“I was born in St. David, Arizona, October 2, 1903, the fifth of eight children. My dad called me Pete. My older brothers and sisters told me not to let him call me Pete, ‘cuz that wasn’t my name. I never spoke up until one day Dad gave me a little whiskey in orange juice. I guess enough to make me brave. ‘Don’t call me Pete,’ I said. ‘My name is Ben.’ He never called me Pete again.”
And that was how Papa was. A man of few words, but always a man who meant what he said.
I ran across my grandfather’s life story as told to my mother. Papa liked sleeping up high on large mounds of hay that filled their big wagon. He could see out forever across the fields. When his younger brother had begged to go with him, but had walked too close to the edge and fallen over the stack onto the tongue of the wagon, Ralph really bloodied his face. “From then on, when he slept with me, Mom took a big safety pin and pinned him to me.”
He was only eight years old when his mom died of gangrene. She’d developed an infection in her leg. It had to be amputated, but she’d died anyway. Just before Papa’s thirteenth birthday.
My grandfather said his dad was “one damn good farmer,” but probably not the most understanding. Both ultimately contributing to Papa’s toughness and work ethic.
“One day I was swimming in an irrigation ditch, doing flips into the water. I slipped and split my head open on a stake. My friend drove me home. When my dad saw all the blood he was real mad, but scared enough to rush me to the doctor. The doc wanted to give me chloroform while he sewed me up. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’ll make me sick.’ The doctor didn’t want to stitch me up without it. Said I’d yell. ‘Go ahead,’ my dad said, ’my boy won’t cry.’ And I didn’t.
“When I was fourteen, I ran Mr. Burns’ farm by myself. When I returned home one morning, I told my step-sister, ‘Don’t you take my horse cuz I’m gonna be headin’ out again.’
“But when I was ready to go, my horse was gone. When my step-sister got back, I bawled her out. She ran into the house and lied, saying I’d hit her. My dad came out and whipped me with a doubled up cowboy rope. I left home and never went back.
“I did all kinds of different jobs. I could work as good as any grown man. I bought my own wagon and horses. Later a car painting business from my brother Bill. Only it was a flop ‘cuz he’d already painted all the cars in town that needed paintin’.
The young one, third from the left
“When I was eighteen, I left for my uncle’s in California. I got a job driving four mules for Maywood Land and Water Company. We hauled rock and sand for putting in streets. Men called me ‘Arizona.’ I guess they could tell I was a hick by the way I dressed with my old straw hat.”
From farming to hauling gravel for streets to pouring sidewalks to building homes. Grandpa just kept learning, working hard, and moving up. He formed a builder’s supply company, ran for city council and was appointed mayor. He ran the Bond Drive for World War II, meeting the likes of General Patton and Lt. General Doolittle. When the war restricted building materials, he went into the chicken business. After the war, he returned to building. The city of Maywood is still spotted with his affordable houses, a display of that era’s quest for a better life.
Papa was outwardly gruff, but a marshmallow on the inside. A few days after the GAP was born, I invited him over. “Hell no,” he said. “Babies are just too damned ugly. I’ll wait until her eyes are open.” What did he think I gave birth to — a puppy?
I saw the tender side when he built a swimming pool free of charge for a family of a young girl stricken with polio so she could work at regaining the use of her legs. In my mom’s words, “My dad was small (only 5’6”) but mighty. He could lift a sack of cement and a 100 pound keg of nails over his head. He could push a wheel barrow of cement down a 2 x 4 plank on its 2” side, piled high without spilling a drop.”
Grandpa was of the Greatest Generation. That’s how they were.
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What a great post. Seems important that we remember these people, doesn’t it?
Very neat story Penny. Thanks for sharing : )
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