GRANDPA
Growing up, one of my favorite television shows was "The
Real
McCoys". My grandfather was similar to that grandfather,
in physical
appearance. White hair, balding at the crown, of stocky build,
lined
face, big hands, and most comfortable and familiar in the attire
of
overalls, the blue jean kind that come up and over the shoulders
with
metal clasps.
A grain bucket in his hand to feed the chickens, on a tractor,
walking
and stooping to cut asparagus or tie up a tomato plant, these
are the
places I remember him best and fondest.
Conrad Lipps was a farmer born of German immigrants. Growing
up
in a German settlement of Delhi, just outside of Cincinnati,
Ohio, he
spoke only German until he went to elementary school, and in
my
memory, still had hints of the guttural accent. He was a strong
man,
physically, a gentle kind man in spirit. As children, my siblings
and
cousins wanted to be around him. His garage was full of tricycles,
bicycles, scooters and wagons he had salvaged from the junkyard
and
repaired for his grandchildren's pleasure. We would ride them
endlessly
down the long blacktopped driveway in front of his house. He
lived on
a back country road, his house the second to last, the last being
my
aunts, so riding down to the bottom offered the safety of the
cherry
lined road that fell into a field. He constantly carried with
him Smith
Brother's cough drops, the kind of cherry flavor that did little
to relieve
a real cough, but tasted wonderful. It gave him joy to give them
to the
first child who saw him and asked politely of him. Of course,
he
reminded us to share.
To me, having grown up with his hell -raising son, the exMarine,
whiskey drinking red head with a very short fuse, my grandfather's
home
was a refuge. Summer days I could walk the four miles from our
house
through the neighborhoods, into the countryside and finally down
the
lane to find my grandfather's piece of heaven.
My biological grandmother had died of breast cancer before I
was
born, and my grandfather had remarried some time later to the
woman
"Grandma Jean". I knew her as my grandmother, a kind
but no
nonsense "spinster", as she was known in those days,
who, became the
endeared grandmother of 25 children.
Grandma and Grandpa's house was cool, clean and peaceful,
with
views of pastures and fields that led out to a panoramic view
of the
Ohio River valley, and Kentucky beyond. A Franciscan monastery
was
the adjoining farm, the home to a school and farm for delinquent
boys.
The huge stone buildings rose out of the fields far off in the
distance.
The brothers, in their long brown robes, were also no nonsense
and
kind. They enjoyed card playing, a nip , and were always bringing
gifts
of fresh butter from their dairy or homemade bread from their
bakery.
In summer, 1 would often spend several days at my grandparents,
climbing out of the high iron bed, my feet hitting the cool hardwood
floors, to a full breakfast of musk melon from the garden and
eggs and
sausage cooked and served in their summer kitchen in the basement.
Grinding corn in the garage and feeding the chickens was next
in the
day, and I would follow grandpa as he moved steadily along, the
arthritis already evident in his slowing gait. I'd pick raspberries
and
strawberries in season, getting covered with chigger bites and
red juice,
and then head for the woods to pick the wildflowers.
It was so quiet there, in the night, in contrast to my home of
8
children in a busy neighborhood. The stars shown brightly, the
cicadas
grew loud; the lightening bugs were plentiful and bright in the
dark farm
night. Sometimes, I would catch those lightening bugs in mayonnaise
jars with holes punched in the metal lid, and just watch them
for a
while.... their fluorescent light flickering on and off.... before
letting
them free to the night air.
It was there, in those fields, in those woods, that the Mother
Earth
first greeted me to her bosom. »
