The Red Flannel Rag

worked hard all his life by the size of his shoulders. He said very little but was definitely

the head of his household. He demanded, without saying a word, that his meals be

served at six in the morning, at twelve noon, and at four-thirty in the afternoon. He

carried a pocket watch, and when eleven o’clock rolled around, he pulled out his watch

and walked to the kitchen door.

Grandma Molly and Aunt Lena dropped whatever they were doing and started

rattling the pots and pans for the noon meal. The only exception was Sunday when he

waited until we arrived after church. If we were late because my daddy found someone

to talk about the Bible with, Grandpa would be cho mpin’ at the bit when we finally

arrived.

After I got a little older, I was curious about his eating habits. The fact that he ate

bird-egg beans for every meal was enough to peak my curiosity, but he just mixed the

rest of his food with his beans. He piled his plate full of crumbled homemade bread,

heaped beans on the bread, and then topped it off with home-canned, very sweet,

peaches.

I saw Mom watching him all the time, and she finally got enough nerve to ask him

why he mixed his food. He never slowed his eating to look up at her from his plate. His

response was to the point, “It all goes to the same place.” While he ate he said nothing.

He ate as if it was his job — big drops of sweat came out on his forehead, he ate so hard.

When the weather was warm, Grandpa rested on the front porch after eating Sunday

dinner.

After my brother John and I learned we could have more fun sitting in the car

rather than in the house, we spent some warm Sunday afternoons watching Grandpa

Austin as he sat on the front porch for hours on end. He would occasionally get up,

114