Mom found this picture and sent it to me. Not sure what year it is or how old I am, possibly third grade?

I spy a cross/lamp, a large wooden fork with elephants engraved on the handle, some canned green beans sitting on a crochet doily, a bronze swan, a marionette, what might be the largest bible in history (the white thing in the bookshelf), some praying hands, two owls, pictures of the grandkids (I’m second from top).

Gramp’s name was Harry, but everyone called him Hub.

Hub worked for Iowa Power and Light, which is now Midwest Resources. If you look on the top shelf behind him, you can catch a glimpse of a statue of a utility worker climbing a light pole — that’s what he did, at least earlier in his career; in those days, you had to climb up the poles manually.

We used to have these glass and/or ceramic ornaments all around the house, all different shapes and colors, that were actually various electric insulators from his work. I think Mom said that one time he was accidentally jolted with a surge of electricity while he was working, and either fell or was simply hurt. It was around that time that his temperament changed and he started treating the kids differently (they had six children). It wasn’t until much later that he mellowed out quite a bit.

Gramp was the most manly man I knew growing up. He was stoic, yet jovial. He smoked cigarettes and had tattoos on his chest and forearms and a Clark Gable mustache. He was often found doing woodwork in the garage where he had dozens of tools, vice grips, stationary saws and drills. Gram and Gramp worked on various joint projects where he would cut lumber into toys or shapes, and she would paint them — trains, cars, animals, you name it.

He would frequently whistle, make up songs, or speak in sarcastic catch phrases like “women: can’t live with ‘em, can’t live with ‘em.” He loved watching John Wayne movies and other westerns.

When we visited, Mom would prod me to show Gramp my latest electronic or mechanical toy, as he was interested in how things worked. He would bounce me on his knee wildly and sing “Ridin’ on a hump-back mule, mule, ridin’ on a hump-back mule… when he passes by, he winks his rogueish eye, ridin’ on a hump-back mule.”

Then he would say we were “pals and buddies, buddies and pals.” And he would go on about us being buddies and pals, through thick and thin, over the hill and under the hill, pals and buddies, buddies and pals.

One time when I was in kindergarten or first grade, they visited us where we were living at the time, on the outskirts of a little town called Merrill, Wisconsin. I had the honor of leading them through a trail in the woods and showing them a few of my hiding places.

A few years later, my parents divorced, and we eventually moved in with Gram and Gramp (that’s their front door, above). I was in fifth grade, and my bed was in the basement, separated from my brother’s room by a plastic curtain.

One night, Gramp and I were up late. He had been working out in the yard all day, and we stayed up watching T.V. for a bit while everyone else was already asleep. Before too long, we turned in as well, and he gave me a hug and said “goodnight, buddy,” before sending me down to bed.

That was the last time I ever talked to him. And as far as I know, I was the last person he ever spoke to. That night he died of a heart attack, stretched out on the floor in the bathroom upstairs. I think he was in his mid-50’s.

Mom woke me up in the middle of the night, first to tell me he was taken to the hospital, then again to tell me he had died. I cried myself back to sleep.