Grandpa, Tell Me About The Good Old Days
One of my favorite songs performed by The Judds, Grandpa, Tell Me About The Good Old Days, makes me yearn for my Grandpa Higgerson. Although he departed this life 36 years ago, in so many ways he lives on.
In 1953, Grandpa was involved in a serious automobile accident and suffered several broken ribs. While my mother worked in town, I stayed with my grandparents in Norfolk County in the country. So as Grandpa recuperated around the house, he held my tiny hand in his and took baby steps with me as I learned to walk while he healed.
As a child, I loved sitting on Grandpa’s lap in the old gooseneck rocking chair listening to it creak on the wooden floor of the living room. Studying and tracing the calluses on his rough carpenter’s hands, I'd question him about his childhood, his family, and his life growing up on a farm at Higgerson Landing along the Mississippi River in New Madrid County, Missouri.
Why was he so memorable, and why do his experiences still resonate so strongly with me? Neither wealth nor fame visited his door, but he was rich in time and experiences, which he shared with his curious little granddaughter—me.
I can still smell the tobacco he chewed and hear him spitting in the empty instant coffee jar kept always by his side. Grandma deplored his addiction and crocheted yarn covers for his spit jar, as we called it. That way no one could see its nasty contents.
He'd pick the can up off the floor, unscrew the cover, spit into it, re-screw the cover, and set it quietly on the floor by his side, then begin his recitation, as though the pause to spit helped him conjure up the memories. If nothing else, it was good for effect.
"Well, there was Watt, my brother," he'd say, "who drowned in a boating accident on the Mississippi River when he was eight years old. My mother almost drowned, too, but her hair got tangled in a drift pile, and when the boat struck the pile loosening the driftwood, someone saw her hair and pulled her to safety. All the rest, including my two cousins, Hallie and Cordie Hubbard, drowned."
I always felt somewhat uncomfortable when Grandpa mentioned this tragedy because I did not know how to react or respond since I had never experienced the death of a loved one.
"How did the accident happen, Grandpa?" I asked, because the idea of a child dying was unimaginable to my young mind.
He explained that there had been a dance at Island Number 10 in the river on February 25th, 1903, that families lived on the islands in the river back then, and seven people, including his mother, who went along to chaperone her two nieces, were returning from the party in a neighbor's skiff.
"What's a ‘skiff?’" I inquired.
"Well, honey, it's a kind of boat,” he told me.
Continuing, he mentioned that the skiff was caught in an eddy and capsized.
"What's an ‘eddy,’ Grandpa?"
"Where the water swirls around in the river like a cyclone."
Never truly understanding but trying to imagine such a sad occurrence, I simply said, "Oh," and he continued.
“The boat containing seven people was sucked into a drift pile in the river. After my mother was pulled out, the body of Mrs. Robinson was recovered because she was such a large woman that she floated. Her son, Carl, along with Watt, Hallie, Cordie and the boat owner and driver, Brownie Jones, none of their bodies were ever found. Uncle Eddie even threw dynamite into the river to see if they might float up, but the powerful river had likely carried them downstream, and they were never found.”
Trying to change the subject to something more pleasant, I asked about Grandpa's cousins. This was the part I liked the most, watching him count on his fingers 11 names of the children who lived to adulthood belonging to his Aunt Dora and Uncle Andrew. "
“Now, let's see," he'd say. "There was Clara, Walter, Nevada, Arthur, Anna, Andrew, Harold, Alice, Mary, Hattie, and Benjamin.”
As an only child, I could not fathom having that many brothers and sisters!
For 20 years, Momma and I spent almost every Sunday with my grandparents, either at their house or ours, where we had Sunday dinner at noon, as we called it. If Grandpa wasn’t busy and I had his undivided attention, I'd question him again because I enjoyed hearing his stories over and over. In doing so, I practiced my high school Gregg shorthand to memorialize his accounts of past events. More importantly, it gave me the opportunity to impress him with my newly learned skill. I always wanted him to be proud of me.
Grandpa’s life stories influenced me in many ways. Very young I learned the importance of recording family history, memories, and stories for the next generation, and I regret now that I did not do more, but I was busy going to school and later on, working. I cherish the time I spent with Grandpa because he taught me about his heritage, which is also part of mine. Many of life’s lessons were learned at his knee without either of us even realizing it.
He explained that there had been a dance at Island Number 10 in the river on February 25th, 1903, that families lived on the islands in the river back then, and seven people, including his mother, who went along to chaperone her two nieces, were returning from the party in a neighbor's skiff.
"What's a ‘skiff?’" I inquired.
"Well, honey, it's a kind of boat,” he told me.
Continuing, he mentioned that the skiff was caught in an eddy and capsized.
"What's an ‘eddy,’ Grandpa?"
"Where the water swirls around in the river like a cyclone."
Never truly understanding but trying to imagine such a sad occurrence, I simply said, "Oh," and he continued.
“The boat containing seven people was sucked into a drift pile in the river. After my mother was pulled out, the body of Mrs. Robinson was recovered because she was such a large woman that she floated. Her son, Carl, along with Watt, Hallie, Cordie and the boat owner and driver, Brownie Jones, none of their bodies were ever found. Uncle Eddie even threw dynamite into the river to see if they might float up, but the powerful river had likely carried them downstream, and they were never found.”
Trying to change the subject to something more pleasant, I asked about Grandpa's cousins. This was the part I liked the most, watching him count on his fingers 11 names of the children who lived to adulthood belonging to his Aunt Dora and Uncle Andrew. "
“Now, let's see," he'd say. "There was Clara, Walter, Nevada, Arthur, Anna, Andrew, Harold, Alice, Mary, Hattie, and Benjamin.”
As an only child, I could not fathom having that many brothers and sisters!
For 20 years, Momma and I spent almost every Sunday with my grandparents, either at their house or ours, where we had Sunday dinner at noon, as we called it. If Grandpa wasn’t busy and I had his undivided attention, I'd question him again because I enjoyed hearing his stories over and over. In doing so, I practiced my high school Gregg shorthand to memorialize his accounts of past events. More importantly, it gave me the opportunity to impress him with my newly learned skill. I always wanted him to be proud of me.
Grandpa’s life stories influenced me in many ways. Very young I learned the importance of recording family history, memories, and stories for the next generation, and I regret now that I did not do more, but I was busy going to school and later on, working. I cherish the time I spent with Grandpa because he taught me about his heritage, which is also part of mine. Many of life’s lessons were learned at his knee without either of us even realizing it.
Is it any wonder then that my life’s work evolved into that of a court reporter, a genealogist, and a personal historian?
All families have priceless life stories, which, when recorded, are treasured gifts for today and future generations. You just might have a little grandchild or curious niece remembering you and thanking you for your Legacy in Words some day.
All families have priceless life stories, which, when recorded, are treasured gifts for today and future generations. You just might have a little grandchild or curious niece remembering you and thanking you for your Legacy in Words some day.
Written by Diane Mason Gray, Legacy in Words, LLC, Williamsburg, Virginia, 10 Aug 2009
