(a tribute written by Streetie's granddaughter Christy, after his death in September of 2004)
That's what they said you were, although I really don't remember you that way. To me, you
were the storyteller of the century, a crazy old coot, and then a crazier old coot. When you
got metal taps mounted onto your favorite dress shoes so you could cut a rug in the hall
(making the whole house shake, I might add), some people thought you were weird, but I just
loved it. You weren't crazy in a bad or scary sense, but silly and fun-loving, like the freaky
southern grandpa that every Carolina girl wishes she had to tell stories about. The
northerners, midwesterners, and west coast girls are too wrapped up in their own stuff to
understand the warmth and weirdness of a crazy southern papa, I guess. You were always
full of life, even when you were ****ing about who's going to feed those damn dogs while you
were out of town. Funsuckers Pood, Fifi, and Elvis, bless their departed souls. Somebody
had to be there to teach the dogs French, you know. And who would entertain Elvis the
insane dalmation by dressing him up in his custom-made sunglasses and fishing hat and
driving him around town, if not you. People in neighboring cars would give the two of you
confused stares, and you, while keeping a straight face, would feel the greatest sense of
inner amusement imaginable. That stupid dog was a hellraiser, too. Kindred spirits, I guess.
I remember my childhood fear of the gibus (is that something you picked up in Europe
during the war?)... Don't mess around in my room-- the gibus will get you! Don't go up in the
shed-- don't you know the gibus is up there. Once I tried to get a clear map of Gibus land in
my mind... Does he go in your room? The shed? What about the kitchen... Does he ever go in
the kitchen? What about Mema's room-- is it safe? I really didn't want to get in the way of the
gibus, but it seemed that he was constantly changing his headquarters, based on where you
didn't want me to go. To this day, I get the willies in your room. Maybe after all these years,
I've finally got the gibus pegged. I think he's in your room, hiding out with a bunch of rifles
and handguns.
You were the king of stuff, a collector of sorts, and I remember my 4 year old heart's glee
when I would "help" you with your flea market in the field by the house. You had the most
amazing, old treasures, and I loved to play with all of them, my vivid imagination taking me
places where such items were a necessity. Fancy old ladies' shoes, antique electrical devices
that did mysterious things to hair, and tables full of silverware and jewelry and oh-so-sixties
lamps. I would play as you light-heartedly finagled, and when you would try to sell my
favorite wares, I'd do some finagling of my own. Please, Papa, please! What is that stupid old
man going to do with that blender, anyway? You taught me how to fish, how to shoot a pellet
gun (a skill over which I still have mastery), how to drive a go-cart, and how to pick okra
without getting my fingers hurt. When I was an older kid (11 or 12?), you taught me how to
drive a car, and I would spin and circle through the field (by then, empty of your flea market),
closely missing trees and soda machines. What the hell was a working soda machine doing in
your field, anyway? You reassured me that my driving was legal-- it was private property, you
know!
I remember the French lessons. Boojay Voo! Ici! Keller a teel? While stationed in France
during WWII, you had learned so much. I just knew you were a genius, and you were! It wasn't
until I took French in high school that I realized just how bad your accent had been, but even
then, I'd still speak French with you whenever we'd visit.
I remember learning to swim in the same concrete pool where Mom and Vickie had swam. You
loved to tell me their crazy stories, like Vickie shooting Danny Taylor in the eye with a pellet
gun when he wouldn't get out of the pool, or the summer Vickie grew a chest and could no
longer dive through the innertube and had to climb out of the pool with her hands pinned to
her sides and ring the door bell with her nose. I remember when I lived with you for a while,
and you didn't have the time or energy to take me to a pond to fish, so you filled the pool
with brim and made me a fishing pole out of a big stick of bamboo, and I could fish whenever
I wanted in the backyard. And I remember, years later, being so mad that you had filled in my
concrete fish pond with dirt and planted a garden there. Letting go of happy memories has
never been my strong suit. I forgave you, of course, when you bribed me with a bag full of
yellow squash, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Who can stay angry at a gardener of such great
talent?
