I ever saw him using a screwdriver or hammer, or mowing the lawn, trimming the
hedges or shoveling snow. Of course, in fairness, he may have done these things in
early years, before my arrival.
I got the impression that Pop had always been strict with his children to the
point where they rather feared him. Perhaps he had been heavy-handed with the
hairbrush when they were young; I certainly never observed - or received - any severe
punishment while I visited or lived in his house. “Talking back" was forbidden, “Yes,
Sir" and “Yes, Ma’am" were expected and basic table manners were enforced. These
were surely not undue measures. When the girls were old enough to have dates, they
were expected home by a specific hour. Even when they were well into adulthood,
they feared their father’s disapproval of what he might consider off-beat conduct;
they waited until he was on the road to hold the occasional shrimp-and-beer party.
Those of the girls who smoked never did so in his presence. I think the aura of stern
disciplinarian came from his lack of ability, or perhaps inclination, to reason with his
children; instead, he barked. I believe, too, that the children thought Pop might take
out his displeasure with them by tongue-lashing their mother.
But Theodore was not a completely callous man. While not humorous or witty
or good at conversation, he could turn on a broad smile in happy situations and be
genuinely likeable. There are pictures of him with one grandchild or the other in which
he appears proud and tickled. I remember taking our first baby to see him. Holding
Mikey in the air, Pop wiggled his head in the baby’s tummy and made him squeal.
But I could never get used to my grandfather’s frequent periods of sullenness
and his loud, senseless (I thought) quarrels with Grandma as well as with the older
girls, especially at the dinner table. Naturally I “kept my tongue." But a few days
before I left to work in Washington, I slipped: There was an argument of some sort at
dinner and I huffed from the table sputtering, “I can’t take this any longer! I’m sure
glad to be leaving this place!" When I departed for the train station, the goodbye
between Pop and me was chilly. I had hurt him, I realized, and that incident didn’t
make my defection any easier for my mother. On my first return home, which wasn’t
long thereafter, I tried to act toward Pop as though nothing had happened. He was
still cool, but in time the rancor between us faded.
For the eight years that I lived in the Wallace house, I was without a father.
Was my grandfather a father-figure for me. No, even if I did call him “Pop," merely
in imitation of his own children. I am sure he neither disliked or resented me. After
all, I was his first grandson. But he left my upbringing, including discipline, to my
mother. When I was lax with a household chore (especially forgetting to bring in the
buckets of coal from the backyard shed), he left it up to Grandma to admonish me.
My puberty came and went without the least paternal guidance from him. He did not
catch ball with me or take me fishing - but no doubt he sensed that these were not the
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