I lived with my grandparents off and on growing up, a matter of my father’s career and being relocated from base to base. I looked at their house as my home, where I was the happiest, swallowed up by all the love.
There was an especially hectic time when my father had retired after 27 years of military service and couldn’t figure out what to do with the rest of his life. He was 46 at the time.
He could have stayed longer, with a promotion to a higher rank, except it required a tour of duty to Vietnam. This was 1967, and the “war” was just starting up. He’d seen enough of fighting and killing and death that he chose retirement.
We moved back to Kansas while he figured out his future. There were only a few companies that needed his expertise in making rockets, bombs and other weapons of mass destruction.
I started 4th grade in Kansas, living with my paternal grandparents again. I slept in the northwest corner room up the narrow staircase. That “visit” lasted for one semester at Lincoln elementary school. Dad landed a job in California with a major weapons/military arms manufacturer, and off we went, again. I guess there were companies that needed his skill of killing a lot of people all at once after all.
So off we went back to the place of my birth, the San Francisco bay area. This move lasted for a whole year, but the west coast lifestyle and the job wasn’t for him. Back to Kansas, back home really.
It was while I was living with grandma and grandpa, that this story took place. One of those times when my folks were off somewhere looking for a new future and I was under my grandparents’ care. It was wonderful to be truthful.
My grandparents loved to fish, and Grandma could out catch anybody. It was her only real recreation when I think about it now, the rest of her life spent in the garden or the kitchen. She was a patient woman having raised 6 sons, which helped her in catching fish. When it comes to catching fish, patience is key.
She and my Grandpa raised six boys through the depression, and a lot of the time the food on the table was something that was caught or killed that day. Wild game like rabbits and squirrels, quail, pheasants and a whole lot of fish. Snapping turtles in season, wild berries and fruit from trees in abandoned farm yards.
Any skilled fisherperson will tell you there are times when the fish bite a lot more than others. My grandma would look at temps, wind direction, barometric pressure and the phase of the moon. That last one was especially important, and she planned half her day by the phase of the moon. When to fish, when to plant your garden, when to make those major decisions in life.
It just so happened that all those signs came together one sunny spring day. Even the planets were in alignment.
I was sitting at my desk in school when I looked up and saw my grandfather standing in the door to the classroom. I kinda knew what was up, this wasn’t the first time he had shown up unexpectedly. I knew where this was going to lead, but didn’t know then this would be the last of its kind.
“Pardon the intrusion Mrs. C” my grandpa said “but there’s an emergency and I need to take Kyd with me this afternoon.”
Now Mrs. C was quite the stern woman, about 5’ tall and 300 pounds. She also lived across the street from my other grandparents, and would rat me out every time I did something out of line. Back then a teacher could also be a little more strict, and my knuckles felt the swift whap of her ever present ruler more than once.
“Some biting issue I imagine?” Mrs. C replied with her face half scowl and half smile, proud of her wit. “That’d be fine, just make sure he does his homework tonight.” She knew full well there wasn’t an emergency, that the weather was nice and the fish was biting.
She was right.
I followed my grandfather down the steps, out the main door and over to the bronze Ford Fairlane sitting out front. I knew what was up when I saw grandma sitting in the front seat of the car. Must be something special going on, as she rarely left her kitchen or all her gardens and joined us on these excursions.
“We’re gonna head over to Earl’s, the crappie are really biting.” Grandma’s favorite.
Now, if you don’t know what crappie are you can look it up. First off it’s pronounced as craw-pee. Big difference from the type of crappie where you’re feeling bad. Crappie are one of the best tasting fish there is in my opinion. I may be slightly influenced by grandma’s cooking, her skill at frying these little filets is unmatched. Makes my mouth water now just thinking about it.
Back to the story.
So I jumped in the back seat as always, and since this was 1968 you never buckled up. Heck I don’t even think cars had seat belts in the front or back seats. This becomes a minor issue later on in this saga. Once I shut the car door we were off!
Earl owned a little marina on a lake an hour and half away, just outside Toronto. Yes there is a Toronto Kansas, and a Toronto Lake. Kinda prophetic eh? Today’s drive was quick and easy. The marina was next to the boat launch, and floated out on the lake off a tree covered point. You could tie your boat up and Earl would be happy to fill your tanks with gas, and your gut with beer. There was a little store inside selling bait and tackle, with an old wooden counter and glass case with stale candy bars, gum and what nots.
