During the winter of 1954, I found some freedom at last. I got my driver’s license. My dad was a car dealer in Clairton, Pa., so there were plenty of old cars for me to practice on, but I wasn’t allowed to own one. In reality I had learned to drive some years before by driving Granddad A’s old 1947 Dodge around his summer home at Conneaut long before I was able to get a license.
I didn’t have a car of my own but my family had a 1952 Plymouth Belvedere hard top which, once in a while and for special occasions, I was allowed to drive. Bright green with a black roof. Pretty wild colors, but great for a kid who by then, was chasing girls. On foot, by car, by boat and more!
Like most teens in the 50’s, I really didn’t know too much about girls. About as naive as anyone could be, I thought everyone thought like me and had similar values. In those quiet and relaxed days of the early 1950’s I assumed that most folks were honorable and good. In other words I was super naive.
That was a world and time where even swearing wasn’t allowed on TV. When music was romantic. Soft and smooth. Rock and roll and loud mindless vocals and blaring noise masquerading as music hadn’t been invented.
It was before the time when hype and exaggerated TV & films brainwashed young minds with whatever was most profitable to promote. A time when romance and love may include, but were not synonymous with sex.
Photo: G Laughlin and friends in her Chris Craft Rivera in front of her house near Shady Avenue about 1955.
I took many of these young ladies for sailboat rides, speedboat rides, water skiing, to the park, the movies, and whatever young kids of my generation did.
But like most young guys, I had a knack for liking the girls the best that had the most physical appeal. Like Don Quixote de la Mancha, every Aldonza that came along I perceived and saw as the beautiful and wonderful Dulcinea.
Instead of wiser and smarter regarding my love of the day, week or month, I got progressively dumber. For a kid who got really good grades in school, I knew next to nothing about love and girls and hormones and pheromones and all that stuff.
Then one day in late August, I introduced my favorite young lady to Granddad who by then was living in the ‘little house’ next to his former cottage. She was a local girl. Very bright. Very much alert and alive. Very talented. Very pretty. Very sexy.
Granddad had just eaten, the aroma of his carefully bred homegrown Great Northern beans and slowly simmered ham filled the air even out on the back porch. His always present cup of strong black coffee with just a touch of cream was chattering, dancing and spilling more than ever on the saucer clutched in his forever trembling hand.
Granddad never said much, but I could sense from his growing frown that hot and humid dog day of August that this was not someone he approved of. Later that evening he cautioned me in that soft spoken, very brief but concerned way of his, that this wasn’t the best kind of girl, it was the wrong kind of girl.
I really liked her and was quite upset and slightly angry with this well meant, quiet but firm rebuke.
After all to me, as the young fellow that made Don Quixote look wise, this was my dream girl. My favorite. The girl I may someday want to marry and be the mother of my children.
Like many kids then and now, I listened, but didn’t listen very well.
Especially to words or even ideas that conflicted with what I thought was right or what I wanted. I was hurt. I was defensive. I was incredibly naive.
One weekend that Fall after I was back in high school, I hitch hiked across town to Granddad’s winter house. Then hitched a ride to Conneaut with Granddad.
A dreary gray day, it was wet, windy and rainy. More than a bit chilly, it felt and looked like it might even snow. The sounds and musty scents of Fall were in the air, somewhat blurred as Granddad puffed away on his Thompson cigar. He chain smoked cigars which he loved and bought by the box. We climbed into his car. With Granddad driving, we headed north on old Route 19 which narrowly wound its way over the steep western Pennsylvania hills.
 |
| 1947 Dodge Sedan |
Granddad was about 84 or so, had arthritis, Parkinson's plus, from the way he walked and moved, ever growing stiffness, aches and pains. The windows in his 1947 Dodge 4 door sedan were closed tight. After all he didn’t want to catch a chill or get an another ‘rheumatis’ in his joints.
If I tried to crack open a vent (most old cars had a small window in front of the side window called a vent) Granddad would notice, scow a bit, and say “a little cigar smoke won’t hurt you”.
He had always warned all his grandkids against cigarettes, calling them coffin nails, but thought cigars made of pure tobacco (which he called stogies) were fine, maybe even good for what ails you.
I don’t know how anyone could see out the front windows. How could he see past the ever billowing clouds of smoke? Past the ever spreading fog on the windows, past the bleating scraping windshield wipers, and splattering rain mixed with mud.
Somehow after 4 somewhat scary hours or so, we made it to the lake.
