Tag: Grandparents

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Grandparents, by Ricky

I never met my father’s father, John Leonard Nelson. He died when my father, John Archie Nelson, was only 9 years old. As the oldest of six siblings (2 girls and 4 boys), he became the “man-of-the-house” and had to help his mother, Emma Sophia (Ungar) Nelson, support the family. He ultimately left school after the 8th grade to work full-time. Emma was a short but not frail woman. After I was born, she lived with us in Redondo Beach and Lawndale for awhile. During that time she would dress me like mothers did back in the early 1900’s; in clothes that looked like small girl dresses. I was too young to care, but when, as a teen, I saw the old photographs of those days, I was embarrassed to have a record of how I had been dressed.

As I grew into my teens, I remember Emma as a thinner elderly lady with silver grey hair and a really nice personality. At that time in her life, she was a live-in “nanny” for a down’s syndrome girl, Jackie. I first met Jackie when she was about 3 and the last time before she passed away she was about 13. In all those years whenever we would meet, she would run to me and give me a big hug. I always felt awkward and uncomfortable around Jackie, but I can still see her round smiling face and her radiating pure love to this day. Truly, she was one of God’s special gifts to our world.

In her later years, Grandma Nelson alternately lived with my dad or his oldest sister, Marion, until she finally passed away.

I first saw my mother’s parents, Richard Pearson and Signe (Erickson), when they came from their farm in Minnesota to visit us shortly after my birth. Of course, I don’t remember any of that, but I have seen the photographs of the event. For my 3rd birthday, my “party” and birthday cake were served at the farm because their 25th anniversary was less than 2-weeks after my birthday and our family was there to help celebrate. I don’t remember that event either, but once again, I’ve seen the photographs.

When, at the age of 8, I was sent to the farm to live while my parents divorced, I was able to learn somewhat about them during the 2-years I lived there. Both Richard and Signe were the first children born in America in their respective families, so they were raised in the traditions of the “old” country, Sweden. As such, they were not very “touchy-feely” people. Others would probably classify them as being rather “cold” or “distant” emotionally.

I felt pretty close to both of them; to my grandfather, because I was named after him; John (after my dad and his dad) and Richard (after grandpa). I was “close” to my grandma because my mother was in California and I missed her so much.

While I was there, I was not allowed to do anything with the fun farm equipment, or fun chores, like driving the tractor while plowing, mowing the lawn with a power mower, etc. I suppose that was because I wasn’t raised on the farm from infancy AND because I wasn’t their child only a grandchild. They were very protective of me (irritatingly so).

I was allowed to help feed the cows, stack hay bales onto trailers and then again in the barn. I was no good at milking because the cows were so much bigger than I was and I was VERY hesitant in getting between any two of them in their stalls to install the milking machines onto their business ends. I did watch and laugh, as grandpa would occasionally hand-milk a cow just to squirt milk at all the cats and kittens that would sit on their hind legs and beg like a dog.

Grandpa did allow me to ride on the tractor with him while he would plow, plant, cultivate, and harvest his crops. I could also ride whenever he would mow, rake, and bale hay. I spent many long hours riding with him.

Grandma absolutely refused to let me mow the yard with the power mower. She considered it too dangerous. She did assign me the job of collecting the morning eggs, however. That didn’t even last two days as I was terrified of the rooster or more accurately, of his talons and extremely aggressive behavior.

Grandma made the most delicious dessert, which remains my favorite to this day. It’s called, Cherry Delight and is extremely “rich” in flavor and calories.

Sometimes, I helped her do the laundry, not from any sense of duty but because my part was running the clothes through the “wringer”, (it’s a boy vs machine thing). While grandpa was generally proportionally muscled for his average frame, grandma was a bit on the husky (not fat) side as she was a hard worker who not only managed a two-story farmhouse but also had a nice medium sized garden. Every autumn she would do a lot of canning of her garden vegetables, including the ever-present rhubarb. Even into her older age, she was quite a lovely woman and nice to look at.

Because he spent so much time out in the sun, grandpa resembled one of those ancient cowboys one occasionally sees on greeting cards. He had a very dark tan, but with his shirt off, the sun, reflecting off his alabaster chest could be quite blinding. He was truly a “red neck” but not in intelligence or personality.

One of the chores I got to do, I did because I wanted to, not because they asked me to. I just loved to go out to the fields and trap gophers. My grandpa was the township’s “gopher bounty” paying agent so he paid me 10 cents per gopher trapped. Other farm boys would come over to our farm with their dads and show him the tails from gophers that they had caught and he would pay them 10 cents a tail. I just brought home the whole body. Killing the gophers in my traps was one thing; I did not want to cut the tail off.

I loved all my grandparents and I miss them as much as I miss my own parents.