The best part was the indoor fishing dock. Ask anybody in southeast Kansas that fishes they have probably heard of Earl’s heated dock and marina.
The marina was reached by going down a gang plank and was floating some 30 feet off the bank. It was divided in two sections basically. One half housed the store, like a mini gas station, with about the same junk inside except geared to the fishing and skiing crowd. There was room along the outside of the marina to accommodate 4 -5 boats tied up, mainly 16 footers with a small outboard or the occasional ski boat.
The fishing dock took up the other half and was essentially a huge hole cut into the floor giving access to the lake below. Our intended destination so Grandma could catch some fish. All under one big tin roof.
The indoor fishing dock was about the size of a swimming pool, surrounded by a heavily worn wooden rail to keep folks from falling in. Circling the entire structure was a row of hard wooden seats. Like the old fold down seats you’d find in a classroom or lecture hall. Not too comfy, and only one row deep. A few seats were missing on each side as access points. In one corner were two small washrooms, a refrigerator with nightcrawlers, and a tank full of minnows.
A few lights had been extended out over the hole and above the lake, and this is what made the fishing so great. The light attracted insects and other aquatic life that fed the bigger fish, the crappie we were targeting, and really increased the population. When the fish were running, biting so to speak, this was a favorite congregating spot.
The indoor dock was heated, so you could fish about anytime of the year. The fishing dock had its own access and was open 24 hours a day. Sometimes after he’d worked 12 hours and went home the whole thing ran on the honor system. It was $5.00 a day to fish, and if you took minnows or worms you would pay by putting your money in a small wooden box attached to the wall.
Earl’s heated dock would be our hangout for the next 18 hours. We got there around 3:00 in the afternoon and wouldn’t leave until the following morning. An all nighter so to speak. My grandparents brought cushions for the chairs and a blanket and pillow in case I fell asleep, which I always did.
When the fish were biting my grandparents caught a whole lotta fish. Earl always took some pictures on an old Polaroid with Grandma and Grandpa holding a whole stringer or two between them. They’d clean and bag them, a half dozen or so for a meal, then put them on ice for the ride home. Right back into the same ice chest that carried the sandwiches and apples we had for dinner.
It was during this ride home that made this trip so special, but not in the best of ways. A real bad ending was avoided.
As I said at the start of this story, the drive wasn’t long at all, a simple two lane highway running east and west. Pretty uneventful, as there was never much traffic. Local traffic, a big truck or two and the occasional farm tractor pulling a plow or seeder.
There’s one stretch of the highway though that goes up a pretty steep hill, steep by Kansas’ perspective. There was even a name to it, Piqua Hill. Every local in 4 counties knew that name. Piqua, population 63 at the time, sits at the top of that hill. A gas station, liquor store and the The Buster Keaton Museum of all things.
Of course there was a car in front of us going up the hill, getting slower and slower as we went. About halfway up the hill Grandpa decided enough and pulled out to pass, coaxing the his Fairlane to overtake the other car.
We were dead even with the other car when Grandma cried out “There’s a truck coming at us!”
Sure enough there was a pickup that popped over the hill into the on-coming lane, heading straight for us.
We aren’t gonna make it I thought, just for a split second, and knew we were destined for a head-on collision and sure death.
Grandpa mashed the gas pedal to the floor and the Ford put all it had into that little engine, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Luckily though the car beside us saw what was happening and put the brakes down.
Two seconds before the head-on Grandpa jerked the steering wheel hard right…
And lost control. The car had swung back over avoiding the pickup and the car we passed, but started fishtailing wildy. First on the gravel shoulder, then back on the road, then onto the shoulder again.
I was hanging onto the seat in front of me, and saw my Grandfather working hard on the steering wheel. His hands pulling one direction then the next, trying his damnedest to get us straightened out. After the first hard fishtail I lost my grip on the seat, and smashed from one side to the next, thrown about like a rag doll.
As quickly as it happened it stopped, thank god. After four or five hard fishtails he somehow got the car under control and we ended up stopping on the shoulder, the car engine dying from exhaustion.