Granddad suggested we stop at a little restaurant on the edge of town for a piece of pie. Inside a young, pleasant looking waitress welcomed us with a warm smile. This must have made Granddad think of my girl friend.
In the silence of the nearly empty restaurant, and in a very soft, carefully stern but non threatening voice, he said “that friend of yours comes from a very troubled family who do inappropriate things to support themselves. You should think carefully about that”.
That’s about all he said about my favorite young lady.
For a man who rarely put forth a negative thought, this 2nd warning seemed strangely out of character. Respect for others was one of Granddads commandments. Why would he say these things? How could he know about her family? Why did he think that because her family might not be the best, that might make her bad too? It couldnt be that her family was poor because Granddad had many poor friends and fishing buddies.
I was perplexed. I defended the young lady, at least in my mind, because I didn’t have the heart or desire to contradict or argue with Granddad. No one argued with Granddad. A discussion was one thing which he often welcomed, to argue was simply unthinkable. And this wasn’t the time and the place as we both were tired from a long drive. Or was it the cigar smoke?
That fall weekend was very cold. I slept in the back bedroom of the little house buried and smothered in slightly moldy old wool blankets. There was no heat back there, and little heat in the house except that from an old western style wood stove slowly growing cold in the living room.
Thoughts of the warning made me toss and turn all night and morning came but not too soon. The only negative thing I could recollect about my favorite was that at times she would stare off into space like she was ‘somewhere else’. That could hardly be a fault!
Maybe to clear my mind and emotions, I chopped wood much of that weekend so Granddad would have a good supply. The previous fall when he was chopping wood, the axe had glanced off the log and sunk into his leg. Somehow he had made it alone down to Doc Martins. But he still limped and I didn’t want that kind of accident to happen again.
I didn’t know it, but far worse was about to happen.
A month or so later, Granddad, driving alone on wet slippery roads, chain smoking those old stogies he loved so much, skidded his trusty maroon colored 1947 Dodge off the snow and slush covered road.
He and his car slid then plunged right through the cable fed wooden guard posts. Then finally tumbling down a very steep hill near Zelienople, about 30 miles or so north of Pittsburgh.
The car had tumbled and then rolled over and over for about 400 feet. They had to pry the door off the demolished car to get him out.
That was the end of the road for that faithful old Dodge, and tragically the beginning of the end for Granddad.
In the hospital in Pittsburgh, he noted “its only a few broken bones” and was very concerned that they might revoke his drivers license.
Earlier that fall, he had sold his family home of nearly 50 years, located on Church Avenue in Ben Avon. Now he lived, all alone, in an easier to manage first floor apartment a few miles from his home.
He had tried to give his beautiful furniture (mostly hand made and hand carved) from the house to his kids but apparently they didn’t want much of it. So most ended up in his garage at the lake and in his old Martin Hardsocg warehouse on Shore Avenue next to his factory.
I had pleaded with my mother when he sold his house to let him live with us, but she wanted no part of it even though we had an empty bedroom.
I never could comprehend his younger daughters attitude toward their father. He had given those children so much, both materially and the discipline and lessons from life.
Yes he was strict. Yes he was stern, but he was always warm, loving and caring with his family. I never saw or heard him express anger or even swear.
But now with all his sons but the youngest, Bob, and 2nd youngest Wes, dead, and his other daughters living far away I begged my mother to give him a home. After all he was in his 80’s and frail. But my mother angrily said no. No. NO! And now that he was hurt, more crippled than ever, she said no once again.
I was scolded and reminded harshly that it wasn’t my concern.
Picture of Uncle Bob (Clarence Robert Anderson). Fortunately my uncle Bob said yes he would help and moved into Granddad’s apartment to do as best he could for his failing and now somewhat crippled by casts, crutches and arthritis father.
Bob was a relatively quiet and kind fellow who had had a pretty hard life. Like most of us Bob had made some mistakes. But I really liked uncle Bob and he was always warm and nice with me.
Unlike his three older brothers who had all gone to work for their father with assured good paying jobs and total security, Bob had a lot of pride and chose to make his own way.
I didn’t get to see too much of Uncle Bob when I was growing up, but I heard a lot. A lot of mindless criticism from his younger sisters and in laws, who always seemed to side with Bob’s first wife.
These sisters ranted and railed against their own brother. But then a couple of them including my mother ranted and railed against just about everyone when the someone was not present.