© January 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Horseshoes by Phillip Hoyle

Both my dad Earl and my maternal grandpa Charley had horseshoes. Dad had large ones he threw at an iron rod hoping to make a ringer. He smiled when he played and enjoyed his conversation with the other men. But I liked Grandpa’s horseshoes better for they represented something more essential than a game even with its skill and camaraderie. Grandpa’s horseshoes represented a way of life, one close to the soil, close to history, actually an extension of that history. The imagination of living on a tract of land that had been farmed for hundreds of years by American natives and nearly one hundred years by American immigrants from German and Sweden held more attraction for me. Grandpa’s farm and life invited me into a world in which horseshoes were actually worn by horses. I really liked that.

My father’s life was much more disconnected from the essentials of a farm. Oh he sold groceries, sometimes even local produce, but he sold them, not raised them. He worked hard, dealt with many people, hired quite a few employees, and following the example of his grocer father, sometimes gave groceries to folk who were too broke to afford them. He offered monthly credit to many people who lived on monthly-paid incomes. His life did exemplify a deep dedication to people. But his horseshoes were stored in a box on a shelf in the garage and taken out only when he and some other men were meeting at the park for a game. Grandpa’s horseshoes had holes in them to accommodate real nails to be pounded into horse’s hooves; dad’s horseshoes were only for sport.


Because of its difference from city life, the farm was magical for me. I was amazed by all its elements that didn’t occur in our home on a city lot: its location alongside a gravel road and a ravine, its tall barns and squat hen house, its underground cellar and the large wood stack, its wood-burning stoves and deep wells, its tractor and truck. The farm seemed nearly foreign when compared to the things I knew. We had cats at home, but Grandpa had dogs that brought in the cattle each evening, cows that gave milk. He sometimes had calves that were auctioned off at the local sales barn. In the cellar sat large cans of milk and eggs that Grandpa took to the mill each Saturday. The chopping block next to the wood stack displayed the heavy ax that he used to split logs for cooking meals and heating the house. And the place had stories of an ancient ceremonial ground down by the creek, a place that was used annually by the native folk who had lived there before my great grandfather. There were also stories of the old sod house my forebear built when he homesteaded the place in the 1870s, of Indians stopping by to trade, of the old two-story house that used to stand there but that burned down when two girls were playing and lit a fire in their play oven. I treasured these stories; the farm captured my imagination becoming the site of my dreams. In addition to dreams, I clearly recall the saddle that hung in the central part of the barn, the leather, wood and metal gear to hitch the horses to the wagons, and the lucky horseshoe Grandpa had tacked to the barn wall. I liked Grandpa’s horseshoes.

By contrast, Dad’s horseshoes represented another world of sports and competition. They went to church picnics at the city park. I watched the play, even tried it but was neither strong nor accurate enough in my tosses. Even as I grew my game did not improve for I still threw the shoes wildly, rarely hitting the rod or making points, certainly making no ringers. I did like watching the older guys—my dad and others—toss them. The players had their own techniques: how they held the horseshoe, how they tossed it, how they followed through the throw, how they cheered or rued the results. They relished their sport with Sears and Roebuck fake horseshoes. Although my dad liked sports and mild competition, I never got into it.

Growing up I saw my grandpa work. Farming allows that; at least on family farms where the children help. Actually I helped Grandma mostly in her garden and sometimes collecting eggs. Still, Grandpa was always around—milking cows, making things in his shop, working fields, keeping his equipment in good order. He invited me to ride with him on the tractor or to go with him in the pickup to a nearby mechanic’s shop. By contrast dad’s work took place away from home. For years I rarely saw Dad’s work at the store, only occasionally a bit of bookkeeping on a Sunday night when the store was closed. What work I did see him do was at church where he played the organ for two or three services each Sunday. I thrilled at his playing and singing, his accompanying and service music, his improvisations on hymns and gospel songs, and his tasteful selections of classical pieces. But soon I was sent off to children’s church and didn’t hear him except on Sunday evenings. When I was in junior high choir I did again hear the morning service, and in the 8th grade started conducting the choir calls to worship and amen responses to prayers. In this I got to collaborate with Dad; I liked that—very much.

Grandpa died while I was in 5th or 6th grade. I matured without him. He remained a wonderful element of my imagination inspiring me with his love, humor, and gentle kidding. Soon after his death I entered dad’s world of work at the store and, thankfully, his world of music and artistry at the church.

I keep alive a great memory of hunting with dad and grandpa. They carried shot guns. I walked along and I carried the rabbits they shot using a handle Grandpa fashioned from a branch with just a few cuts with his pocket knife. I loved that afternoon even though the rabbits got very heavy. I cherish my memory of hunting at the farm with these two men who loved me and whom I adored.

Denver, © 2 March 2015

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.” 

