My Grandpa
My maternal grandfather was a tough and simple man. His name was Bert Lee Taylor who was born on January 26, 1909 in Dallas County, Missouri and passed away on March 30, 1978 at age 69. He married my grandma, Mildred in 1930 when she was 16 and he was 21. They were the parents of my aunt Joan, my mom, Delores, my uncle Phil and my aunt Sue. They were married a total of 48 years. I have some great memories of my Grandpa which I want to share with you.
Grandpa was not a religious man and this fact was painful for my grandmother who had been a Christian since she was a child. He was sometimes gruff and wanted things to go his way most of the time so he could be impatient. But he could also be gentle and I remember how he grinned and cackled when something amused him. I’ve been told he made it as far as the second grade in school but I don’t know why he did not go further. I can imagine he began working early in his life and required no more education to make it through. He worked in Texas building oil rigs for the rich oil men of that time. Later, after he came to California, he was a carpenter and a “pile driver” working a crew that built bridges and overpasses. At the time he retired he was a foreman for a construction company that built the California Aqueduct canal.
Grandpa liked his beer and I remember many times riding in his old pick-up with him to the store or on a hunting trip. He often had a tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon inside a paper sack which he sipped on as he drove. He also smoked some nasty smelling cigars. He wore the same thing every day- a long sleeved button up khaki shirt and khaki pants. Grandpa was what we, these days, call a “road rager”, yelling at slow poke drivers and cussing those who did not navigate the roads like he wanted them to. I was about seven years old when I first saw him flip the bird to another motorist. Grandpa then sternly advised me not make that sign to others, but it wasn’t the last time I saw him flip off someone.
When my father died in 1968, I was 11 years old. Many times after that, my Grandpa would come to our house and he always brought us a box of groceries. These boxes contained staples such as milk, eggs, bread, bologna, cheese, and bacon made from the jowls of the hog. The box usually also contained treats for his four grandkids such as Tootsie Rolls, Abba Zabbas or Chick-O-Sticks, To this day I do not know why he brought the groceries in a cardboard box each and every time, but it is one of my fondest memories of him.
From 1968 on, my brothers Jeff, Kevin and I went deer and squirrel hunting with Grandpa in the Sierras. We would load up his truck and camping for several days on the weekends. Several adult cousins and friends met us there and we had so much fun. Grandpa did the cooking on his old Coleman stove, frying up a big iron skillet full of potatoes, onions and linguica. We also ate bologna sandwiches, beans or Vienna sausages and saltine crackers.
Our hunting routine was that we’d get up at dawn, eat a quick breakfast and go hiking through the woods looking for deer. Each of us would take a different trail or walk the logging roads. Around lunch we headed back to camp where Grandpa was waiting. He’d give us a bologna sandwich or a can of pork and beans to eat. Then, Grandpa would announce, “It’s time to go hunt some squirrels!” We hunted deer in the morning and evening when they were moving to and from their watering places. In the afternoon, the deer were bedded dawn but the bushy tailed gray squirrels were very active gathering pine cones seeds for the winter. Grandpa loved to eat squirrels which my Grandma prepared chicken-fried for him when we got home.
The squirrel hunting portion of the day was the most exciting as well as the most terrifying part of our hunting days. Grandpa’s method was what you would call unorthodox and unlawful. We three boys took turns, alternating with two of us in the back of the truck and the third one riding up front with Grandpa.
The two in the back stood in the truck bed resting our shotguns on the top of the cab. One would cover the right side of the road and the other, the left side. As Grandpa drove slowly along the bumpy logging truck roads, the hunters scanned the roadside for the squirrels. If one of us spotted one, we’d holler for him to stop and he’d slam on the brakes. Most often, we took a shot while still standing in the truck. We had to shoot quickly or the squirrel, which was not about to wait around, would escape its fate. Woe to the boy who missed because Grandpa would get mad and yell we were wasting his shotgun shells.
When Grandpa slammed on the brakes, the hunters were prepared because it had been one of us who yelled for him to stop. The terrifying times were when he spotted a gray tail on the road in front of him. Without warning, he gassed the truck, quickly speeding up to get to where he saw the squirrel, and we had to hang on for dear life. More than once we fell down or nearly tumbled out of the truck bed. It was frightening and simultaneously fun especially in light of the fact that as we approached the squirrel Grandpa would yell, “Shoot! Shoot that son-of-a-b____!” We have laughed about this many times throughout the years. I feel relief that no one ever got shot or hurt in any way.
I wrote previously of moving away from my hometown in 1976 to escape the life of partying and the bad influences there. At that time I had a good job as a shipping and receiving clerk at WESCO, a division of the Westinghouse Corporation. When I told Grandpa I was quitting WESCO to move to San Jose, he was very upset with me. He sternly told me I was making a big mistake to quit a good job. To him, it was a poor decision. It hurt that he didn’t support me and I almost stayed because I didn’t want him to be angry with me. However, I followed my heart and moved.
In 1977, Grandpa was told he had emphysema and that his time on Earth was short. While he was in the hospital, a preacher who was about my grandfather’s age visited him. Grandpa, after all his years of drinking and avoiding God, prayed for salvation and became a Christian. He lived another year and then went home to be with the Lord.
Several years later, I was talking to Grandma about him. She told me she had loved him very much but admitted that their many years of marriage were hard because of his drinking. He was in many ways a good husband to her because he provided for the family and protected them. She lamented that for all those years she prayed that Grandpa would someday become a Christian because this would have helped him be a better father, husband and easier to live with. She then told me something I will never forget. She said, “That last year of Bert’s life, after he accepted Christ, he was a different man and that one year made up for all the years of heartache that came before it.” I am so looking forward to the day when I’ll see them again in heaven.
