Grosspapa

Grosspapa

                                                             By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

   It’s seldom that one hears of a person who has lived his entire life in one house. Yet, even more interesting to learn that he was born and died in the same room of that house. One such person was my paternal grandfather, (Grosspapa).

     The farm and home are known today as Mulberry Farm and was homesteaded by Grosspapa’s father, Henry, who was originally from Ohio.  In 1873 he traveled south with his wife and Henry Jr., his first born son.  The little town of Cullman, Alabama was being settled and it was here that the family made their home and in time increased to a total of five children. My grandfather, Edd, was born in the sparse bedroom of the home his parents built in this new, establishing territory. He peacefully died there 86 years later. Today, I live in that same home. My two sons were the fifth generation of our family to occupy Mulberry Farm.

   In the late 1930’s, during the early years of their marriage, my parents shared the home with Grossmama Eda and Grosspapa Edd. Times were hard and families were struggling, especially in the south.  Farmers were lucky to make any profit at all from their crops and fortunate to put food on the table; so my parents agreed to live here and help Grosspapa on the farm raising potatoes, hay, corn, strawberries, grapes and a little cotton.

   I was born in 1940 and soon my parents moved from the main house into a small dwelling just across the drive way. We had our own privacy, yet remained a vital part of the big household for several more years. I was close school age when one of Grosspapa’s near by rent houses became vacant.  Mother and Daddy decided we should move the half mile up the road to live in that house, which provided much more room for the three of us.

   As the only grandchild, I was naturally the apple of my grandparents’ eye and today I hold an array of memories of our years together…especially memories of my Grosspapa.

  Though I was much too young to remember the incident, my mother loved to tell about the time she left me in Grosspapa’s care for the afternoon while she and Grossmama attended a church function in town. I was almost a year old and was just learning to walk. Mother had left specific instructions for Grosspapa, along with plenty of clean diapers, and the reminder to be sure and keep little Ray dry and clean. When the ladies returned later that afternoon, Grosspapa had so snuggly pinned that cloth diaper on me I could hardly wiggle.  Mother simply couldn’t be angry, rather laugh and agree with Grosspapa… after all…I was indeed clean and dry, as she had directed.

   Grosspapa was short and what some might call portly. He loved to joke, tease and laugh. With his big belly and jovial nature, I often thought he would have been the perfect model for Santa Claus. The old German farmers had the habit of rising early and working until noon. After lunch, both they and their horses would rest for several hours before completing their work for the day.  Grosspapa would spread a few of Grossmama’s   homemade quilts on the dining room floor or front porch. This pallet was the perfect spot for the weary men to stretch out and relax, sometimes napping until the heat of the day had passed. Poor Grosspapa, though he never complained, I doubt he got much rest with me around. I loved nothing more than to climb and roll around and over that big stomach of his, giggling and tickling, having such a grand time with my special pal.

  There was the time he tied a little wooden swing up on the front porch. Of course, just sitting on it wasn’t exciting enough for me. I was determined to stand up and swing.

 “Sit down!” he ordered. “You might fall and hurt yourself.”

 His admonition meant nothing to me as stood up once again. Grosspapa’s tone was a bit more stern the second time. “Ray, I told you to sit down!  If you stand up again I’ll ‘botch’ (German term for spank) you!” And that’s exactly what he did when I stood up that third time, promptly fell from the swing and hit my head on the cement porch floor.  I was quickly learning the hard way, through my tears, to obey my Grosspapa.

   I was such a fortunate little boy. After all, I had two homes only five minutes apart and was as comfortable in one as the other.  We lived in the country and at that time there were dirt roads and few cars, so I was free to ride my little green bike up and down the road between both houses. Many afternoons I would ride down to share supper with Grossmama and Grosspapa, then scurry home to have a second meal with my parents, who had no idea I had already eaten. Saturday was Grossmama’s baking day and I couldn’t wait for Saturday morning to arrive.  I’d get up bright and early and eagerly peddle down to happily stuff myself with her delicious German cookies, rolls, pies and breads. “Here ‘Houncie’, (German for honey), have another Snickerdoodle cookie,”  Grossmama would say. And I always did!

