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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
July 19, 2020
Published as a Gramma Letter
dated July 18, 1995.
© 1995, 2020 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Farmhouse Cellar (1968)
© 1968 by Bud Grossmann
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ONE EL!
Tuesday, July 18, 1995
Dear Gramma,
Your husband, Earl Grossmann, was always willing to listen to good advice. Willing, I perhaps should say, as long as the recommendation came from God. During the last four of Grampa’s nine decades of life, he gave up unhealthy pleasures one by one, but it took a message from on high each time, to get him to do it. Life’s joys that remained were sufficient to carry Grampa in pretty good spirits to within a few days of his ninetieth birthday.
When Grampa was a relatively young man, or at least a young grandfather, a heart attack persuaded him to quit cigarettes. A few decades later, cancer convinced him to set aside his pipe and tobacco, as well.
I have heard that both you and Gramp enjoyed a glass of beer now and again many years ago. But by the time I started spending summers on your farm, you were a teetotaler (let’s not count a sip of Communion wine), and Grampa was limiting his alcohol intake to a medicinal dose of brandy, mixed with pineapple juice and taken on an as-needed basis when he felt his heart rhythm growing ragged.
Grampa used to tell the story of one of the “healthy lifestyle” reminder calls that he received from God sometime in the late 1950’s. Although God’s message did not arrive over the telephone, Grampa’s story did involve the old black desk instrument with the crank on the side for summoning the operator.
I remember that your phone number at the farm was 109-R-10. “One-oh-nine, are-one-oh”—it had a nice poetry to it. Two longs and a short was your ring on the party line. I don’t recall Aunt Dorie’s number, but Aunt Dolly’s was 1-L. Simply that, just plain “one-el.”
One spring day, while Aunt Dolly was teaching school, you were at her house in town, taking care of grandchildren. At mid-morning, Grampa, alone on the farm, brought a big basket of eggs from the hen house to the people house. He took the eggs down into the basement where he washed them and put them in corrugated filler flats to await the once-a-week pickup by the “egg man.” Grampa finished his task, started back up the cellar steps, and collapsed with a heart attack.
There he lay, in a heap upon the bottom stairs, unable to move and scarcely able to speak. Of course, there wasn’t anyone around to converse with at that moment, except our ever-present Lord. And Grampa did, I’m sure, send a silent prayer toward the heavens.
It so happened, that the egg man was scheduled that very day to take delivery of a week’s harvest of eggs. He arrived at the house and knocked on the front door. Receiving no answer, he went inside and started to descend the cellar steps. Grampa struggled to say something. The egg man leaned close to hear him. “One-el!” whispered Grampa. “Call 1-L!”
Well, the egg man did not understand, but he thought he did. He guessed that he was hearing the babbling of a drunk man. “Oh, ho, ho!” laughed the egg man. “Don’t tell me to go to hell! You can go to hell yourself, Earl!” He stepped over my grandfather’s limp body, found the crates of eggs, and carried them back up the stairs and out to his truck. But then, thank God, the egg man realized he hadn’t smelled booze on Grampa’s breath. He went back inside the house and did what he needed to do to bring this story to a happy conclusion.
– • –
You know, Gramma, your patience and encouragement played a big part in helping Grampa make the changes that allowed him to live to such a ripe old age. Your marriage was a wonderful partnership, and I always think fondly of you and Grampa together.
Bye for now
Love,
Buddy
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Thanks! BUD GROSSMANN
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This page was updated Sat, July 19, 2020, 11:18PM CDT.
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© 2020 by Bud Grossmann
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