Family Influences

Family Influences



“I know the answer!!!” I said nearly jumping out of my chair, hand raised. Mrs. McNair, my third grade teacher, had asked the students if anyone knew how WWII had ended. I knew the answer; hadn’t I heard my grandfather tell the story often enough, sitting on the floor by his chair, listening to all the stories of his life? My grandfather single-handedly ended World War II. As soon as Hitler heard he was coming over, he surrendered, right?

My grandfather, Elmer Dennis Hummer, had been a captain in the Army, training men to go into combat. While he had been transferred to many bases in the United States he had yet to go for a tour of duty in Europe. So proud of his Army record and years of service, there were many mementoes from the service around the house, and many stories told when an audience was ready to listen.

“It was twenty-four hours before Hitler surrendered and I was on my way to being shipped to Germany,” Granddad said, showing me the flat leather framed pictures of my mother and grandmother. The pictures were a constant reminder to him of what almost happened. “I was set to leave on the late train, packing the last of my rucksack with everything I would need.” I always knew the pictures were the most important thing that Granddad packed. It was in his eyes every time he touched the picture frame. I always stopped him at this point, asking about the frame. “It’s flat and flexible so I can take it anywhere with me,” my always practical grandfather said. I knew; however, the pictures were more important than the frame. The pictures represented his life. Continuing with the story, he would furrow his brow, as if he were going back to that night. “It was very dark as I walked with your grandmother and mother to the door, preparing to say good-bye, when the announcement came down, Hitler had surrendered! I wouldn’t have to go.” I knew from the way Granddad looked at the pictures of my mom and grandma that he was relieved to have not gone. Ending the story with what I know now was an evil twinkle, he would say “Old Hitler heard that E.D. Hummer was on the way, and he knew he had nowhere to go; I guess he surrendered because he knew he was no match for me.”

Armed with the knowledge about the ending of the war, it came as quite a shock to find out he wasn’t telling the truth, and not so much a shock that everyone was laughing at me. Such were the stories my grandfather told. Putting a spin on a story, or adding “something” to an everyday task to make it funny was something that came second nature to my grandfather.

Granddad loved to tell stories. He often told me that he was once president of the safety pin company, but he didn’t make enough money for the company so he was demoted to president of the straight pin company. Everyone knows it is easier to make straight pins. A person didn’t have to have as much experience. I believed every word that came out of his mouth. He always told a story with a straight face and an authoritative tone to his voice. He got such a kick out of telling stories and being funny.

When my parents split up, I, along with my mother, lived with my grandparents for six months during my eighth grade year. Granddad worked very hard to make this time special for me knowing I didn’t want to be there at all. In the mornings, as I waited by the front door for the bus, Granddad would stand in the master bedroom looking out the window so he could see the buss. When he did he would burst out of the bedroom, jumping and running down the hallway, arms flapping, hootin’ and hollerin’ “The bus is coming! The bus is coming! Hurry up, you don’t want to miss it!” It always made me laugh and I always started my day with a smile.

Mom used to tell me that she didn’t have the same relationship with Granddad that I did. I know she was somewhat jealous of the rapport we had. She looked up to him as much as I did, but she was more in awe of him and never was as easy and relaxed around him as I was. While I never wanted to disappoint him, I never let that feeling get in the way of my actions around him.

Visiting my grandparents during the summer was one of my greatest pleasures growing up. We would always eat breakfast as a family; eggs, soft boiled or scrambled, three days a week; cold cereal once a week; grapefruit every day; and hot cereal once a week. Granddad was an engineer for US Steel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Every morning he drove his car to the bus stop and took the bus to work. Grandma always set the table for breakfast, including two coffee cups for Granddad. She would pour coffee in both cups and put an ice cube in one cup. Every summer I would watch with fascination as Granddad would blow on, wave a hand over, and do whatever it took to cool off the coffee with the ice cube. After he finished drinking the first cup, he would pour the second cup of coffee into the empty cup and back and forth until it too, was cool enough to drink. If he noticed me watching, he would start to shake the coffee cup just enough to spill a little into the saucer and tell me how nervous drinking so much coffee made him. Drinking coffee this way was much quicker, he told me. He was much too busy to wait for the second cup to cool on its own.