  As a youngster I accompanied Dad and Grosspapa to the fields and worked alongside them and their hired help. Whether hauling hay, digging potatoes, picking strawberries or planting corn, he set an example of doing a job well.  Grosspapa inspired within me a love of hard work that I have carried through my entire life. Hopefully, I have passed the same desire along to my own sons. I observed his fairness and truthfulness as he dealt with other farmers and workers.  No matter the age or color of those who came to work on the farm, he paid an honest day wage for an honest day of work.

 Every third Saturday I accompanied him to town when he attended the German Farmer’s  Insurance meetings for the local farmers. He was one of the directors of the organization and took his responsibility seriously.  I watched him give and keep his word to the men in the community. A simple handshake was Grosspapa’s bond. I observed the respect he showed others when making business dealings and the respect he was given in return. My hope was to gain this same respect when I reached manhood.

   On one of our Saturday trips to town Grosspapa informed me that after the insurance meeting we were going to do something special. While the men conducted their business I kept squirming with excitement, hardly able to sit still as I anxiously awaited my much anticipated surprise.  The meeting was about to conclude when he motioned to me.  “Come on,” he said, “we’re headed to Stiefelmeyer’s Department Store to buy you a brand new pair of boots.”

  Cold weather was rapidly approaching and I really needed those boots. My only pair of shoes were worn and almost too small. The gentleman in the shoe department was quite patient and spent a great deal of time fitting me properly and letting me try on several pairs of boots. “Son,” said Grosspapa, “you can have any pair you want. Don’t worry about the cost. They’ll last you a long time.”

  I eventually chose a beautiful pair of soft, tan leather boots and was in total shock when Grosspapa handed the salesman seventeen dollars. I couldn’t imagine having anything that cost that much!  As usual, my grandpa was right. I wore those Redwing Boots all through high school and into my college days.  After all these years I’ll never forget the joy Grosspapa’s generosity and kindness brought to my young heart that Saturday morning, nor the warm love I felt for my grandfather.

   Most country boys of this time were allowed to drive mechanical equipment used on the farm. From a young age I was quite familiar with machinery such as tractors, balers, etc. Grosspapa  knew I was experienced and safe under the wheel of a vehicle. When I was just twelve years old he gave me his black, 1932 four door Plymouth automobile. Although I wasn’t legally allowed to drive the car until I turned sixteen, Mom and Dad said I could drive it on the back roads in our community. When I entered ninth grade they gave me permission to drive it the two miles to our county school. It wasn’t long until I received my driver’s license and could then drive the Plymouth to high school in town.

   There were numerous grape vines at Mulberry Farm, as there were on many farms in this region of North Alabama. The first settlers of Cullman had chosen this area, in part, due to the climate and terrain, both being conducive for growing grapes, which they skillfully converted into wine.

“Listen carefully,” instructed Grosspapa, “you have to follow the recipe exactly or all your hard work will go to waste.”

  We had spent many months in preparation for this chore. During the past spring and early summer Grosspapa and I  had diligently tended to his grape vines and carefully watched as the tiny buds matured, developing into what were now fat, juicy, healthy grapes. Time had arrived to pick, squeeze, and make wine from the plump berries. A process learned from his own father that Grosspapa had  perfected over the years. He was now ready to pass that part of his heritage along to his only grandson.

  Making good wine was not simply a pastime for Grosspapa, but a vital part of his annual income, just as the sale of his other crops.  He provided several local churches with communion wine and had many regular customers, some who traveled from as far away as Birmingham, fifty miles south of Cullman. Two rather wealthy, prestigious gentlemen from that part of the state were the department store owners, Mr. Pizitz and Mr. Loveman. Mr. Pizitz would call a day or two prior their visit, allowing Grossmama  ample time to cook an authentic German meal for the two entrepreneurs and their driver. One could sense a flurry of excitement in the air as preparation was made to welcome our two distinguished guests. Grosspapa was honored that they would drive so far to purchase his wine and looked forward to their visit each year.

