Every Sunday after church, my family would ride up to my grandparents home….”the farm.”It was located in Hamersville, Ohio.  47 Club Road was the exact address.  We piled into the car, Dad, Mom and my brother, David all sat in the front seat.  (Dave was the oldest sibling) Janie, Jack and myself sat in the back seat, usually with me in the middle. The trip took at least 45 minutes.  The road to my Gram and Gramps house was just filled with gravel and as my Dad drove along, the dust trailed behind us.  When we finally arrived, my Gram and Gramps would either be looking out from the front door, waiting for us, or sitting in the metal yard chairs watching  for our car.

Now let me tell you about the house.  It was a white frame farm house with a green roof.  I remember the side door which was a screen door and that was the one we always used. We were not allowed to go in through the front door; it was always locked.  The kitchen had a black iron stove.  There was no running water.  We carried water in from the outside well no matter what the weather or season was.  Gramps boiled water if we needed hot water for dishes. And by the way, Grandma never washed dishes.  She told me that her hands were too sensitive and allergic to soap.  Gramps always washed all of the dishes and I dried them.  Everyone else usually disappeared when  the dishes needed to be washed.  And that was okay with me. They had an outhouse, also used no matter what the weather or season was.  Winter time was a real challenge.  All in all, that was a minor thing to worry about.  My grandmother’s name was Mabel. My grandfather’s name was Denman.  Most people called him Denny.  My mom called him Pap.  My dad called him Pop.  They had two children:  Charles and Evelyn.  My dad is Charles.  My gram always called him Charles. My mom never called him that.  My Aunt Evelyn called him Brud.  Enough of that! The men in our family hunted in the woods behind the farm.  There was also a lake way back.  I spent most of my time there in the barn with my brothers, Jack and David.  We climbed up into the hay loft and jumped all around.  We would sneak into the cow stalls and look around. There was a room where hams hung to dry from the salt treatment.  The cows came in each night when my Gramps called them.  He also raised hogs.  My Gramps would ride us around on his tractor in the fields just for fun. My grandparents grew all of their own food, had chickens that laid all of the eggs, had pigs that supplied the pork and bacon and salt cured ham, had the same chickens that ended up on Sunday’s dinner table.  I will never forget the process of plucking the feathers.  They allowed me to watch the plucking.  Of course the chicken already met its fate.  The unique thing about those Sunday dinners, was that Gram served only one chicken.  There were the six of us and Gram and Gramps.  I always got one wing, Mom got the breast meat, Dad got the leg and the rest was divided up.  That’s how it was. That was plenty. We always had “light bread”, gravy and corn.  My Gramps put all of his food in one pile on his plate and ate it that way; he said it all goes down the same place.  Gramps had no teeth.  Those things seemed regular to me back then. Now when I think about where Gramps slept, my thoughts climb to the upstairs of the farm house.  I was only allowed to go up there once or twice a year when my mom took me up.  I remember the feather bed with white covers and I would love to sit upon the middle of the bed and be “swallowed up”  by the feather bed.  It was pretty spooky up there as there was no window and it was musty.  No ghosts were there to my knowledge.  Just off limits to kids.  One wonderful memory is the image of my Grandfather running down the dirt and gravel road following my Dad’s car with us in it.  Every single exit for years and years from the farm on 47 Club Road began thus.  He would be smiling. We would be waving.  Bye Gramps!

My Grandfather was a tall man.  Stately I believe.  He was a World War I veteran.  Before he bought the farm, he was a painter in the suburb of Cincinnati named Oakley.  That is where my dad grew up. I don’t know the exact meeting of my mom and my dad, but the town of Oakley is close to Madisonville where my mom grew up.  (to be continued)