Grandpa Bowen: A Childhood Memory

William Cornelius Maguire Bowen, "Grandpa" Bowen, as most elderly people did at that time, lived with one of their children. He alternately lived with my family, or his daughter, Aunt Edith Cooper. He is one of my best childhood memories.

When I was born, he was 71 years old. His hair had been black, but by that time his hair was gray, and, he had a long, white beard. His eyes were a beautiful blue. I can still see those twinkling blue eyes in my mind. My brother, Tom, had those same twinkling blue eyes, with mischief added to the twinkle, as a boy.

Of Grandpa's four brothers, three were tall. Two were lean and lanky; the other also tall, but had a bit more muscular build. One other brother died when he was about 30 years old, and I never knew him, or had a description of him. Grandpa William M . C. Bowen was slim, but he was not tall like his brothers. I suspect he minded, as siblings will, that he, the eldest son, had to look up (in height) to his younger brothers.

He was injured by a falling tree while cutting timber when he was in his 50s and his leg was broken. Apparently it was not set properly, and he walked on crutches for the remainder of his life. This curtailed much of the physical work he had previously done, but he made himself useful around the place doing what he could do.

My grandmother, Sarah Jane Deskin Bowen, died two days before I was born. Grandpa and Dad were away at her funeral, and when they arrived home, they found a new baby girl. I suppose this new child helped fill a small hole in the empty space left in my grandfather's life, by my grandmother's passing. He was a very special part of my life as a child. He died much too soon for me, when I was only seven years old, and I missed him sorely. He was my special childhood friend.

My mother told me that when I was a baby, she would pile pillows in a rocking chiar, lay me on the pillows and Grandpa would watch me while she did her housework. If I woke and got fussy, Grandpa would put his foot on the rocker and gently rock the chair until I quieted, or Mother could come to do what was needed, if I was insistent.

Mother said she thought "Pa" Bowen was cranky. And one of my brother's, a little older than I, expressed the same opinion. I don't remember him being particularly crabby with me, except that once he told me to go get him a 'couple of sticks of wood." Being a literal minded child, that is exactly what I did. If that was what Grandpa wanted, that was what he got. I brought in two sticks of wood.

He fussed at me because I didn't bring more wood. And being this literal minded child, I didn't understand why he was displeased, when I did exactly what he told me to do. In my defense, I might add that I was a 'small' child, and unless the sticks were also pretty small, I probably couldn't have carried much more than that anyway.

I do remember that I pestered Grandpa, probably too frequently, to "Please let me look in Grandma's trunk." For some reason, I was fascinated by what was in this trunk and I delighted in going through it. However, I can only remember one item specifically, that it contained. That was the little clay pipes that it was said Grandma smoked, as did older women of some cultures. Grandpa promised me the pipes would be mine when he was gone; but he was not living with us when he died, and noone would have paid any attention to a child my age anyway. Later, I asked my cousins if they remembered anything about the trunk, and what had happened to the pipes, but neither had any memory of them. I suspect that all, or most of what was in the trunk was discarded as having no value.

As often as I asked Grandpa to see what was in the trunk, he had plent of opportunities to be cranky with me if he wanted to, but if he was, I have never recalled it. Cranky or not, I wouldn't have traded him for anything. When he left us, there was an empty space in my life too, and there was noone else to fill it for a very long time.

About This Blog - How Small Is That

Perhaps you think I jump about from topic to topic too much, instead of staying with just one category. I do. I like variety. So we go from memories to food, health issues, ways to trim expenses a bit, to my day’s activities; in today’s parlance, whatever. Besides, if I stayed with just one category, I would have too many blogs for me to manage. I want it to be fun, not a chore. If you read the blog, and you want to see more of a particular topic, let me know. Maybe I can do that, and maybe I can’t. Who knows!

The last blog was about my Memories of the WWII era. This one is from an old saying of my mother’s.

“It’s not big enough to cuss a cat in.” A saying used to describe something which wasn’t big enough to accommodate whatever was wanted. I don’t remember any of the incidents or situations, which caused my mother to use this particular descriptive phrase, but I remember hearing it any number of times. How small is that? When you think about it, any space that wouldn’t be big enough to cuss a cat in would be pretty small indeed. I should think that if you could stand in it, sit in it, or lie down in it, any space at all would be big enough to cuss a cat in it.

Come to think of it, in today’s world, twitter’s 140 spaces would be just about the right amount of space to do what my mother’s saying suggests, but we don’t do that there. Right! Or anywhere else, do we?

World War II - From My Perspective

What was it like in World War II from my perspective? I’m not sure of what I can tell you. So, let’s break into the memory bank and see what we find.

My husband and I were married in 1942, not quite a year after the beginning of World War II. He left for the Army one day less than two months later. We knew this was likely to happen at some point. We were just surprised that it hadn’t occurred earlier. Oddly enough, Melvin had tried to enlist about a year before, in the Navy; but was rejected because of flat feet. When he was drafted some time later, he was assigned to the infantry and walked his way across Europe. Shipboard required better feet than the infantry?

We were married three years before we spent an anniversary or holiday together. In those days, after a soldier was sent to overseas, there was no stipulated time limit before being furloughed home. Once you were in the war theater, you were there for the duration. The men did get a three day pass from time to time, depending on circumstances. And the occasional furlough, to designated places in the general area, then a return to active duty. In later wars, apparently a rotation system was thought to work better.

Melvin was in the States longer than some men were, before getting their assignment to overseas duty, though we were separated for all but six months of that time. He was in a replacement training unit, and some men were sent ‘over’ to replace men who had individually lost their war, while others remained to help train new men coming in. Out of a special buddy unit of three, one of Melvin’s closest friends was sent to Europe for the D-Day invasion. In the all for one and one for all spirit, the other two put up a fuss They wanted to go with Hank. Needless to say, what was was; nobody paid any attention to what left-behind buddies wanted.

Perhaps it was because the top brass knew it was then time for an all out push, but just a few weeks later, the entire division followed Hank to Europe. Melvin and Woody remained in the same unit: Woody was the COs driver and Melvin was a machine gunner. The life-expectancy of a machine gunner was not great. The way I handled that was that I simply did not accept the fact that Melvin might not return. My faith in his return was apparently greater than his. I think when he left, he never expected to return. Fortunately, he did.

That did not mean that I was not concerned, or that I did not say countless prayers, but I did not ask myself, What if he doesn’t return? Or What will I do if he is killed? I did not allow myself to think those thoughts. I concentrated on when the war is over, and when he comes home. However, there was a brief period just before the end of 1944, when things were not going well, when I almost faltered for a moment. It was something like starting to fall, but somehow you regain your balance and right yourself before hitting the floor.

That’s all for now. Perhaps more later.