  Following the meal each year and having kindly wished her visitors farewell, I vividly recall the gleeful look in Grossmama’s eyes as she began to clear the table.  Easing her hand carefully down beside Mr. Loveman’s empty plate she was never disappointed; for concealed, just under the rim, with appreciation to his gracious hostess, was a brand new, shiny, ten dollar gold piece he always tucked there for her. A slight grin would cross her lips and she would begin softly humming, silently slipping the money into her apron pocket as she began to wash the dirty dishes.

   “Now that we have picked all the grapes,” Grosspapa continued, “tomorrow morning we’ll need to use the wine press and squeeze out all the juice. It will take 350 pounds of grapes to make fifty gallons of wine.”

     When day broke the next morning I was dutifully kneeling beside Grosspapa, quite eager to squeeze the grapes we had picked the day before. “You wait here just a minute,” he said. “I’m go get the wine press out of the barn. I’ll be right back.”

   Moments later he returned, struggling with a bulky, worn wooden box. “This was my daddy’s wine press, your great grandfather, Henry. He built it. One day it will be yours and you can pass it on to your own sons when you teach them to make wine.”

   I was intrigued by the process and listened intently to Grosspapa carefully explain how to use the press.  “Now, are you ready to start?” he asked.

  “Yes sir… I’m ready.”

   And with that we began the lengthy, messy job of retrieving the sweet, sticky juice from the abundance of ripe grapes we had picked. My early morning eagerness soon turned to fatigue as the work became a real chore, instead of the frolic and fun I had previously anticipated.  My naive interest had not imagined such taxing labor. After several hours of using, then properly cleaning the press and discarding the pulp, seeds and skin, we were ready to mix the juice with sugar.

“Here, open these bags of sugar,” said Grosspapa, tossing me his pocketknife.

“But Grosspapa, how much sugar should we use?”

“For each gallon of juice, you mix in two and a half pounds of sugar,” he instructed.

 The two of us carefully measured and mixed the ingredients. It took quite a while to complete our job. I was puzzled, and anxious to complete this task.  “Grosspapa, what do we do next? What are we gonna do with all this stuff now?”

   “I have a special hidden place in one of the old out buildings where I can store several fifty gallon wooden barrels. Only a few people know about this place, but I know I can trust you to keep the secret.”

  “Oh, yes, yes!” My prior tiredness suddenly melted away and I was renewed, filled with great curiosity for what Grosspapa was about to show and tell me.

   We worked hard pouring all the juice into those hidden barrels that steamy afternoon.  “We’ve got to be very patient. Everything will have to work together until Thanksgiving,” he told me. “We’ll have to keep a regular eye on how it’s progressing and sip it every day or so to be sure it is exactly what we want.”

   I couldn’t wait until Thanksgiving that year and was so proud and excited when the day finally arrived that Grosspapa announced the wine was finished working and ready for use.  We gathered an abundance of clean glass jars and jugs, then  painstakingly siphoned each one full of the beautiful, delicious liquid from the barrels, finally able to see and enjoy the true “Fruits of our Labors.” Grosspapa and I had made wine!

   Oft’ times, we humans are so busy living life we forget to actually “see” it. Perhaps the old adage about gaining wisdom with age isn’t truly appreciated or understood until we have begun nearing that advanced age.  In reflection, one memorable incident in my wonderful relationship with Grosspapa stands out as I am about to reach a certain milestone in my personal journey of life.

  The day after Grosspapa’s seventy first birthday I made one of my frequent visits to Mulberry Farm.  Before long, Grosspapa   began to joke and tease  me. “Poor old Grosspapa,” he said, hanging his head, “I had to eat my birthday lunch alone yesterday. Grossmama was gone to Womens’ Guild at church and I was here all by myself. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”  Of course, I knew he wasn’t serious and we had a good laugh, both knowing that a grand birthday celebration was planned for him the following Sunday afternoon.

   I now have a grandson of my own and tomorrow I will celebrate my seventy first birthday. It seems just moments ago that my own grandfather was turning the exact same age and I was just a little boy at his knee. How rapidly those many years have slipped away. Yes, all we truly have left to cherish are our precious memories and I am blessed to hold a heart overflowing with them.