I have enjoyed reading the stories of other writer's dads this weekend and how I wish, oh how I wish that I could write about what I learned  with all the positive experiences from my dad. I can't. And I really don't want to dwell on the stream of men thru my mother's life who taught me all kinds of cagey games to keep them off me, then how to submit in a most sullen way.  Years of therapy and my own multi-marital state have taught me that I'll never be in the marriage Olympics. But, as emotionally damaged as I remain from all that I am not wrecked. The main reason I am not is due to  my grandfather, Morris Wenzel. Morris was a a slight man who, maybe weighed 110 pounds dripping wet on a good day, who only knew how to sign his name, never read a book and refused to go to confession and admit to all the deer he shot out of season: "Hell no, Sally! I'm not going to confession! The damned priest will make me give up almost all the meat I shot for us. You go! I'm born a Catholic and it's not so important for me.  You converted so you probably ought to go to keep being a new Catholic good."

He was one of six children born in America to an Austrian-Hungarian immigrant, Frank Wenzel. Settling in Texas, Frank outlived his first wife and shortly thereafter married a 17 year old with roots going as far back as the Texas Republic.  Growing up I heard all the noble stories of how hard working and obedient  Morris and Virgie were as married adolescents, she 15 and he 19. He never called her by her birth name, Virgie...I didn't understand why until in later years, she confessed it was his pet name for her.  That was an eye-opener.  I never thought they courted, teased, etc. but since they had five kids something must have been going on.  I asked Virgie about it when I was grown, she quickly told me that stuff was 'None of y'ur bizness, Girl! Go scrub those tatars!'  They got together where many young people did in those days: at the weekend rodeo, horse breaking  and racing events which rotated from ranch to ranch.  Horses were incredibly valuable in those days, both for show and for work. My granddad's specialty were the pretty colored 'paint ponies'.  Being only 5'2" tall and about 110lbs the trim paint ponies suited Morris well enough. He began racing a couple of his horses then began hiring out to break and ride other people's horses. Morris quickly became the local 'go to' guy for  not only racing your horse to its championship but other specific ranch skills: Gelding a horse;  black smithing; slaughtering hogs, hunting and fishing to put food on his dinner table for his growing family They lived with Morris' family after marrying and had their first child 9 months and five minutes after the ceremony.

Talking to one of my aunt's trying to tie up some local history, I commented that that was a tough legacy to live up to. She almost choked laughing!  'Honey, those two kids laid up in the bed, got it on as often as they could and were just generally lazy bones teenagers.'!    I nearly choked...'Well what about all that noble family stuff???'Evy laughed again and said, 'Well what the heck were we to tell you'? ...and raise you right? You were born in a different time so different pressures had to be applied.'  Born in 1942 I did come of age at a different time, but times spent with my grandmother and grandfather continued and they became my haven. I made it into nursing school in 1960 and came home for the summer all brilliant and shiny...wearing short shorts and smoking.  I came in the door, plopped my suitcase in the living room floor as Virgie immediately began having a hissy fit: Have you lost your mind, Miss??? Put that suitcase up, then open it and cover yourself! And put that cigarette out!!'  Virgie retreated to the kitchen and began a symphony of pots and pans being slammed on the stove, against the wall, and on the floor. I put my suitcase away but left my shorts on and kept my cigarette. I was grown! Who was she to tell me what I could do or not do? 

Sitting in the living room I heard the back screen door open, some mumbles in the kitchen and Morris came in. I got up, hugged him and went to kiss him and he said, 'Oh girl, I got a lip full of snuff and between that and your cigarette, this ain't gonna be nice.'  We hugged, sat and chatted a while and he commented: 'Well you've certainly grown up! I never knew your legs were like a young filly's legs...stretch all the way to California. (Now don't get too excited..I"m 5'3" on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and lie about my height the other days.  Also remember this man's point of reference was his 4'11" wife and his own 5'2" frame.) 

 'Say, Sister, I got some things I need to check on in the back pasture. Want to go with me?'  I jumped up, threw my cigarette in his spit can and said, 'Sure!' Anything to get away from Virgie's pot symphony! Going out with Morris was a special treat in a house where men and women still dined and gossiped separately. Men's gossip was always more fun and Morris always over ruled Virgie and said I could sit with them If I sat quietly. In Texas there is a plant called bullnettles and their poison is equivalent to a jelly fish except you never get hit by just one since it spreads, climbs and manages to get everywhere. I am  or was a redhead with green eyes ................and red head skin that breaks out from any and everything.  Grandpa Morris led me all thru the back 40 and my thighs were soon attaining the proportion of 'thunder thighs', red, swollen, itching.  Every now and again Morris would call back, 'you okay, Sister? You're not keeping up with me as well as you usually do.'  Of COURSE I was not going to say I needed to go back and get my arms, legs and eyes taken care of. Finally we headed home and as I came through the back door, I heard Virgie screech, 'Oh my God, Morris, what the hell did you do?' Morris spat, grinned and said, 'Nothin' Virgie just took my girl thru the Back 40.  Now sister go get in the shower and scrub that nettle oil off you and slather some calamine on it. Grandma will make you some baking soda paste later.' That was it...not another word was said. Did I ever smoke or wear short shorts to my grandparents? Oh hell no! But I learned an invaluable 'teaching lesson' long before I ever formally became a teacher:

There is a time and a place.Another time, another place but not a lot has changed.  Morris lived to be in his late 70s, came back up to the house after tending the cows, opened the door and said, 'Virgie, my head hurts like hell!'  And he had a stroke he never recovered from.  Virgie's star jockey was running races on paint ponies in heaven.  I was a lucky and much loved granddaughter.