Grandfather Story

My maternal Grandfather was a Hopi Indian. He wore the same clothes as everyone else. His hair — where he still had any — was short. People called him “Ed” rather than something exotic like “Morning Elk”, and if it weren’t for a kind of Asian cast to his face — his eyebrows were always peaked, giving him a surprised look even when he was relaxed — you’d never think he was anything other than 100% American; which he was, of course. He was tanned year ‘round from spending most of his free time outdoors fishing, drinking Miller High Life beer and Vernor’s Ginger Ale, as I do now.

This disappointed me because I wanted him to be a “real” Indian. When I’d show him off to friends he’d just look at them, mute. They never believed he was an Indian. “He’s just an ordinary guy,” they’d say, and there was no way I could prove otherwise. The only thing “Indian” Grandfather ever told me was that his Mother was born on the reservation. He told me her name — her Indian name — but I forgot it. Mostly, he talked about fishing.

Like all grandchildren, I loved being with him. When I was five years old we moved to California. Thereafter, I only saw Grandfather occasionally, usually during summer vacation when we’d visit relatives.

The best thing about visiting my Grandfather was going to work with him. He was a driver for Railway Express which, in the era of train transportation, was what UPS is today. At least twice a day Grandfather drove his truck to the train station to pick up packages he’d then deliver around town. I rode with him, and with the enthusiasm for doing nothing only children have, was crazy about sitting on the floor of the truck while he drove. It rattled and shook, the packages sliding chaotically. I could feel metal whirring and grinding beneath me as Grandfather worked the gears. The motor and transmission sounds vibrated the metal floor and sides of the truck, making a wonderfully destructive noise.

I don’t remember whether we really talked. The truck was so noisy it would have been hard to carry on a conversation. He probably asked me questions about what I was doing, how I liked school and California, who were my friends, and so forth. I probably answered the way kids always do: “nuthin,”“OK,” “dunno,” and the ever popular, “you know.” We weren’t great conversationalists, but I recall sitting on the corrugated metal floor of that truck as some of the happiest days of my life.

Of course, I had an ulterior motive. Every place Grandfather stopped I’d accompany him into the office or store, sometimes helping by carrying smaller packages. If it was a drugstore, or other place where they sold childhood necessities such as candy, or soda pop, or ice cream, Grandfather might buy something for me as a reward for helping. Sometimes a clerk would be so impressed with Grandfather’s “helper” they’d give me something for free. It was like Halloween without the costumes. Instead of saying “Trick or Treat!” all I had to do was look ... well, look like a kid with his Grandfather.

But this is not the Grandfather story I want to tell. That story is about a hot summer morning Grandfather and I had to make an unscheduled pick-up. When we arrived, the train was late and we went to wait inside the station. The small room was really no bigger than the lobby of most office buildings. The lights were off, making at least half the room cooler than outside. Late morning sunlight poured through tall windows on the other side, brightly lighting it. I turned toward the darker, cooler side, guarded by a low wooden railing to my left.

I saw some other Railway Express drivers sitting on a bench behind the railing, talking. As I started through a small gate — like the kind you see in courtroom dramas — Grandfather gently put a hand on my shoulder. The men stopped talking and looked at me; at my hand on the gate, at Grandfather’s hand on me, and then at my Grandfather. Something passed between them, and Grandfather quietly herded me to the other side of the room to sit on a bench in front of a window, the warm sunlight magnified by the glass.

He gave me something to eat, and smiled. I think he laughed at how seriously I chewed, or maybe we just sat there looking out the window. Maybe he took out the thermos he always carried and drank from it. He probably smoked a non-filtered Lucky Strike cigarette, with the secret code “LSMFT” on the bottom of the pack. We didn’t look at the other drivers in the cool darkness on the other side of the room, and I don’t know if they looked at us. But the feeling I had — that I still have a half century later — was of being in awe of my Grandfather.

I could imagine only one reason we were sitting where we were: Grandfather was special. He was so special, he even had a special place to sit in the train station. No one else, I reasoned, was allowed to sit there. Just him, and by extension, me. The other drivers — the ones that weren’t so special — they had to sit crowded together on the other side of the station. Sitting where we were, even though I was starting to sweat, was an honor. I was happier even, than rattling along on the floor of Grandfather’s truck.

It wasn’t until years later, when I was out of college — “in the world” you might say — when being “special” had become something you didn’t necessarily want to be, that I understood why we were sitting where we were in that little train station. Sometimes I try to be annoyed about it, imagining the other drivers smirking, looking at us, then laughing conspiratorially, or maybe not laughing, but being quietly malevolent: glowering; thinking thoughts I still cannot imagine. But I don’t know if that really happened, and there’s nothing worth mining there even if it did.

Instead, I just think about the polished white oak bench and hardwood floors darkened with age and traffic; of the high ceiling, and the smell of wood baked by the sun. I think about sitting by the window with my Grandfather, munching away, happy as the proverbial pig in shit, the sun lighting my Grandfather’s face.