Get caught up: Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5.
Early in life, while nearly smothered by loss, sorrow and great worry, my dad’s maternal grandfather, Charlie Myers, learned to lean on humor to push through some mighty tough times.
One story I recall him telling happened as a young man attending Brimstone Corners Church with his buddies. The boys all sat in the back of the church eating chestnuts while keeping an eye on the eligible young ladies.
“It was a real fire and brimstone revival there, every time we went,” Charlie described. One night, his good friend Truman Cross found himself drawn into the holy rollin’ and fell to his knees. He began shouting, “Oh, Lord, come down through the roof and I’ll pay for the shingles!” Every single time Charlie told this story he would chuckle and repeat the line again as he recalled the moment.
Charlie was a worker and never lacked outside jobs to help his mother make ends meet. In the spring of 1905, he started working for Emerson and Arbie Leidigh on their Jeromesville area farm.
The small house meant their son Ralph and Charlie had to share a bed. Charlie figured out quickly to head for bed late and force Ralph to scooch over to the other side of the bed so Charlie could settle into the warm spot. “He razzed me for years about that, even when we were old!” Charlie said with a laugh.
Charlie went courting, swinging back by the Fry home where his brother Frank had worked for room and board. The eight daughters helped their German immigrant mother bake tasty dishes and desserts. In the summer of 1906, Charlie had settled on courting Anna. In September of that year, the two married.
A son and two daughters were born to Charlie and Mrs. Myers, as everyone referred to his stern wife. Dad recalled his grouchy grandmother berating Charlie while he silently ate. “Thank you for the great meal!” he would kindly say, and head back out to work.
Thank heavens for a large farm! Charlie worked a 200-acre place “on the shares” and enjoyed growing corn, wheat, oats and hay. He farmed with a team of horses long after most had switched to tractors. He kept cows, steers and raised hundreds of lambs each year.
This farm is now Byers Woods, a beautiful country park with walking trails and ponds for fishing, and a playground area for children.
As Charlie’s mother, 67, faced declining health, he brought her to live with him. He sent a wire to his brothers, urging them to come in January 1928. They arrived just in time to say their goodbyes.
Neighbors helped with the funeral. The women cooked endlessly as the men built a casket and dug the grave. Many years later, I was able to talk with their neighbor, Edna Stoler McNaull, one of those ladies.
“Charlie was so beloved by all,” McNaull told me. “Oh, he was a good one!” she said with a smile. “His mother deserved great respect.”
Charlie would live to 84 years, having buried his wife 10 years earlier. He missed his many friends who died before him. On his melancholy days, my mother would take Charlie for long car rides, just me in the backseat. If we made a stop, Grandpa Charlie often bought me something like a tiny bag of penny candy and, one special day, a black Cocker spaniel coin bank which I treasured.
He continued to help on our dairy farm, though slowing down each year. I once overheard my parents discussing some minor infraction Dad had been embarrassed by in Charlie’s behavior. I rushed in to take up for him, arguing in full support of my beloved great-Grandpa. Dad quietly gave me a hug instead of a scolding.
Grandpa Charlie died in the hospital after cataract surgery. Ordered to lie flat, heavy bags placed over his eyes, he was to summon help if needing to get up. He did not follow those directions, a proud man who hated to bother anyone. My heart was shattered when I heard my Mom take the call that August day.
We were friends to the end.