I remember my wedding, 5 years ago, and how wonderful it felt to know Dennis and I were
getting married on your 60th wedding anniversary. We worried then that it might be the last
time we'd see you, as attested by the many pictures of me in my wedding gown, hugging you
while pretending I wasn't crying. You know, your 65th anniversary is coming up. I'll celebrate
for you.
We were cleaning out the house last month, after you left for the nursing home, and again I
found things from your life. Telegrams you sent Mema during the war, letters from during
your military service, boxes of pictures you took of family, and all the old cameras and 8mm
footage and projectors. I crawled through the attic and found the suitcase full of Life
magazines from the 60s. That was your doing, no doubt. Mema was the queen of the garden;
you were the king of stuff. You always knew what had value-- real value anyway... heart value.
I found the list of your inventions-- sun-protection sleeves for driving long trips without
sunburn on your arms, and other such plans. I sat on the living room couch reading your
ideas under the watchful eyes of your giant 1960s head. Mom and Vickie said they always
thought that was the biggest, gaudiest portrait they'd ever seen. I'd always thought it was the
most perfect representation of my Papa I had ever seen-- devilishly handsome, smiling, and
larger than life.
I remember you telling me about how you met Mema. She was a sassy southern teen, moving
into a home in your neighborhood, and you couldn't wait to talk big to your friends. Do you
see that good-lookin' girl over there? I'm goin' to marry her. They laughed, but you went to
offer to help her carry things, and pretty soon you were invited in for tea. She snuck off to
marry you, and then came back home to her parents to live for a week while you went off to
find a house. Once you did, she told her family she was married and left to join you. You
were such entrepreneurs-- owning a soda shop, a Harley Davidson store, and who knows
what else, before you became an insurance salesman. But then, they say you were also a
hellraiser. Homemade blueberry wine, friends, and fishing holes do not mix, according to one
story. Another rats you out for burying Mema (gently and lovingly, I'm sure) under a mattress
when she tried to interfere with your going biking with the boys. No doubt about it, she was a
hellraiser, too, but that's a different story, for a different day. "He'd rather pop a guy in the
head than explain himself," they'd say, and I just giggled, knowing they could never really
know my Papa, not the way I knew him anyway.
The last time I saw you, I knew it wouldn't be long. You were napping when I arrived,
crunched over on your side crossways across the bed, lying there like tomorrow's outfit
tossed on the bed. You couldn't sit up by yourself, and struggled to try to pull yourself up. I
didn't know how to help you, and had to get Aunt Vickie to help me help you. I recognized the
sight of you fumbling through your pocket, trying to find a comb. I had just helped them
pack all your combs for the trip to the nursing home. "It's okay, Papa, you look fine." You
smoothed out your strands as best you could with your hands, and straightened yourself up
to your fullest dignity. You called my Daddy a troublemaker, and told me how beautiful I was,
and when I hugged you goodbye, I didn't want to ever let go.
I know I'll see the old house again this weekend. It always depresses me to go there now.
Ugly, hateful cars fill the field, which used to be full of my memories. The low branches of my
Mommy's magnolia tree have been cut to allow shade for your cars, and it's no longer fit for
climbing. Within a year or two, when the new interstate comes through, it will all be gone
anyway-- the house, the shed, the pool/fish pond/garden, and the magnolia you planted the
year my Mom was born. I suppose there's no way to transplant a tree that big or old, but I
can't imagine it all being gone, any more than I can realize that I'll never again have you wrap
your arms around me, never get to see you clog dance in your dress shoes, and never again
hear you argue that the dogs really can understand your crappy French. I know that same old
pellet gun will be there, calling for me to go shoot some cans, but it's not as much fun being
a hellraiser without you.
When I was little, I used to sit on your bed and listen to that monster of a stereo you brought
back from Germany. I thought it was the coolest stereo ever, because it could pick up
stations from other countries. I would lay there, with my head on the foot of your bed, and
listen to words I didn't understand, occasionally spot-checking for the gibus, and feel like
you had taken me to some magical and mysterious land with you. Yesterday, I went home
from the office, and turned on that stereo. I found a woman's soothing voice, speaking
French like I never heard from you. I picked up my favorite pillow and moved it to the foot of
the bed, closed my eyes, and fell asleep safe in the memory of you.
Tina
(formerly Benson, as in "Streetie & Louise", native of Rockingham, currently living in
Central Florida.)
