My maternal grandfather was named E. P. Crocheron. He was an architect and artist who studied in France and spoke French to me when I was une petite enfant. “Attencion” in his gruff voice snapped me back from whatever fantasy my 5-year-old mind was spinning. He had hairy arms and hands that he proudly showed me when we went to the zoo and stood in front of the chimpanzee enclosure. “See? We are just the same.” Sunshine reflected gold and auburn from those hairs on both arms, of both the primates.
He made me think about stuff, like that and India. I still have the book he showed me with all the tissue paper inserts and glossy photographs of temples and carvings. He explained that levitation was real too, but he also said that I had escaped from the zoo and they had had my tail surgically removed. It’s amazing kids grow up halfway normal given the influence of playful grandfathers.
The first time I went to India, I imagined that he was with me even though he passed when I was a preteen, just a few years after my loving Nana⸺who smelled of cigarettes, gin, and sweat all the time. I went to live with them in Houston after Mom carried me across the country in a Model A Ford she had converted to a camper in 1949.
Mom and I followed the folk festivals from New York, NY, through Asheville, NC. But she had a thing going with a man who played those festivals. And we pretended we were Gypsies (Roma) camping wherever we could and singing songs to shorten the miles as we drove across the rolling countryside.
When Grandfather told me that Mom and I were gypsies, I believed him. Mom wore long skirts and big earrings. How was I to know that I was actually a mixture of all the nationalities that ever came over from Europe? Plus a smattering of Native American but not enough to count⸺as they say. I reckon that imprinting was deep. I’ve kept playing music and traveling throughout my eighty years.
And I studied Zoology in college and admired the glistening hairy arms and hands of many a kind man.
touching, thank you
I was pretty young when our grandpa died, but he visited us in PA and sat with me and I will always remember the hairy arms and hands on the man we lovingly referred to as Mister “Paw”.
Lol, I was also an E. P. Crocheron. There were no juniors, seniors, etc. All we Edmonds had our mother’s maiden names as our middle names. I think I was the 6th, my dad, the 5th, was E. D.and my son was Edmond L.
Ed, I remember noticing that you have Mr. Paw’s arms too. The things we remember are so often tied to the senses. Hugs, Crow
Thank you, Wolf. Our senses inform our memories and vice versa. Musicians know that.
Beautiful, visual writing🌞
Marsha, Thank you for expressing your reaction to the writing. Your voice makes a big difference.
My maternal grandfather was a carpenter and worked maintenance for the the Ft. Worth Zoo and Botanical gardens and helped build the Log Cabin Village. He had very permanently tanned arms and neck. There was a hippo in the park that he would say “Open up, Queenie!” And I could toss her a peanut!
I really love hearing this. Crow
Aaaahhhh Grandfathers. My paternal grandfather was the only grandfather I knew. He was a tough Texas man born in the late 1800s. He walked with a limp because his right knee was frozen with a slight bend from having hit it with an ax and refusing to go to the doctor. He earned a little money on the side by dowsing for wells. He could tell where to dig for the water and how deep to dig. He was magical.