Day 14: An Old Photograph

Christmas 1972ish?  Not really sure how old I am here.  I'd guess five or six.  I was recently up at Old Granny's (this is her house) to help her post robot hip surgery.  Many of the things that you see in this picture are still there and in the exact same place.  Only now, Old Granny with the robot hip sits (nearly all the time) in a chair that is placed pretty much between my Mom and Grandpa and me in this old photo.  Where the tree is placed is a table (that was in the house when the photograph was taken, but in another spot, obviously) that has a lamp, a phone (her life line to the outside world,) a senior (high school) photo of my Mom, senior (high school) photo of me and a photo of the Boy(s).  My Dad, kneeling next to my Grandpa and me, isn't in any photos on this table or that room.  Which is ironic considering he's the only one left between my Mom and Grandpa and checks in on Old Granny with the robot hip in that very room more than I would if I were him.  He's a good man. My Dad.   But more on that later.

Being back in Sand Springs last week for four days—FOUR days—that's the longest I've been there in over a decade.  I was struck with the fact that you can truly never go home again.  Everyone knows that.  But what I got to wondering was this. If you never left home, is it the same?   Or is it equally weird for you?  Is change so slow, day to day living your life, that you don't notice it if you've never left? 

I wanted nothing more than to get out of Sand Springs when I was in high school.  I didn't want to go back when I was in college.  This was solved for me, in large part, because my parents moved away from there for good in 1987 (my Dad moved back to the area after my Mom died.)  As I've aged, I've grown to look back fondly on that place.  And when I go back, those fond memories are most often kicked in the nuts. Hard.  I think because what I'm actually fond of were the time(s) wrapped up in that place.

This is probably true of everyone.  And I'm just now realizing it since I suck in real time.

Recently when I was up in Oklahoma tending after Old Granny with a robot hip I saw what must be my second cousin.    I get that shit confused.  She is my Grandma's niece.  A few years younger than my Mom would be if she were alive.  Ravaged by what must be a life of cigarettes and bad food, she was talking to Old Granny with the robot hip about helping her, when she can barely walk herself without the aid of a cane.  And even with, she was out of breath by the time she walked from the kitchen to the front room where Old Granny with the robot hip sat in the chair that is placed in between my Mom and Grandpa and me in the above old photo.  Which isn't far.  I was talking to her in the kitchen earlier though, where she sat chain smoking cigarettes (such an odd thing in my PC world to see someone smoking indoors today) and chain drinking Dr. Pepper (she drank two) while the nurse redressed the wounds on Old Granny with the robot hip. 

At one point she asked me by name (which is always odd because most people in Oklahoma pronounce Stuart as Stert. Like Certs, sans the C or the S on the end) if I remembered Uncle Thayer (a.k.a. my Grandpa) bringing me down to the diner she worked at when I was little. 

I did not.

She went on to tell me that I was really young.  Probably not even in school yet as he would bring me there in the morning and if I were older I would have been, or should have been, in school. 

That's not the point though.  The point is the fact that she was amazed that Uncle Thayer was so sweet and gentle with me. That I was the little boss as she put it. And this tough man would do whatever this small child wanted in a very sweet and nurturing way. Which is how I remember my Grandpa.  Only he wasn't that sweet.  He toughness is legendary in that part of the world. Or was, before so many died.

My Grandpa had a deformed hand. It was like a natural fist.  Stump like.  Or a hoof.  It was like his fingers all fused together in this hoof.  He was self conscious about it. Often hid it in pictures and in life so if you didn't know him well, you would never know he was deformed in this way.

Having this hoof hand and living his life made him extremely tough.  He wasn't a big man. He was 5'4" maybe.  As a kid in school he was a state level wrestling champion. He actually won state way back when.  As he grew older he developed a reputation as one of the toughest guys in town.  A real life Boy Named Sue with a name like Thayer and a horse hoof hand. 

One of the most famous of all his tough stories dealt with a bunch of guys drinking beer (which was illegal back then) at some place.  There was talk about some big tough football player over in Tulsa. Or some other town in the area who could whip anyone.  One thing led to another and a fight was organized between my Grandpa and this big football playing bad-ass.

As the story goes, anecdotal at best, when they met up the football dude stood well over 6' tall to my Grandpa's 5'4" frame.  The jock also noted the deformed hoof hand and tried to dismiss my Grandpa as being an unworthy opponent.  My Grandpa said it was fine and that he would take his chances and fight the guy. 

It was at this point that they got ready to begin the fight with the big tough football player sort of preening and getting ready in a very showy way to kick what he thought would be my Grandpa's ass.

My Grandpa on the other hand, took off his coat, and then quickly ran toward the jock, catching him off guard, jumping up as high as he could, then wrapping his legs around the jock's stomach / chest area and then riding him to the ground all the while pummeling him in the face with his good hand and his hoof hand.

The guy was out before he hit the ground.

When I look at an old picture like above (or return home,) I see all of these stories and more.  I see family history.  Good and bad.  I see context. I see what is.  I see what was.

Until I BLOG again...What is life.