Grandpa was not a religious man and this fact was painful for my grandmother who had been a Christian since she was a child. He was sometimes gruff and wanted things to go his way most of the time so he could be impatient. But he could also be gentle and I remember how he grinned and cackled when something amused him. I’ve been told he made it as far as the second grade in school but I don’t know why he did not go further. I can imagine he began working early in his life and required no more education to make it through. He worked in Texas building oil rigs for the rich oil men of that time. Later, after he came to California, he was a carpenter and a “pile driver” working a crew that built bridges and overpasses. At the time he retired he was a foreman for a construction company that built the California Aqueduct canal.
Grandpa liked his beer and I remember many times riding in his old pick-up with him to the store or on a hunting trip. He often had a tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon inside a paper sack which he sipped on as he drove. He also smoked some nasty smelling cigars. He wore the same thing every day- a long sleeved button up khaki shirt and khaki pants. Grandpa was what we, these days, call a “road rager”, yelling at slow poke drivers and cussing those who did not navigate the roads like he wanted them to. I was about seven years old when I first saw him flip the bird to another motorist. Grandpa then sternly advised me not make that sign to others, but it wasn’t the last time I saw him flip off someone.
When my father died in 1968, I was 11 years old. Many times after that, my Grandpa would come to our house and he always brought us a box of groceries. These boxes contained staples such as milk, eggs, bread, bologna, cheese, and bacon made from the jowls of the hog. The box usually also contained treats for his four grandkids such as Tootsie Rolls, Abba Zabbas or Chick-O-Sticks, To this day I do not know why he brought the groceries in a cardboard box each and every time, but it is one of my fondest memories of him.
From 1968 on, my brothers Jeff, Kevin and I went deer and squirrel hunting with Grandpa in the Sierras. We would load up his truck and camping for several days on the weekends. Several adult cousins and friends met us there and we had so much fun. Grandpa did the cooking on his old Coleman stove, frying up a big iron skillet full of potatoes, onions and linguica. We also ate bologna sandwiches, beans or Vienna sausages and saltine crackers.
Our hunting routine was that we’d get up at dawn, eat a quick breakfast and go hiking through the woods looking for deer. Each of us would take a different trail or walk the logging roads. Around lunch we headed back to camp where Grandpa was waiting. He’d give us a bologna sandwich or a can of pork and beans to eat. Then, Grandpa would announce, “It’s time to go hunt some squirrels!” We hunted deer in the morning and evening when they were moving to and from their watering places. In the afternoon, the deer were bedded dawn but the bushy tailed gray squirrels were very active gathering pine cones seeds for the winter. Grandpa loved to eat squirrels which my Grandma prepared chicken-fried for him when we got home.
The squirrel hunting portion of the day was the most exciting as well as the most terrifying part of our hunting days. Grandpa’s method was what you would call unorthodox and unlawful. We three boys took turns, alternating with two of us in the back of the truck and the third one riding up front with Grandpa.
The two in the back stood in the truck bed resting our shotguns on the top of the cab. One would cover the right side of the road and the other, the left side. As Grandpa drove slowly along the bumpy logging truck roads, the hunters scanned the roadside for the squirrels. If one of us spotted one, we’d holler for him to stop and he’d slam on the brakes. Most often, we took a shot while still standing in the truck. We had to shoot quickly or the squirrel, which was not about to wait around, would escape its fate. Woe to the boy who missed because Grandpa would get mad and yell we were wasting his shotgun shells.
When Grandpa slammed on the brakes, the hunters were prepared because it had been one of us who yelled for him to stop. The terrifying times were when he spotted a gray tail on the road in front of him. Without warning, he gassed the truck, quickly speeding up to get to where he saw the squirrel, and we had to hang on for dear life. More than once we fell down or nearly tumbled out of the truck bed. It was frightening and simultaneously fun especially in light of the fact that as we approached the squirrel Grandpa would yell, “Shoot! Shoot that son-of-a-b____!” We have laughed about this many times throughout the years. I feel relief that no one ever got shot or hurt in any way.
I wrote previously of moving away from my hometown in 1976 to escape the life of partying and the bad influences there. At that time I had a good job as a shipping and receiving clerk at WESCO, a division of the Westinghouse Corporation. When I told Grandpa I was quitting WESCO to move to San Jose, he was very upset with me. He sternly told me I was making a big mistake to quit a good job. To him, it was a poor decision. It hurt that he didn’t support me and I almost stayed because I didn’t want him to be angry with me. However, I followed my heart and moved.
In 1977, Grandpa was told he had emphysema and that his time on Earth was short. While he was in the hospital, a preacher who was about my grandfather’s age visited him. Grandpa, after all his years of drinking and avoiding God, prayed for salvation and became a Christian. He lived another year and then went home to be with the Lord.
Several years later, I was talking to Grandma about him. She told me she had loved him very much but admitted that their many years of marriage were hard because of his drinking. He was in many ways a good husband to her because he provided for the family and protected them. She lamented that for all those years she prayed that Grandpa would someday become a Christian because this would have helped him be a better father, husband and easier to live with. She then told me something I will never forget. She said, “That last year of Bert’s life, after he accepted Christ, he was a different man and that one year made up for all the years of heartache that came before it.” I am so looking forward to the day when I’ll see them again in heaven.
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