The love between two people lingers as long as someone remembers their love. My grandparents loved each other. They grew old together. I never heard them say a mean word to or about each other. That's not to say they never argued. I'm sure they did. They just never did it in front of others.
The story of their meeting was passed down to me by hearing my grandpa tell it many times. My grandpa, Joe, was a bus driver during the war (WW II for youngins). He wasn't drafted because bus drivers were needed with gas rationing and the like. He drove for Greyhound. It had another name then. He drove from Portland to Seattle. At the time, he lived in Olympia.
He told me stories about driving at night during a blackout with no headlights. I hope there were stars. He drove in pea soup fog. He drove on snow and ice. At times, the bus lost its purchase on the road and slid down the road to a stop. I'm glad I wasn't driving. It would be interesting to know how many miles he drove.
There were nights when he drove by feel and instinct rather than sight which gives me a bit of a chill. There was no I-5. He drove Highway 99. There weren't a lot of lights. There's a railroad bridge over the highway near Tenino. He would drive along at night keeping pace with the train. Riders could see the train line crossed the road ahead but didn't know there was a dip where the road went under the tracks.
Riders would be looking at him, then the train, as he sped along as if to cross the tracks before the train got there. Looking from one to another the tension on the bus increased exponentially. My grandpa, the mad bus driver, sped up and at the last minute the bus dipped under the tracks. A huge collective sigh came from the riders. He enjoyed the sport of it.
He drove through the Kent valley when it was all farms. A lot of young Japanese women whose families owned farms rode the bus into downtown Seattle to work. He said the hardest day of his life was when he was told not to let the Japanese women get on the bus. I assume, but I don't know, that he would have lost his job had he let them on the bus. He "had" to tell them they couldn’t get on the bus. He liked these women. He liked his passengers. I often wonder what I would have done in his place. Would he have been drafted if he lost his job? Internment was an ugly thing our nation did. It plagued him for years after. I wonder what his choices really were.
Other than that piece of discrimination, he loved being a bus driver. Finally, he got the Olympia to Seattle and back schedule. When he got that run, the driver before him gave him specific instructions. He said, "When you get on the bus, put your tool box on the front seat for the red head."
Grandpa asked, "Who's the red head?"
"You'll know,” was the guy’s response. Grandpa did as he was told and watched for who this mysterious red head person might be. Along about Des Moines, there was a stunning woman with flaming red hair that got on the bus. There was no doubt in his mind that she was "the red head," and he moved his tool box for her. Her name was Lucille.
She rode every day from Des Moines to Seattle and back for a job as a secretary for a small insurance company. Over the days, weeks, and months, they talked. Finally, he was able to take her out to dinner. I don't know how long after that he proposed. They got married in March of 1946. He moved from Olympia into her house in Des Moines where she had lived with a first husband.
Her first husband, JW drank to excess and was mean to my granny. One night while drinking and smoking he fell asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette. Granny was in the hospital getting her appendix out. His bed caught fire, and he died of smoke inhalation. Granny wasn't tolerant of drinking after that. She made Joe promise to not drink with the exception of one beer on Sunday afternoon. He agreed.
Granny had grown up an orphan outside of San Antonio, Texas. Her mother and father died when she was quite young. She had a brother who we always called the Pickle Man, because he was a salesman for a pickle company. I don't remember his name. She had grandparents who took in her brother, because he could work on the farm. She was relegated to a Masonic orphanage.
She learned to play several instruments. She loved music. She once told me she got in trouble many times for whistling in the morning. Whistling was prohibited. I don’t know why. She said sometimes she couldn't go to her grandparents house to visit because of it. At a young age, that was too unfair for me to imagine. She didn't want to tell me much about the orphanage. She was able to go to her grandparents farm in the summers with her brother.
Joe and Lucille were a fetching couple. He with curly, wiry hair that stood up at an angle because it was so coarse. He said his hair was so stiff that the wind hurt his head. She with the beautiful wavy red hair. They often visited a couple who had a little boy. When he saw granny and grandpa driving up to their house, he yelled, "Joceile's coming! Joceile's coming!” rather than Joe and Lucille.
Granny was unable to conceive and longed to have a child. This is where I came in. My mother was my grandpa's daughter by his first marriage. She came to live with them when she was eleven as her mother couldn't care for her. When my mother got pregnant, my granny told my dad, "LeRoy, if you let the first one be a girl and name her Joceile, I'll let the next one be a boy and you can name him whatever you want."
Thus, I was born and named Joceile. Nearly, three years later, my brother, Zachary, was born. My granny doted on me which I happily accepted. My grandparents bought a beach house on Vashon Island the year before I was born. My granny took me to the beach house the first time for a weekend when I was three months old. It was the beginning of one of the best things about my childhood--going to the beach with my grandparents.
When I was fourteen and very troubled, my grandparents took me in. They saved my life. When my brother was 16 and I had left home, they took him in too. As an orphan, my granny would never turn a kid in need away.
Lucille was a member of Eastern Star of the Masonic Lodge. Joe became a Mason because of her. They had 48 years together.
My grandpa was a Depression era child. He could fix or build almost anything. Unfortunately, his method of fixing involved using recycled parts over and over. If something needed spark plugs, why buy new? He had some small gizmo that cleaned the plugs.
At Vashon, he fixed things just enough to keep them going but not enough to keep from having to fiddle with them. He had rescued an electric lawn mower older than god. I assume it was from the thirties. It was about twelve inches wide with a small blade held on by a nut. He would mow the small yard at the beach house. But, at least once, the little blade would spin out into the grass because the nut came off. He would patiently bend down and retrieve the nut, put the blade on, tighten it, and resume mowing.
It never occurred to him to come up with a different set up. I now know a variety of methods to secure a nut. Apparently, he just liked being able to fix it over and over again. The rest of us not so much. Fortunately, the blade spun at such a slow rate that it wasn't actually dangerous. He would not put us in danger. He would just inconvenience the hell out of us.
Grandpa died a few days after his 80th birthday in 1994. He was in the basement at the Masonic Lodge pouring a concrete floor by himself. He had a massive heart attack, collapsed, and literally died with a shovel in his hand.
My granny lived for another four years. I lived in Olympia. I visited her every week, took her grocery shopping, and either took her to dinner or brought dinner to her. It was a special time for me to have her to myself. It probably wasn't that great for her. I called her every day just after five when the long distance rates went down. She always answered the phone, “Hi, Love.” She was a woman of few words. My goal was to try to keep her talking on the phone as long as possible. I rarely got her to stay on the phone for more than five minutes.
In 1998, my granny was in the hospital newly diagnosed with lung cancer. It was beyond treatment. She was to go to hospice the next day but really didn't want to go there. At two in the morning, she wasn't sleeping. The nurse said, "You really need your sleep for your big move tomorrow."
My granny replied, "Oh honey, I'm not going anywhere." Ten minutes later, she passed away. I got the call that I knew was coming for years but dreaded.
My grandparents showed me love in many ways. I think their love for each other and for me will live on as long as I remember and feel it in my heart. Hopefully, the love they gave me will pass on to those I love. Love doesn’t have an expiration date like people do. Remember, save a seat for the red head.
Joceile
6.17.17
Picture from left: Lucille & Homer (my godparents), Joe, Joceile (12), Zachary (9), Lucille at Vashon Island beach house in 1970
