early ’46. By the fall of ’47 Roy couldn’t maintain a residence by himself and couldn’t draw social security yet. My mom Dorothy negotiated a deal with him to a live with us, all of it on her terms. He didn’t like being outranked by his daughter and her husband who never liked him to begin with. He had always been able to have his way but not any more and his pride was bruised beyond repair. It was either our back, upstairs bedroom or live in his car.
I was 9 at the time. My brothers were 12 and 3, neither particularly interested in Grandpa but the two of us grew a different kind of kinship. Mom called him ‘Papa’ but my dad wasn’t about to call him anything that familial. He just called him by his name, Roy. We learned early on that the old man liked be recognized in the morning; “Good morning Grandpa.” to which he would reply in kind. One day I greeted him with, “Good morning Roy.” He was taken aback, paused and replied, “Good morning Bub.” and went on about his business. His rank in that house was #3 and I don’t think he wanted to make waves but he needed to save face, even with a 9-year old. From then on I called him by name, Roy and he called me Bub; as if it were an insult but time has a way of softening insults. If any of us other than my dad tried to call him Roy he would correct them, with an implied “and don’t forget it.” My bothers and cousins wanted to know why I got to call him Roy but their interest waned and it became the norm. One way or another, between the two of us, I had risen to his rank or he had dropped to mine. I paid attention to him, found it entertaining and educational as well to ask him provocative questions like where he got his calendar with a naked lady for every month and then punctuate my leverage with, “I like February best.” We talked about planting trees and bird poop on his windshield; I never was his equal but certainly enjoyed privilege and tolerance that we kept between us. In a few years we had enough dirt on each other to explode the family. We both felt safe indulging in unauthorized activity, knowing neither would not betray the other. When I went too far teasing or taking liberties that even I couldn’t get away with, I let him catch me and give me swats which was absolutely against my mother’s rules. I knew where he kept his booze and ‘Girlie’ magazines which were not supposed to be on the property either. We manifest our own brand of (Honor among thieves).
I asked him about his alcohol consumption and sex and he would put me off. I kept on with the questions until he gave up, gave me something he thought I would believe and we kept each other’s secrets. He had women friends come to our house with him sometimes, just to prove he had a family and a roof over his head. I asked him if he used ‘rubbers’ and he would fake anger but his growling and disapproval was mostly camouflaged laughter. For a decade we were like spies in our own house. In the Army I was home on leave before shipping out for Okinawa in 1960, found him with two of my uncles, drinking wine. I asked if he had been getting any and he shot straight back with his own question. “How ‘bout you, you been getting any?” I told him I was, so much that I had to start taking naps in the afternoon. He laughed and slapped his leg, offered me the bottle. That was the last time I saw him alive. He failed at everything that called for taking care of family but he appreciated having a #4 who he outranked. Beyond that we had bent and broken rules, unforgivable as it was, we didn’t care.
In 1961 he was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack when he had several more, one after another and at 75 his body gave up. I am anticipating my 85th birthday this summer and wonder how Roy would have navigated the 1960’s, another decade with its hippie culture, free love and smoking weed. I was an adrenaline junkie and never took comfort in the hippie experience. I didn’t approve but then neither did I judge. I was too busy with my own business. Here I am remembering my grandpa and the lessons I learned in his shadow. They say that as long as someone remembers your name and your smile, part of you remains. DNA is in there as well but we tend to value the conscious, memory link. I’m just feeling a little nostalgic. Whatever one’s place in time you want it to fit, and with luck to feel good.
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