Art Fraser

I wanted to write something for my family about my Grandfather, a gift for them to remember.

There was a time when the greatest thrill of my day would be slipping on these knee high rubber boots and go wading the creek (I called it a “crick” since that’s what I heard John Wayne call it once in a movie) and catching crawdads, shooting snakes, and of course looking for Indians, who I thought could be around any corner ready to scalp me. Needless to say I was in a fantasy. I would spend all day walking, running, and digging in the “crick”. There were no watches, no schedules, and for sure there was no concern for anything other than crawdads and Indians. I would be brought back to earth by the sound of Ma calling from the front door of the “mountain house”. Lunch was ready or it was time to get things together to go to town. Town was ordinary, but at the same time magical because it was nestled in the midst of high mountain and rolling hills. My Pa would drive us to town. He always drove and would tell me stories all the time and ask me questions. Mainly about duck hunting and fishing when I was young and later in life when my visits were not as frequent he would prod to know if I would ever be serious about school as I was about fishing and ducks, but even then it came from a deep desire to better me and see me grow. I had no clue. I thought him a hard man with unique ideologies. For instance, he would not let me come to the dinner table shirtless; he wanted respect as if he were the general and I the lowly private. Looking back today I wish I had the chance to thank him. To ask him what books he would suggest and what it was like to be in the navy during uncertain times. I would ask him about when he hitchhiked back home in his navy attire and would laugh more at his dry humor, his dry, dry humor. He was a funny man who enjoyed making his family laugh and though there was this strange “family fear” of him there was deep respect for who he was. He was Pa to me. He liked to show me records that he had alphabetized in the front closet, books that were interesting, and every time he went to take a nap in his chair he would kind of nestle his head into the back of the chair as if there was this special nook that no one could see, but perfectly held his head while he napped. He had eight tracks of Marty Robbins, loved politics, and loved his family. I guess my fondest memory of him was when he would come home from work and kiss Ma, or when she would be washing dishes and he would sneak up behind her and give her a big hug. He was himself with her like he wasn’t with anyone else. He loved her and she him. They were funny and perfect. When she fell in love with making quilts and pillows, he learned to sew and worked along side her. He didn’t diminish her dreams and helped her realize most of them. He was a remarkable man in an indifferent time. I never knew how much I would value his advice and conversation until, well, now. I am sitting here staring out the window into thick South Georgia fog and it reminds me of the mountains. I think about him because that was home to him. The apple orchards, the junior college, the roadside fruit stands and the waterfalls that he would pull of the side of the road to make sure we could see. Most of the locals knew him by name and he knew them. If not directly he had read some book on the area and it’s history. He would drive Ma to any and every yard sale she wanted to visit. He was a genuinely good, brilliant, American. I want to wrap this up so I will jump ahead. He was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was quick and ugly, making him weak and frail. I remember the day at the hospital before his flight to Boston. I walked in to see him and tell him I loved him. He smiled and grabbed my hand with a reassuring grip and in that moment he was saying I got this, don’t worry about me. I stood there for a bit and we exchanged no words. Then, he looked at me and said, “ I am proud of you”. We embraced for a while and tears ran down my cheeks. I looked at him and said, “Pa, that really means a lot to me”. He looked and grinned and with one breath he let out a “psh” like a “whatever” and we laughed. He died a few weeks later and those that were with him said he was hallucinating in his last few days and saw me sitting on the sink by his bed. He was certain that I was there with him and in some way I know I was. I know he is not here, but I would like to think when it’s foggy and the weather is right for putting on rubber boots and wading through the “crick”, that he is among that great cloud of witnesses watching. He would be pleased to know I am a book lover and admirer of Ronald Reagan. He would like to know I don’t care much about fishing anymore and am working on a degree. He would like to know I nestle my head into the seat where I am about to nap.