Family time with them was the best. Granddad had the capacity to be such a clown. He truly made me understand what a dinner show was. Grandma and I never knew who was entertained more by his antics, him or us. At my home we very seldom sat down at the table as a family to eat a meal. Mom and Dad ate in front of the TV, Mark, my brother, and I fed the food we didn’t like to Sebastian, our dog, in the kitchen. At my grandparents every meal was an occasion to be celebrated. Never was dinner served from the stove, always from the table, passing to the left, saying please and thank you. Everybody who knows me knows I could give Queen Elizabeth a run for her money at the dinner table. Proper etiquette was a must at my grandparents. I used to tell Granddad President Reagan was coming for dinner. His standard reply included something about not being ashamed of our manners. I learned to appreciate a beautifully set table, and try to this day to maintain their rigorous standards at my home when we entertain.

Saturday and Sunday mornings, Granddad was in charge of the kitchen. On Saturday he would make homemade buckwheat pancakes from scratch. Each pancake covered the plate and was at least two inches thick. Add butter and syrup to that and I was hard pressed to eat two. Every Saturday I heard the same thing, “Why do I slave to make these damn pancakes if you are going to only eat two,” he would bark.

“Make them smaller and she might eat more, Elmer,” my grandmother would always reply.

“Harrumph,” he would growl; and every Saturday I would eat two huge buckwheat pancakes. He really didn’t care how much I ate.

Sunday was church day, another treat for me as we didn’t go that much at home. Granddad would always make breakfast for us just like Grandma, including setting the table and cutting the grapefruit into sections. He really enjoyed doing things for Grandma. Cooking on Sundays meant she could take her time getting ready for church.

I grew up in awe of both my grandparents, but in particular, my grandfather. He was and remains to this day, one of the most interesting men I have ever met. The two of them had one of the strongest marriages I have ever seen in my life. My grandmother was truly “the good woman behind the man,” doing everything she could for Granddad so he could be successful. His success was as important to her as it was to him. I often compared them to President and Nancy Reagan, they were that kind of couple; they depended wholeheartedly on each other.

Perfect, they were not. Granddad had a temper a mile long and just as loud. When he blew, a person wanted to be as far away as possible. What made him so angry was people’s stupidity, mine in particular, it always seemed. In my twenties, I created a financial crisis for myself. I allowed my student loans to go into default and spent all the money I had. I never told anyone when I was in trouble, thinking for some reason, still unknown to me, that everything would work out if I just ignored the problem. It didn’t. Grandma and Granddad caught wind of my financial woes and drove 130 miles from their farm in Centralia, Missouri, to St. Louis to clean up my mess. That day, in my mind, ranks as one of the worst in my life. I don’t think my grandparents could have been any more disappointed in me if they tried. Not only had I bounced more checks than the FED clears in a day, but I hadn’t kept any records. Ranking as a capital offense to my grandfather, he proceeded to blow his top and give me the longest, loudest, most humiliating lecture I had ever in my entire life heard. To this day I don't remember exactly what he said, I just know how utterly horrible I felt standing there with nothing to say in my own defense. So disappointed and upset with me, my grandfather told me over, and over, and over, how I messed up, where I messed up, why I messed up, and when he was finished, he started all over again.

I don’t think I had ever seen him that angry before; at anyone. Not at my mother; my brother; my dad, whom he didn’t like anyway, had, to my knowledge seen this side of him. His face had gone past the normal angry shade of red and settled on a brilliant shade of purple. Every part of him was shaking, and his eyes were so cold and angry. I, of course, decided to stand up for myself, even though I had made mistakes, and told Granddad that he had no right to invade my privacy; (he could bail me out, give me money, buy me clothes, food, and shelter), but not invade my privacy. I proceeded to tell him that he had no right to be so upset with me and rifle through my cancelled checks and bank statements. I did all this crying and shouting at him as loud as he was shouting at me.

