That One Time with My Grandfather by Richard C Rutherford

My grandfather was a big red-faced Scot with a taxi. He had wire-rim glasses that reflected light, kept a lipfull of Copenhagen and was fond of saying, “hot damn!” He loved to watch Roller Derby or stock car racing on TV with Dick Lane calling the action. Often, he would walk into the room, jingling change in his pocket. That was a clue for me, my sister, and my cousins to gather around as he spilled coins onto the floor. We went on hands and knees, scooping up silver and copper. In the kitchen, my grandmother tsked.

I thought he was wonderful. When I was six, he died from stomach cancer. Died howling.

My grandmother was a Danish immigrant who grew up on a South Dakota farm; a martyr, and a kind lady. She raised chickens for eggs. On weekends, she killed, plucked, and gutted young roosters, iced them down, and sold them from her roadside stand. She called me Little Ricky, and when not taking care of things outside, she was in the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, chopping up the next meal, rolling out dough, leaning into the open stove, pulling out something hot and good, doing dishes, keeping the house together.

My grandfather’s taxi was a big grey DeSoto with double doors and two black leather seats in back that faced each other. He often took me with him to collect money or roll dice. Younger men seemed afraid of him when he talked, and that made me proud of him. I remember him talking to a man missing an eye and with no patch, just an empty, leather socket. I remember men with missing arms or legs, their sleeves or pant legs pinned up; World War II left casualties both dead and alive.

Long before Interstate 10 cut our town in half, the downtown intersection of Ramsey Street and San Gorgonio Street served both local residents and travelers. Hal’s Drug Store and the two-story Del Paso Hotel occupied one corner. Across the street was a Fox theatre and an auto parts store. On the other two corners, a Texaco filling station and another hotel.

Hal’s was a forerunner of today’s convenience stores; rows of drinks, candy, sundries, medicines, and bandages. Cigarettes and liquor were behind the cash register. In the back, a pharmacist filled prescriptions, and along one side wall, a row of red leather stools lined a green countertop with a soda fountain that also served hot food from a grill. A mirror covered the entire back wall. One could sit swiveling and watch the reflection.

Next to the hotel’s main entrance, my grandfather had a small taxi stand. The taxi driver could be counted on for a wide range of information, like places to stay, where to get good food or farm produce, or how to find various kinds of ‘action’. When he was transporting a customer, I rode up front with my grandfather. No matter who he was talking to, people always seemed to respect him.

One Sunday afternoon, my grandfather walked into my grandmother’s kitchen. “Dick. How would you like to get a hot fudge sundae”? Yes, I would. “Anna, I’m going to take Dick down to get a hot fudge sundae.” I grabbed his hand, and we went out to the DeSoto. He led me into Hal’s, lifted me up on a stool, and told the soda jerk, “Give this boy a hot fudge sundae.” Then, he told me he would be back in a few minutes and walked down to a little set of stairs at the back of the store.

I didn’t like being left alone. But watching myself in the mirror and the sundae held my attention. After a while, though, I worried that maybe he’d forgotten me. Shivering from too much ice cream, I kept my eyes on the little door. The soda jerk tried talking to me and offered me some more ice cream. I didn’t want anything but my grandpa.

Finally, he came out the door and down the steps to me. I bailed off the stool and grabbed his hand. He was whistling and jingling change in his pocket. He paid for the sundae, and the soda jerk said something nice.

We walked out into the sun, onto the hot sidewalk. My grandfather stopped and looked up. “Look up there, boy.” On a balcony above us stood a young woman with her legs apart. She had short brown hair, red lipstick, and wore a pale green chiffon dress. She wasn’t wearing any underpants. She smiled down at us. “What do you think of that, boy”?

Quickly, I looked down. I had no words for what I’d seen, just a sense of embarrassment.

“Don’t tell your grandma.” My grandfather walked us on, whistling and jingling change.

All my memories of my grandfather seem vivid. But if it hadn’t been for the lady in the green dress, I wonder if I would remember him at all.