Grandfather drove bus in Hollywood during the golden age, "You go Vilshure, you go Wine?", the little Jewish men would ask of him. He was a very attractive, well-pressed man about town, intent upon rising above his humble, poor, dustbowl beginnings.
Salt of the Earth from rural Kansas, working as a fry cook, he met and married my beautiful, young grandmother from Oklahoma, who was working as a carhop. I recall a photograph of her in a bathing suit, doing the splits; Grandma was quite the looker and a magnet in her own right. Soon after marriage, off to California they went, to make a better life.
Grandfather worked as a fry cook, a busdriver, and joined the United States Navy. He never expounded on his military service to his curious, young granddaughter, other than to share his meager service photographs, one in his dress whites and the others, snapshots of him, playing his trumpet in a military band. Occasionally, he'd bust out his trumpet, whereupon I'd beg and wheedle a tune out of him.
Obviously, he and grandmother had children because I exist to relate my experience. My mother, the firstborn of two children was born in the summer of 42; my uncle came along a few years later. Grandpa drove bus during mom's growing up years then, drove truck for Hadley Auto Transport, hauling Ford Motor Cars. He would move up into management, becoming terminal manager of key hubs in San Jose´and Salt Lake City, then Anaheim, California (the land of Disney).
In the fall of 1962, my mother made him a grandfather and a romance was born. I idolized my grandfather and to look at the old colorized black and whites and kodachromes, his scrinchy Germanic face beamed in an unadulterated grin, it was obvious that he felt the same.
The archetypical businessman-by-day: fresh dry-cleaned suit, button-down shirt, pressed by grandma, and color-coordinated, wide tie; tie tacs and cuff links, his only jewelry, beside his rose-gold and diamond wedding band; linen handkerchief in his right front pocket; the aromas of Old Spice and Tareyton cigarettes clinging to him.
I lived to be in his presence, sit in his lap, do the yard work, empty his ashtray, whatever put me in his orbit. He was my world. I loved the times I went to "work" with him. He brought me in on the weekend day, usually on Saturday, and plunk me down, at his secretary's desk. I couldn't wait to get my mitts all over the office machines, but I was limited to the typewriter and adding machine. Grandpa kept me leashed and away from the teletype, with it's constant typing of cryptic messages. It was like magic.
I can still picture their Salt Lake City split-level home, the living room, the two bedrooms, the carpeted kitchen, the full basement, the back yard, and the neighborhood. In fact, I dream of it, often, these days. I wanted to live with my grandparents.I guess I still do.
Salt of the Earth from rural Kansas, working as a fry cook, he met and married my beautiful, young grandmother from Oklahoma, who was working as a carhop. I recall a photograph of her in a bathing suit, doing the splits; Grandma was quite the looker and a magnet in her own right. Soon after marriage, off to California they went, to make a better life.
Grandfather worked as a fry cook, a busdriver, and joined the United States Navy. He never expounded on his military service to his curious, young granddaughter, other than to share his meager service photographs, one in his dress whites and the others, snapshots of him, playing his trumpet in a military band. Occasionally, he'd bust out his trumpet, whereupon I'd beg and wheedle a tune out of him.
Obviously, he and grandmother had children because I exist to relate my experience. My mother, the firstborn of two children was born in the summer of 42; my uncle came along a few years later. Grandpa drove bus during mom's growing up years then, drove truck for Hadley Auto Transport, hauling Ford Motor Cars. He would move up into management, becoming terminal manager of key hubs in San Jose´and Salt Lake City, then Anaheim, California (the land of Disney).
In the fall of 1962, my mother made him a grandfather and a romance was born. I idolized my grandfather and to look at the old colorized black and whites and kodachromes, his scrinchy Germanic face beamed in an unadulterated grin, it was obvious that he felt the same.
The archetypical businessman-by-day: fresh dry-cleaned suit, button-down shirt, pressed by grandma, and color-coordinated, wide tie; tie tacs and cuff links, his only jewelry, beside his rose-gold and diamond wedding band; linen handkerchief in his right front pocket; the aromas of Old Spice and Tareyton cigarettes clinging to him.
I lived to be in his presence, sit in his lap, do the yard work, empty his ashtray, whatever put me in his orbit. He was my world. I loved the times I went to "work" with him. He brought me in on the weekend day, usually on Saturday, and plunk me down, at his secretary's desk. I couldn't wait to get my mitts all over the office machines, but I was limited to the typewriter and adding machine. Grandpa kept me leashed and away from the teletype, with it's constant typing of cryptic messages. It was like magic.
I can still picture their Salt Lake City split-level home, the living room, the two bedrooms, the carpeted kitchen, the full basement, the back yard, and the neighborhood. In fact, I dream of it, often, these days. I wanted to live with my grandparents.I guess I still do.
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