During all this my grandmother sat quietly not talking much, except to agree with my grandfather. She knew, from years of experience, that the best thing to do when he was this angry is to not anger him more. I had yet to learn that. I don’t think I ever did. They left and I stewed, ashamed of myself and devastated that Granddad was disappointed in me. That hurt worse than anything else. I thought, like most of our arguments, that it would all blow over soon, and that all would be well.

Granddad was not a man to hold a grudge. We had argued quite a bit over the years, never to this extent, but some loud arguments nonetheless. After we said our piece, we would go to Dairy Queen for ice cream and it would be over. Not this time. Granddad wrote me a letter a week later reiterating everything he had said to me so succinctly that horrible day. That letter was, to me, the single worst thing my grandfather had ever done. To put his thoughts and feelings into writing made them more permanent, more real. Words spoken can fade over time. Words written are forever. I don't think I ever finished reading the letter, I just threw it away. We didn’t talk for two months. He called to invite me to Thanksgiving dinner and offered to pay my bus fare. I told him I had no need of his money, a complete fabrication, and that I would think about it. I went to dinner, he made me ice cream, and we never spoke of that day again.

I know now why he was so angry with me that day. Part of the problem was my irresponsibility, part was my lack of trust in our relationship. We had always been close, and I didn’t go to him with my problems and that hurt him I think. Granddad was put in the role, at an early age, of caretaker. He took care of his mother, his stepfather, her third husband, his wife, his daughter, her husband, his grandchildren, their assorted animals, and anyone else that came along. He saw my omission as a betrayal of trust, I saw it as not wanting to disappoint my family.

Family came first with Granddad. Family came first with commentary, but family came first. Grandma and Granddad both had very strong opinions about how families worked and did whatever they could to ensure the people they loved were given the opportunities they needed to have the family life Grandma and Granddad thought they should have.

After my debacle concerning my finances, I tried very hard to change. I moved to Colorado in an effort to become more independent. Since my grandparents thought it wasn’t the wisest move I had ever made, they offered no financial help, which was fine as I was setting my own course in life. My grandparents always meant well, but their way was the right way to do things, the only right way. There wasn’t much room for creativity or learning from mistakes.

Growing up in during the depression, on a farm, Granddad truly understood the value of a dollar and the value of time. He didn’t feel people had time to waste. Playing and doing something just because, were concepts that never entered his head. He started working at the age of four, after my great-grandmother married for the second time. Her fist husband, my great-grandfather, died when she was four months pregnant with my granddad. I don’t think he ever truly got over not knowing his father. Because of this, family, and the support that goes along with family, was so important to him.

When Granddad learned I was to receive my Bachelor’s degree from St. Louis University, he was so proud of me and my accomplishments. We were on the phone weekly trying to find me a job after college. I would find the companies, and Granddad would do the research. He went with my Grandma and me to find the perfect job interview suit, making jokes, of course, when presented with the bill. “The suit is made with our worsted wool gabardine,” the sales clerk told him as he perused the bill.

“At these prices, it should be your bested wool gabardine,” he chuckled.

Looking for shoes and a purse, he left up to Grandma and me; however, he was in the garage serenading us with his trumpet as we drove in from the store. After we picked ourselves up off the garage floor from laughing and asked him what the hell he was doing, he replied in his trademark wacky, crazy way, “I thought I was in a rut. Now I’m not, since I have never played the trumpet in the garage before.”

Both of my grandparents have taught me a lot. Granddad died from a stroke in 1996, right before his 81st birthday; his goal was to live to 80, and right before the yearly Michigan, Ohio State football game. Our family is fifth generation Ohio State graduates and my great uncle help design the football stadium. They won that year, I wonder why. I asked him one day if he was ready to die. He told me once I was settled down he would be ready. He died five weeks after meeting Steve, my would be husband. I wish he had said after I had children. He never got the chance to meet my two boys. He would be so proud of them. Ben has his childhood blonde hair; Sam has his sense of humor. I guess I still have my Granddad around after all.