We had managed to get over just enough to avoid colliding with the truck who had swerved around us at the last instant, horn blaring in both anger and warning.
The car behind pulled up beside us, the passenger a young woman who had just rolled down her window and said “You all okay?”
Grandpa rolled his window down and said, “Yes ma’am. I believe so.” to the woman who was 40 years younger. “I’m awfully sorry about that.”
“That’s Piqua Hill for ya. Not the first to do that, at least you’re all okay.” She smiled and waved, rolled up her window and off they went ahead of us.
Grandma had held onto the door’s arm rest for dear life, turned to me and asked “You okay Kyd?”
“Yeah Grandma, a bit sore but fine I guess.” The bruises that showed up the next day would be evidence of the rough ride though. I’d be black and blue for a week.
Then she looked at Grandpa with fire in her eyes and said “Michael Joseph, you almost killed my grandson.”
That was all, just that one sentence. His real name. A name no one ever called him, ever, until this moment. A name I never heard him called after that. His full real name.
That one sentence spoke volumes. The tone was it, the combination of anger and fear and shock coming through loudly. The emphasis Grandma put on the word “my” was meant as you lost your right to claim this grandchild, he’s mine.
Grandpa never said a word, not one. He gripped the wheel in both hands and got us back on the highway heading home, the silence now deafening. We were back on Piqua hill, heading east to home.
When we got home, Grandpa and I carried the fishing gear to the back shed while Grandma took the fish in to be frozen, except the dozen filets she would fry up tonight. Her kitchen was huge, at least in the mind of a young boy, with plenty of counter space for breadmaking, baking pies, and rolling out homemade noodles. It had three doors plus a separate one to go into the breakfast nook. One door went out the back, one to the back bedroom and the last to the cold cellar under the house.
The last doorway led into a small breakfast nook. It was just big enough for a chrome/linoleum table of the times and 6 chrome chairs with colored leather seats. Green if I remember right. A window and a knickknack shelf along the other wall. A couple dozen salt and pepper shakers, from some travels or different memories they had had.
Just inside the breakfast nook hung a wooden plaque in the shape of a trout and had six or seven brass eye hooks for hanging keys or whatnots from. All the keys they had were sorted and hung here. Including the keys to the car.
When Grandpa and I came in, he walked straight into the kitchen nook, pulled the keys to the Ford Fairlane out of his bib overalls, and hung them up in their normal spot.
They never came off that key holder again. Ever. That was the last time my Grandfather drove at all. Since Grandma had never learned to drive, the car sat in that same spot for nearly 6 years. It sat there until Grandma died way too young and Grandpa came to live with us. Then one of his six sons took it, paying Grandpa for the value, which wasn’t much by then.
Turns out he had glaucoma in both eyes, and was basically going blind. He had been for quite a while, and and it turns out Grandma had been warning him about driving for quite some time.
Nothing was ever said about the car or especially about the near fatal collision. It was our secret, our story never shared.
And that was the last fishing trip to Earl’s.
As a side note, there used to be a local TV station from Ft. Scott that most of the older folks watched. My grandparents’ favorite was a program that came on right at 12:00 and if I remember right it was called the Melody Matinee.
I used to run the 2 blocks from school to Grandma’s for the 40 minute lunch break. It was pretty common back then, going home for lunch. And every day after lunch we’d turn on the small TV and watch the Melody Matinee, so you better not make any noise or talk too much.
This TV channel had all the local news and weather, and I mean real local, small town stuff. News, weather and sports. County fairs and local blue ribbon winners. A few death and funeral notices, congratulations to the new Smithe triplets. Plus a lot of local advertisers, your neighborhood grocer, Bob’s used cars, Ms.Jane’s Hairstyling.
They had live music with a small town band and a singer, all of whom were about the age of their listeners, who performed/sang all the old time favorites. I remember Grandma used to sing along if she knew the words. Hum if she didn’t.
It was a week or so following the trip to the heated dock, while we were watching Melody Matinee, that the announcer said “Boy they are really catching the fish at Earl’s Heated Dock over at Toronto Lake. Look at this stringer from Mike and Opal and their grandson Kyd! I need to get there and you do too!”
There we were on TV, a picture of Grandma, Grandpa and me holding up our stringer of fish, all with great big smiles on our faces.
The last time.