Grampa

Many years ago, I had a person in my life I called "Grampa."  His actual title of course would be "Grandfather."  His name he answered to at least to the outside world was "Frank."  I never would call him that and for the record, while I was a child I don't think that I ever knew what his name was.  My mother called him "Pa" and my father called him "the old man."  

Grampa loved his grandchildren, of course that is what Grampas  are supposed to do.  In my early years, up to June of 1959 I lived in Bridgeport, an area on the Southwest side of Chicago that was the stomping ground of Mayor Richard Daley (the father, and REAL mayor of Chicago.)  I lived on Loomis Street near Archer Avenue just on the other side of the B and O railroad tracks.  It was a quiet neighborhood with not too many children.  I had one friend, a girl that lived at the end of the block named Coleen. She was a bit of a tomboy and so it was like playing with a guy.

Grampa would come over to visit his daughter, my mother Violet and to take me either for a walk or to the playground that was nearby.  I always asked him to take me to the Boiler Works that was a couple blocks away.  He could never say no to me and more often than not off we went.  We got to front of this building with a large opening and inside there were men using torches and pounding metal with hammers, the noise was magnificently loud and as usual it scared me and I would start to cry.  Grampa would take my hand and we would turn away from the fascinating and somewhat scary factory and we would make our way to the playground.  

In my teen years, which were near the end of his life, I would visit with him and we would play cards and he would play the harmonica for me.  I recorded one of the concerts and still have that tape in my collection.   I think God decided he could not be everywhere so he gave us grandparents.