It had seemed strange to me, I had never heard my Grandfather or Grandmother criticize anyone for any reason other than Granddad’s words of caution about the girl I liked, but my mother complained and criticized 24 hours a day. In her world, nothing was ever right. And for much of my youth, I had the black and blue marks to prove it.
Uncle Bob had married young, had 3 kids by his first wife, worked assorted jobs, but somehow, someway that first marriage was on the rocks for years. Finally the marriage ended in an angry divorce, with his younger kids bitter, living afterword with their mom, conditioned forever to endlessly blame and hate their dad for causing all their troubles.
Granddad had always said blame was for those who couldn’t accept responsibility for their own actions.
In the midst of all this, ignoring the constant holier than thou criticism from more than one of his relatives, Bob had the guts to listen to his conscience and tried hard to do what was right.
So now he was helping care for Granddad cause frankly no one else seemed to care, or have the room, or whatever the excuse of the day. And I heard all too many excuses. Somehow they all seemed hollow, at least to me.
That December, I was sleeping and the phone was ringing and ringing. Half awake, I stumbled down the stairs and picked up the only phone in our house, which was on my mothers desk in our dining room. It was Uncle Bob.
It was very early in the morning and he wanted to speak to my mother.
My mother spoke briefly to Bob, hung up the phone and didn’t seem upset. In her usual harsh tone, all I heard were the words, “Go back to bed”.
Later that morning I learned that Granddad had passed away.
Apparently a stroke. He had cried out, then died suddenly in his sleep.
For a man with such a large family, who had done so incredibly much for that family, only Uncle Bob was there with him. There for his dad and alone there with his dad.
Granddad’s death was more than a shock to me, it was devastating. I thought I was a pretty tough kid, but I cried and cried. I just couldn’t believe he was gone.
The part of my life as a grandson had been a blessing. Granddad had taught me just about everything he could – hunting, fishing, gardening, appreciation, self reliance, self respect, dignity, the meaning of religion and a thousand and one other things.
My grandparents had given me and all of their family their heart and soul and an exceptional quality and meaning to and for life.
Sadly, some of Granddad’s children really seemed to have hated him when he was alive. They seemed to want his money and what he could give them in material things, not his love. Not his wisdom. Only the money and what it could buy. And his younger girls seemed to hate and resent him because he was strict and expected the very best from them.
I never heard or experienced such behavior from my older aunts who, in contrast, seemed to love and cherish their father.
After witnessing the greed of some of his children after Grandma’s death in 1949, Granddad had attached some reasonable and protective strings to property deeds and the terms of a trust he had created for his family.
When they found out part of their inheritance was restricted, my mother and some others wailed and whined daily. Not for the loss of their father, not that he was gone forever, but in anger and even furry.
Almost every day and for months and even years, I heard the claims that Granddad was controlling his children from the grave.
Somehow these moaners and groaners overlooked the very substantial funds and securities they did receive for he had been successful in life. And I guess they never saw or appreciated the love and kindness that he and Grandma offered each of them every day of their lives.
I just couldn’t and still can’t comprehend such selfish cold blooded people. And they were my own family.
My grandfather and grandmother were and still are a special part of me and always will be. Without their kindness, love and understanding to and for me as a child and young man, I could not have made it though the many serious difficulties I would experience in the years to come.
If a man was ever blessed by his grandparents and the heritage and quiet wisdom they so willingly gave, it was me.
Footnote: A few months after Granddad’s death Uncle Bob took a 2nd job to earn the money to send his youngest son to Carnegie Tech (now Carnegie Mellon University). Then one day Bob met a woman he fell in love with and they married soon after. They had 3 children and were very happy. Unlike his brothers who died very young (early 50’s) Uncle Bob lived into his mid 60’s which was pretty good in those days.
Some years later I went on to marry the young woman Granddad had cautioned me against. A woman I saw as Dulcinea. But that’s another story, a haunting tale of beauty, sex, love, sadism, deceit, betrayal and a lot more.
The story of a woman who quite literally led multiple lives. One life as a mother, wife and teacher, the other as a very troubled woman on a quest for instant wealth… well you’ll just have to read the story. That amazing story will be published as a book in a carefully documented format.
My grandfather with his experience and wisdom had recognized something that I could not see.
And like most kids, I simply did not listen.
Photo: Granddad and Grandma's tombstones.
Grandad still owned this land which he had purchased from A.C. Huidekoper in about 1912 as part of an 40 acre chunk of the old Huidekoper horse farm on the west side of the lake. 
