Memoirs: Chickens in the Attic

I grew up an only child, daughter of a teacher and a pastor. Somehow I managed to survive all three of those dubious distinctions. These are my memories.

As a small girl I rolled my head back as far as it would go to look up at him. Broad shoulders and a long face with prominent features topped his long, lanky figure. When he stooped to kiss my check his face, always rough with 5 o’clock shadow even at 10 in the morning, sanded my skin.

He wore a plaid flannel shirt and brown work pants. He drove the same pea green car purchased during the Carter administration until he couldn’t to drive anymore when Clinton was in the White House.

That sums up most of what I know absolutely about my paternal grandfather. Grandpa was quiet and introverted, a bit shy. He talked little about himself — or much of anything.

The rest of what I know about my father’s father I tacked together from observations made as a child and a few stories passed down, now interpreted through adult filters. There were layers to Grandpa we didn’t see. Underneath what appeared an unremarkable life was a remarkable man.

Grandpa’s deep faith in Jesus Christ shaped his life. He was humble, kind, and patient.

Grandpa possessed a sense of humor. He often shared a funny anecdote when he did speak. His large mouth took over his whole face when he smiled. His laugh was deeper and heartier than you expected from such a quiet man.

Grandpa was eccentric. He saw the world differently, and because of that he was odd.

Grandpa was smart.

Very smart.

I think untapped genius lay inside him.

His high school year book lists Grandpa as a member of the Inventors Club. I imagine him joining the ranks as his fellow brilliant Buckeye Thomas Edison except history intervened. Born in 1910 the Great Depression swept the nation with poverty just as Grandpa arrived at the brink of life.

Instead of college Grandpa went off to serve in the Civilian Conservation Corps. The CCC, a government organization, provided employment for young men during the depression. He worked on a farm in Nebraska. It was there that grandpa, a life-long urban dweller, decided he wanted a farm.

Grandpa returned to Ohio, married and worked in a factory. He never owned his farm. There was no money. Then when there was Grandma refused to move. He lived out the rest of his life in the same house he grew up in.

In his backyard in the middle of the city he planted a garden that produced lush, sweet tomatoes. He raised rabbits for meat in a hutch near the back porch. Yes, I ate rabbit, and it’s true what they say. Tastes like chicken.

Actually, chickens reveal best who Grandpa was.

Before I was born, before there were rules in the city about such things, Grandpa raised chickens in his attic.

Raising chickens in the attic is off-kilter. It’s abnormal, but what else was a man without his farm to do?

Grandpa snatched pieces of his dream in spite of a life that handed him lemons without giving him the sugar to make lemonade.

We all want a farm. We all have a dream. Many of our dreams never see even a spark. We think we can’t. We don’t have what we need. We worry what people will say.

So we don’t.

What if we tried anyway? Even if we only grasp smokey wisps of our dream it’s more than if we never strike the flint.

The smoke gave Grandpa hope of a bright flame. We all need a cause to carry on lives that at times feel small and insignificant.

We won’t all get The Farm, but we can all have a few chickens in the attic.

Other stories in the stories in the Memoirs series:

Grandma’s House

I was a Christmas Pageant Diva

Communion Sunday or How to Make Your Own Manna