Grandpa

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

Greg's grandfather was an old-time man, really one of the last of his kind. Greg called him Grandpa, and from Greg’s very first memories, he followed him about and learn his ways.

Grandpa was a beekeeper. Greg would go out to his bee yard with him and watch as he tended his 12 hives. Neither Greg nor Grandpa ever wore a bee suit. Grandpa would just take off the hive's lid and reach in with his bare hands to remove the honey-laden frames. He'd then slice the cappings off the frame’s cells and let the golden honey drip down into pots and pans he placed below. The wax cappings he’d place in a pot on the stove, over a low flame, that would allow the wax to float to the surface and leave the best honey below.

When a swarm of bees flew by, Greg watched as Grandpa and Grandma rushed into the kitchen and then ran out of the house beating on pots and pans. Greg remembers them running along behind the cloud of swarming bees, banging on the pots and pans as loud as they could. Once the swarming colony had landed in a tree, Grandpa explained to Greg that he and Grandma were the thunder before the storm, and that they had warned the bees they’d better land before the rain began to fall. Once the bees were all gathered on a branch, Grandpa would place a box beneath them and shake the branch until the gathered bees dropped down into his box, no bee suit required.

Greg remembers the way the family would gather in the kitchen after dinner and listen to Grandpa's old-time music. He'd taught himself to play the guitar, banjo and fiddle. Greg still sings his songs. 

Then, there was the three-seater outhouse that stood in Grandpa's backyard. It was equipped with two adult-sized holes and another that was lower and smaller. Greg remembers using the child-sized hole. Even after the county ran water down the road and Grandpa had built an indoor bathroom, he still preferred to visit the outhouse. That was Grandpa. He was an old-time man.

Grandpa was also a well-respected water wisher. He would find the perfect apple tree branch and cut from the tree. It had to be shaped like a "Y" with two long prongs. He'd hold the prongs, his palms facing the sky, and would walk the land in search of running water. In time, the tip of the branch would start to slope down to the ground. When the tip pointed straight down, Grandpa knew that water was there, below his feet. He'd mark the spot with a stone.

Grandpa would then step backward, one step after the other, counting his paces, until the branch was once again parallel to the ground. There he would stop. Each backward step measured about two feet. Fifteen backward steps and Grandpa knew that running water was 30 feet below his mark. Grandpa was never wrong.

And as for Greg? He could not have been more proud than to have been Grandpa's shadow, and to follow in his every step. In so many ways, he still does today.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.