That's what they said you were, although I really don't remember you that way. To me, you
were the storyteller of the century, a crazy old coot, and then a crazier old coot. When you
got metal taps mounted onto your favorite dress shoes so you could cut a rug in the hall
(making the whole house shake, I might add), some people thought you were weird, but I just
loved it. You weren't crazy in a bad or scary sense, but silly and fun-loving, like the freaky
southern grandpa that every Carolina girl wishes she had to tell stories about. The
northerners, midwesterners, and west coast girls are too wrapped up in their own stuff to
understand the warmth and weirdness of a crazy southern papa, I guess. You were always
full of life, even when you were ****ing about who's going to feed those damn dogs while you
were out of town. Funsuckers Pood, Fifi, and Elvis, bless their departed souls. Somebody
had to be there to teach the dogs French, you know. And who would entertain Elvis the
insane dalmation by dressing him up in his custom-made sunglasses and fishing hat and
driving him around town, if not you. People in neighboring cars would give the two of you
confused stares, and you, while keeping a straight face, would feel the greatest sense of
inner amusement imaginable. That stupid dog was a hellraiser, too. Kindred spirits, I guess.
I remember my childhood fear of the gibus (is that something you picked up in Europe
during the war?)... Don't mess around in my room-- the gibus will get you! Don't go up in the
shed-- don't you know the gibus is up there. Once I tried to get a clear map of Gibus land in
my mind... Does he go in your room? The shed? What about the kitchen... Does he ever go in
the kitchen? What about Mema's room-- is it safe? I really didn't want to get in the way of the
gibus, but it seemed that he was constantly changing his headquarters, based on where you
didn't want me to go. To this day, I get the willies in your room. Maybe after all these years,
I've finally got the gibus pegged. I think he's in your room, hiding out with a bunch of rifles
and handguns.
You were the king of stuff, a collector of sorts, and I remember my 4 year old heart's glee
when I would "help" you with your flea market in the field by the house. You had the most
amazing, old treasures, and I loved to play with all of them, my vivid imagination taking me
places where such items were a necessity. Fancy old ladies' shoes, antique electrical devices
that did mysterious things to hair, and tables full of silverware and jewelry and oh-so-sixties
lamps. I would play as you light-heartedly finagled, and when you would try to sell my
favorite wares, I'd do some finagling of my own. Please, Papa, please! What is that stupid old
man going to do with that blender, anyway? You taught me how to fish, how to shoot a pellet
gun (a skill over which I still have mastery), how to drive a go-cart, and how to pick okra
without getting my fingers hurt. When I was an older kid (11 or 12?), you taught me how to
drive a car, and I would spin and circle through the field (by then, empty of your flea market),
closely missing trees and soda machines. What the hell was a working soda machine doing in
your field, anyway? You reassured me that my driving was legal-- it was private property, you
know!
I remember the French lessons. Boojay Voo! Ici! Keller a teel? While stationed in France
during WWII, you had learned so much. I just knew you were a genius, and you were! It wasn't
until I took French in high school that I realized just how bad your accent had been, but even
then, I'd still speak French with you whenever we'd visit.
I remember learning to swim in the same concrete pool where Mom and Vickie had swam. You
loved to tell me their crazy stories, like Vickie shooting Danny Taylor in the eye with a pellet
gun when he wouldn't get out of the pool, or the summer Vickie grew a chest and could no
longer dive through the innertube and had to climb out of the pool with her hands pinned to
her sides and ring the door bell with her nose. I remember when I lived with you for a while,
and you didn't have the time or energy to take me to a pond to fish, so you filled the pool
with brim and made me a fishing pole out of a big stick of bamboo, and I could fish whenever
I wanted in the backyard. And I remember, years later, being so mad that you had filled in my
concrete fish pond with dirt and planted a garden there. Letting go of happy memories has
never been my strong suit. I forgave you, of course, when you bribed me with a bag full of
yellow squash, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Who can stay angry at a gardener of such great
talent?
I remember my wedding, 5 years ago, and how wonderful it felt to know Dennis and I were
getting married on your 60th wedding anniversary. We worried then that it might be the last
time we'd see you, as attested by the many pictures of me in my wedding gown, hugging you
while pretending I wasn't crying. You know, your 65th anniversary is coming up. I'll celebrate
for you.
