My Grandpa’s House

By Louella Turner

 

            Some time back, in our little town, a big shot from Washington stepped foot.  He said he was studying the local architecture and my grandpa’s house was on the list.  I called the man Horace Blowheart, but I imagine his birth certificate said something else. He took pictures and measured and wrote in a black journal for hours.  Every once in a while, he’d nod his head, squint his eyes, then smile in apparent wonderment while he whispered the word, synchronicity.

            Me and Grandma sat on the garden swing and watched him do his work.  “Bet that man makes more in a year struttin’ around the country, than most here in town make in a lifetime,” she humphed.

            Neighbors got curious and joined us in the yard.

            “What’s he doin’?” someone asked.

            “Don’t know,” Grandma answered.  “He works for the government, so my guess is precious little.”

            Finally my grandpa came home from the pool hall, where he spent most of his retirement years, and called the man off the ladder put up for this inspection.

            “Whatcha doin’ up there, mister?” Grandpa asked.

            We couldn’t hear much of the rest, ‘cause soon they were head-to-head, with Grandpa mostly shaking his, and the government man talking real low.  Grandma said they all do that, so they can deny whatever it was they said.  Grandma was a Democrat.

            Soon Grandpa joined us in the garden, and scratched his head.

            “Odd little fella,” he said.  “Says he’s doin’ a study on the ingenuity of small town architecture, and had heard about the house.  Says it’s a perfect example of pre-depression era building.  An archetype, he says.  Whatever the heck that is.”

            We all nodded like that explained everything, but in fact it did not.  Grandpa’s house was squat, long, and mostly built from cast off lumber over a period of years.  Fifteen kids were raised within its walls.  My mom said they were brought up in shifts.  By the time the younger ones came along, the older ones were gone.  My Uncle Dean had never met his oldest sister, Lucille.

            Finally the Washington man finished.  He closed his book, and packed up the ladder and tools.  Wiping his hands on an embroidered handkerchief, he walked across the yard to the expectant crowd.

            “Well, folks,” he said.  “I think you’ll make the book.”

            “What book you talkin’ about, mister,” Grandma chirped.

            “Congress has commissioned a study,” he said.  “They’re doing a book on the ingenuity of the American people.  How they can build things from nothing, without the proper tools, without the education required, with just a dream in their head.”

            “And,” asked Grandma, “what have we got to do with that?”

            “As far as I can tell,” he said, “your husband here, has never owned a level or a tape measure in his life.  He confirmed that himself.  Yet there your house stands.”

            Grandpa beamed for a full ten seconds before his mouth flip-flopped into a frown.  “Wait a minute there, fella,” he growled.  “Am I gonna be in the good side of this here book of yours, or in the bad side?”

            “I’m not sure what you mean,” the man said.

            “I mean, are you aimin’ to make me look like a fool?  Are you sayin’ I didn’t do a good job on that house?”

            The neighbors gathered closer.   My grandpa had quite a reputation for being a hot-head, knocking many to the ground for even the slightest hint that they were about to besmirch his good name.  Though I don’t think he’d had reason to do so in quite some time.

            The Washington man smiled.  “No, sir,” he said.  “I’m saying that’s a Cracker Jack house.  Without the aid of a level of any kind, you’ve done a miraculous job of making every wall true, every window tight, every door fit perfectly.  The floors are straight, the roof is strong, and in my opinion, it’s a true masterpiece.”

            Grandpa went back to beaming and even Grandma smiled.  The neighbors took all this in and broke into a round of applause.

            “Mr. Fletcher,” the Washington man said.  “You missed your calling.  You should have been an architect.”

 

            Later that summer a crew from the state came to town in a white van.  They placed a bronze plaque in front of the Courthouse, one in front of the library, and another in front of a mansion on Main Street.  But the plaque that got the most attention was the one they put in front of my grandpa’s house.  It said, Illinois Historical Site . . . Built in 1910 by William Fletcher . . . Style Unknown.

            The book the man talked about made its way to the library about a year later.  There was a picture of my grandpa’s house along with all the others.  Under it a caption pretty much said everything.

            The ingenuity of the American man is visible in the home of William Fletcher.  Without carpentry skills or knowledge of architecture, without plans of any sort, and with only rudimentary tools, Mr. Fletcher built a home for his fifteen children that has stood the test of time.  While other buildings over the years have fallen, this home, in the small town of Havana, Illinois stands sturdy and strong.  Truly a testament to the pioneering spirit that has made this country great.

 

            Grandpa’s house still stands.  Both my grandparents are gone now, and someone else owns it, but the plaque is still out front.  I drive by every once in a while and read the words.  My Uncle Dean finally met his sister. Once at Grandma’s funeral, and once at Grandpa’s.  The pioneering spirit is just that in this country now, a ghostly thing that is only mentioned in a caption under a photograph.  But in towns like Havana, Illinois, it can still be seen if you drive the brick streets and look.  And if you happen to be on Pearl Street, look for my grandpa’s house.

 

“My Grandpa’s House” won first place in Ozark Creative Writers’ Essay contest, and then again in Oklahoma for OWFI’s  Essay contest. It was first published in Storyteller Magazine where it won the People’s Choice Award. It was then published in Cuivre River Volume IV an anthology produced annually for Saturday Writers.