Posted on

Grandparents by Ricky

I never met my father’s father, John Leonard Nelson. He died when my father, John Archie Nelson, was only 9 years old. As the oldest of six siblings (2 girls and 4 boys), he became the “man-of-the-house” and had to help his mother, Emma Sophia (Ungar) Nelson, support the family. He ultimately left school after the 8th grade to work full-time. Emma was a short but not frail woman. After I was born, she lived with us in Redondo Beach and Lawndale for awhile. During that time she would dress me like mothers did back in the early 1900’s; in clothes that looked like small girl dresses. I was too young to care, but when, as a teen, I saw the old photographs of those days, I was embarrassed to have a record of how I had been dressed.

As I grew into my teens, I remember Emma as a thinner elderly lady with silver grey hair and a really nice personality. At that time in her life, she was a live-in “nanny” for a downs syndrome girl, Jackie. I first met Jackie when she was about 3 and the last time before she passed away she was about 13. In all those years whenever we would meet, she would run to me and give me a big hug. To my everlasting shame, I always felt awkward and uncomfortable around Jackie, but I can still see her round smiling face and her radiating pure love to this day. Truly, she was one of God’s special gifts to our world.

In her later years, Grandma Nelson alternately lived with my dad or his oldest sister, Marion, until she finally passed away.

I first saw my mother’s parents, Richard Pearson and Signe (Erickson), when they came from their farm in Minnesota to visit us shortly after my birth. Of course, I don’t remember any of that, but I have seen the photographs of the event. For my 3rd birthday, my “party” and birthday cake were served at the farm because their 25th anniversary was less than 2-weeks after my birthday and our family was there to help celebrate. I don’t remember that event either, but once again, I’ve seen the photographs.

When, at the age of 8, I was sent to the farm to live while my parents divorced, I was able to learn somewhat about them during the 2-years I lived there. Both Richard and Signe were the first children born in America in their respective families, so they were raised in the traditions of the “old” country, Sweden. As such, they were not very “touchy-feely” people. Others would probably classify them as being rather “cold” or “distant” emotionally.

I felt pretty close to both of them; to my grandfather, because I was named after him; John (after my dad and his dad) and Richard (after grandpa). I was “close” to my grandma because my mother was in California and I missed her so much.

While I was there, I was not allowed to do anything with the fun farm equipment, or fun chores, like driving the tractor while plowing, mowing the lawn with a power mower, etc. I suppose that was because I wasn’t raised on the farm from infancy AND because I wasn’t their child only a grandchild. They were very protective of me (irritatingly so).

I was allowed to help feed the cows, stack hay bales onto trailers and then again in the barn. I was no good at milking because the cows were so much bigger than I was and I was VERY hesitant in getting between any two of them in their stalls to install the milking machines onto their business ends. I did watch and laugh, as grandpa would occasionally hand-milk a cow just to squirt milk at all the cats and kittens that would sit on their hind legs and beg like a dog.

Grandpa did allow me to ride on the tractor with him while he would plow, plant, cultivate, and harvest his crops. I could also ride whenever he would mow, rake, and bale hay. I spent many long hours riding with him.

Grandma absolutely refused to let me mow the yard with the power mower. She considered it too dangerous. She did assign me the job of collecting the morning eggs, however. That didn’t even last two days as I was terrified of the rooster or more accurately, of his talons and extremely aggressive behavior.

Grandma made the most delicious dessert, which remains my favorite to this day. It’s called, Cherry Delight and is extremely “rich” in flavor and calories.

Sometimes, I helped her do the laundry, not from any sense of duty but because my part was running the clothes through the “wringer”, (it’s a boy vs machine thing). While grandpa was generally proportionally muscled for his average frame, grandma was a bit on the husky (not fat) side as she was a hard worker who not only managed a two-story farmhouse but also had a nice medium sized garden. Every autumn she would do a lot of canning of her garden vegetables, including the ever-present rhubarb. Even into her older age, she was quite a lovely woman and nice to look at.

Because he spent so much time out in the sun, grandpa resembled one of those ancient cowboys one occasionally sees on greeting cards. He had a very dark tan, but with his shirt off, the sun, reflecting off his alabaster chest could be quite blinding. He was truly a “red neck” but not in intelligence or personality.

One of the chores I got to do, I did because I wanted to, not because they asked me to. I just loved to go out to the fields and trap gophers. My grandpa was the township’s “gopher bounty” paying agent so he paid me 10 cents per gopher trapped. Other farm boys would come over to our farm with their dads and show him the tails from gophers that they had caught and he would pay them 10 cents a tail. I just brought home the whole body. Killing the gophers in my traps was one thing; I did not want to cut the tail off.

I loved all my grandparents and I miss them as much as I miss my own parents.

© January 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com