We were cleaning out the house last month, after you left for the nursing home, and again I
found things from your life. Telegrams you sent Mema during the war, letters from during
your military service, boxes of pictures you took of family, and all the old cameras and 8mm
footage and projectors. I crawled through the attic and found the suitcase full of Life
magazines from the 60s. That was your doing, no doubt. Mema was the queen of the garden;
you were the king of stuff. You always knew what had value-- real value anyway... heart value.
I found the list of your inventions-- sun-protection sleeves for driving long trips without
sunburn on your arms, and other such plans. I sat on the living room couch reading your
ideas under the watchful eyes of your giant 1960s head. Mom and Vickie said they always
thought that was the biggest, gaudiest portrait they'd ever seen. I'd always thought it was the
most perfect representation of my Papa I had ever seen-- devilishly handsome, smiling, and
larger than life.
I remember you telling me about how you met Mema. She was a sassy southern teen, moving
into a home in your neighborhood, and you couldn't wait to talk big to your friends. Do you
see that good-lookin' girl over there? I'm goin' to marry her. They laughed, but you went to
offer to help her carry things, and pretty soon you were invited in for tea. She snuck off to
marry you, and then came back home to her parents to live for a week while you went off to
find a house. Once you did, she told her family she was married and left to join you. You
were such entrepreneurs-- owning a soda shop, a Harley Davidson store, and who knows
what else, before you became an insurance salesman. But then, they say you were also a
hellraiser. Homemade blueberry wine, friends, and fishing holes do not mix, according to one
story. Another rats you out for burying Mema (gently and lovingly, I'm sure) under a mattress
when she tried to interfere with your going biking with the boys. No doubt about it, she was a
hellraiser, too, but that's a different story, for a different day. "He'd rather pop a guy in the
head than explain himself," they'd say, and I just giggled, knowing they could never really
know my Papa, not the way I knew him anyway.
The last time I saw you, I knew it wouldn't be long. You were napping when I arrived,
crunched over on your side crossways across the bed, lying there like tomorrow's outfit
tossed on the bed. You couldn't sit up by yourself, and struggled to try to pull yourself up. I
didn't know how to help you, and had to get Aunt Vickie to help me help you. I recognized the
sight of you fumbling through your pocket, trying to find a comb. I had just helped them
pack all your combs for the trip to the nursing home. "It's okay, Papa, you look fine." You
smoothed out your strands as best you could with your hands, and straightened yourself up
to your fullest dignity. You called my Daddy a troublemaker, and told me how beautiful I was,
and when I hugged you goodbye, I didn't want to ever let go.
I know I'll see the old house again this weekend. It always depresses me to go there now.
Ugly, hateful cars fill the field, which used to be full of my memories. The low branches of my
Mommy's magnolia tree have been cut to allow shade for your cars, and it's no longer fit for
climbing. Within a year or two, when the new interstate comes through, it will all be gone
anyway-- the house, the shed, the pool/fish pond/garden, and the magnolia you planted the
year my Mom was born. I suppose there's no way to transplant a tree that big or old, but I
can't imagine it all being gone, any more than I can realize that I'll never again have you wrap
your arms around me, never get to see you clog dance in your dress shoes, and never again
hear you argue that the dogs really can understand your crappy French. I know that same old
pellet gun will be there, calling for me to go shoot some cans, but it's not as much fun being
a hellraiser without you.
When I was little, I used to sit on your bed and listen to that monster of a stereo you brought
back from Germany. I thought it was the coolest stereo ever, because it could pick up
stations from other countries. I would lay there, with my head on the foot of your bed, and
listen to words I didn't understand, occasionally spot-checking for the gibus, and feel like
you had taken me to some magical and mysterious land with you. Yesterday, I went home
from the office, and turned on that stereo. I found a woman's soothing voice, speaking
French like I never heard from you. I picked up my favorite pillow and moved it to the foot of
the bed, closed my eyes, and fell asleep safe in the memory of you.
Tina
(formerly Benson, as in "Streetie & Louise", native of Rockingham, currently living in
Central Florida.)
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