Unfortunately, my Grandpa died when I was only six, but not
before he gave me my first horse – a stick horse that he made in his
woodshop under backdoor steps to my Grandma’s house. I don’t
remember that much about him, other than he would make wooden toys for us
kids. He was particularly good with tops, making all kinds and
sizes. I recall him spinning and balancing three or four on his
hand. One day he decided to play a trick on Grandma who stored her
strawberry preserves in large jars in his workshop. He called me in,
opened one of the jars, took a huge scoop of jam out with his bare hand and together
we mounted the steps to Grandma’s kitchen. “Davy,” he
directed, “run into the house shouting that “Grandpa just cut off
his hand.” Of course I thought that to be a great joke and did as
told. I rushed in screaming my head off about Grandpa’s severed
hand and the old man came scrambling in right behind, his hand dripping with
red gore. Grandma was at the stove and turned as we rushed in. I’ll
never forget the look of panic on her face and how white it became – just
before she fainted! My mom came running and almost joined her. Once
we had the women back on their feet and Grandpa revealed the “joke”
they grabbed whatever was handy – a broom – a cleaver – and went
after Grandpa. Chasing him all around the house. Needless to say, my Mom had
some severe words to say to me. And Grandma? She wouldn’t
talk to me for a month! But still, the old man and I had quite a laugh
about it all – once the smoke had cleared!
