Our neighborhood was made up of ranch style houses and so any sounds that emanated from this new second story carried well. It provided a source of continuous entertainment to the neighbors as mom and dad engaged in whatever happened to be on television. They both knew how to laugh, and just listening to them usually brought others to laughter too. The folks never held back, and so their personalities made them quite the story tellers as well.
I grew up hearing tomes about their own upbringing, family facts and traditions, experiences, etc., and I heard the stories so often that I admit I quit listening early on. A story would come up that I had heard so often, I could probably tell it myself without a script and so I would tune out. Now, I wish I had not only listened better, but also recorded them and their words. They experienced some amazing things; from the story about dad scaling the face of George Washington on Mt. Rushmore with friends to retrieve a baseball cap that had blown away and caught on Georges nose, to their time in France while dad served in the Army.
But one story that mom told again just recently on a day unclouded by an ongoing battle against dementia, had to do with her own dad.
I never met my Grandpa Draut. He died before any of us were born, and I can't help but believe that I really missed out on not knowing him. My dad's father died when my dad was 14, and so I never enjoyed a living grandfather. But my dad took to the man that would become his father in law almost immediately after meeting him. I think he really needed a good man in his young life and God gave him Joseph Draut.
My own dad was famous for nicknames which were always rooted in affection for the one being tagged. He often called me "barge bottom", or "flutter butt", which were both hysterical because I was such a skinny kid, and "Sarah heartburn". I trusted him and never took offense. He was a good guy who loved me without limits.
He called my Grandpa Draut "Colonel". And evidently, Grandpa was always so honored. Little did he know that dad spelled his nickname a bit differently. "Kernel". Like the center of a nut.
These were the type of stories I grew up hearing. But I did a little math recently in connection to the one my mom told about her dad and was shocked at the result. Joseph Draut, worked in the oil fields in Long Beach, CA after moving his family west from Kansas. He loved his new state and much to their chagrin, drug his transplanted family all over the place at every opportunity to explore their new home. They always lived hand to mouth, and one of his past times before leaving Kansas was brewing his own beer in the cellar. Mom tells of hearing the jugs explode on occasion when they weren't sealed properly, and how they grew up drinking beer with meals.
Not only did my venerable grandfather brew his own suds, he also used it to supplement the family income as he sold it out the back door during Prohibition. I realized the Kernel was a bootlegger!! How many people can make that claim!? Priceless!
Listening to my folks tell their stories gave me reason to laugh especially when they went from the ridiculous to the sublime. And they're a part of what makes me who I am. Evidently, the granddaughter of a bootlegger.
Honor your father and your mother,
that your days may be prolonged in the land which the Lord your God gives you.
Ex. 20:12
"The Kernel"
