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Grandpa was wry, funny, hardworking...and very Nebraskan
by Carla Roeder

My grandfather was larger than life when I was a child. While he stood six feet tall, he must have been a late bloomer. He was the smallest boy in his family when he was in high school. His size earned him the advantage of attending college, as his parents were worried he wouldn’t be able to work the farm. But farm he did, with my grandmother, for over sixty years. They lived on the “home place,” a farm a mile north of Belleville, KS.

Grandpa had a dry sense of humor. When the wind whipped stinging volleys of dust across the road he’d say, “real estate’s really moving today”.  He called the work he did making repairs “missionary work” because he didn’t get paid to do it, and the privy was “the Roosevelt Memorial”, due to its construction by Works Progress Administration workers during the Depression.

Sunday recitations

Sunday afternoon when the family gathered in the living room, stuffed with one of Grandma’s delicious meals, Grandpa gave “recitations.” He delivered his presentations just as he’d learned at country school over half a century earlier, complete with foreign accents. There was “Woodman, Spare that Tree” and “Setting the Old Blue Hen Chicken”.

For most of my childhood my parents raised livestock. We lived in town, so the animals lived out at Grandpa and Grandma’s place. We spent a lot of time out there doing chores and snacking on Grandma’s oatmeal cookies.

Grandpa liked to play checkers. We’d set up the checkerboard on a TV tray and play a game or two.  It took forever for me to get good enough to beat him. He showed no mercy, so when I finally won I knew it was because I deserved to.

Proud of farming

Like anyone else, Grandpa had his prejudices. He was proud of the advances in agriculture and proud of farming. “I can’t think of anything more important than feeding the world,” he’d say. He was especially proud of living in the Midwest. “The settlers here were the cream of the crop,” he explained. “Those that couldn’t make it went back or moved on.”

Grandpa wasn’t an outwardly affectionate, grandchild-spoiling type of grandparent. He was more interested in teaching virtues such as faith, frugality, and hard work. He believed in education. “What you put in your head can’t ever be taken away,” he’d explained. He and Grandma backed up that belief by helping their grandchildren with college expenses.

Even after official retirement, Grandpa maintained his interest in farming. I remember coming home from college, where I was studying nursing, to find Grandpa climbing over fences to check livestock. I knew he’d been ordered to be careful of his legs. “Don’t worry, I’ve fixed that,” he said, and pulled up his pants leg to reveal a shin shield cut from the front of a bottle of dish soap. He’d punched holes in it for air circulation and had it taped securely in place.

The last picture

I took the last picture I have of Grandpa when we made our first trip back with our infant son. Grandpa’s holding the baby as he screams in protest. Two weeks later Grandpa had the first of the series of strokes that eventually took his life. His last two years were spent in a nursing home. After each set back he’d fight to regain what he’d lost. He never gave up and he never complained.

In the twenty-seven years since Grandpa’s death I’ve learned more about him. His father came to America from Czechoslovakia as an indentured servant, bringing with him the traditions of his upbringing in the old country. The family worked hard, prospered, and invested in more land. Grandpa’s father wanted to keep the land in the family name. To do that, he wanted to bypass his daughters’ inheritance in favor of his grandsons. Grandpa wouldn’t allow it. “You will not favor your grandsons over your daughters,” he insisted. “This is America. We don’t do that here.”

We often fail to appreciate someone during their lifetime. As many memories as I have of Grandpa, I’m sure there are other stories I can’t recall. I wish I’d paid more attention. Grandpa was larger than life when I was a child. He’s even bigger now.

Carla Roeder R.N., has thirty years of nursing experience, mostly in geriatrics. She is also the author of the novel, “From Here to Everlasting”, based in a good Midwestern nursing home. Having the privilege of knowing all of her grandparents inspired her choice of careers. Ms. Roeder writes from her home in Holdrege, NE.

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