Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb

by Herschel Cobb

  I listened to the timbre of his voice. He didn’t seem to be upset. I was excited but didn’t dare show it. “In your plane?”

  “Yes, right now. Want to come?”

  I wanted to jump up and run into his arms. But I stayed where I was and said, “Are you sure?” I was trying to figure out if he was trapping me in some game. Yet he merely waved for me to come along. I got up immediately and ran over to the car with him. We drove to the Twin Falls airport, where he kept his single-engine Piper Cub, with the cockpit set over the wings.

  I sat in one of the cockpit seats facing front, something I’d never done before. Before we started I looked all around. He was busy outside the plane, moving blocks from around the wheels and finding some guys to help pull the plane onto the runway. I could see out the front and down the sides and a little overhead. I couldn’t see down to the ground because the wings were in the way. I was fascinated by the hundreds of buttons and knobs in front of me. Dad said I was absolutely not to touch anything, or else. Best of all, there was a steering wheel right in front of me, just for my seat. It was really only half of a steering wheel because the bottom was missing, but I took it in my hands and held it just like I was flying the airplane. I was so excited, I was grinning like mad. My dad’s seat also had a steering wheel, exactly like the one in front of me. The plane had dual controls. He was the main pilot and I was his helper.

  The plane rocked back and forth on the pavement while Dad and some men pulled it onto the runway. When it came to a rest, the runway stretched off to my right. Dad climbed into the cockpit and buckled a belt across his seat and chest. He reached across and made sure my seat belt was tight. I was too small for the chest belt, so it was behind my back. My feet dangled above the floor of the cockpit. A man in front pulled down hard on the propeller and backed away from the plane while my dad turned a key and the engine roared. The noise was deafening and the wind rushed by my cockpit window like we were already flying. I immediately grasped the wheel. Dad yelled, “Hands off, don’t touch.” So I reached down and held onto the edges of my seat. The plane sat still, vibrating, for a while. Dad moved a lot of buttons, revved the engine a few times, and made sure all the flaps could move. Then he pushed on some levers, the engine revved up, and we rolled slowly forward. The plane turned onto the runway and stopped again. Dad looked at his knobs and dials, checked the flaps, and eased one lever forward. The engine roared louder, but we didn’t move. He pushed another lever, and we jerked forward. We rolled down the runway faster and faster, bouncing and racing as the runway sped by. Then, almost like magic, everything was smooth and soft. The engine noise seemed farther away. I could only see sky ahead of me as we left the runway and ground below. I was flying with my Dad. It felt so great.

  I couldn’t see out of the plane very well, so Dad loosened my seat belt. He opened the side windows to feel the rush of air and gauge how fast we were going. He worked us higher and higher, controlling everything by pushing and pulling the steering wheel in front of him in all directions. If he pulled it, we went higher. If he pushed a little to the right, we banked the other way. The wheel in front of me reacted exactly the same way as his. If he pushed forward, mine went forward, or to the side, or downward. He said that this was in case something happened, the co-pilot could take over. I strained to be able to look out and see the ground. The airport was far in the distance behind us, and the buildings below looked like little toys.

  Our side windows were still open, and the wind rushing through the cockpit was cold. We were flying level when suddenly he let go of his wheel and said to me, “Take over, co-pilot.” At first I didn’t know what he meant. The nose of the plane dipped down, and we pointed down and I saw the ground far in front of us. I didn’t know what to do. He repeated, “Take over, co-pilot.” I grabbed hold of the wheel and pulled it toward me. The plane tilted upward. Dad had his hands clasped behind his head, calling to me, “What are you going to do now?” I couldn’t see anything out of the windshield but sky and I didn’t know where I was. I lifted myself up higher, but that caused me to push the wheel forward and the plane tilted down. I saw mountains, and we were rushing toward them. I yelled at Dad. I was flustered, trying to do something I had no idea about. When I pulled on the wheel, I saw nothing but sky, and when I pushed, I saw mountains and was scared of crashing into them. I didn’t want to crash and die.

  I pulled and pushed, and pulled and pushed, trying to stay even. The out-of-control rocking seemed to last forever. All the while I was yelling and pleading with Dad to help me. Finally, the nose headed steeply downward, and I wasn’t strong enough to pull the wheel back. We kept plummeting faster, and I tried to pull harder, but the wheel wouldn’t move. It was like it had taken over control. Wind swooshing by the window: we were being pulled into a bottomless spinning hole.

  Daddy finally took hold of his wheel and pulled with both arms until we were level. I sank into my seat, with no strength left in my arms, and stared up at the sky, afraid to move. He yelled above the engine noise, “What’s the matter, Hersch, get scared?”

  I just looked at him. He had been toying with me, a feeling I knew so well. He had a grip on his wheel, and we were flying like normal again. I slouched in my seat and gazed straight ahead at my wheel quietly bobbing forward and back. I was in a trance, trying not to be there, but knowing I was a long, long way from the airport. I was hoping more than anything else that we’d turn around and go home.

  I felt the plane bank to the right and thought, “Oh good, we’re heading back. Thank goodness, it’s over.” Instead the plane banked more steeply and I looked at Daddy. He glanced at me and yelled, “You’re a big boy, Hersch. You like excitement, don’t you?”

  My hope was shattered. The plane struggled through a steeper and steeper turn. I knew something awful was going to happen, but I was helpless to prepare. Daddy yelled, “Hang on!” He was pulling hard toward himself and to the left. The plane had turned nearly on its side, and I thought for sure he was done with the turn. But he kept going, holding and pulling his wheel. My seat belt was still loose as I slid against the side of the cockpit, even though I was hanging onto my seat with all my might. The engine was making an awful, straining noise and things inside the cockpit were falling against the side.

  In the next instant, we were upside down! I was trying to hang onto my seat, and fell, caught by my seat belt. It was cutting across my legs. Yet that didn’t register amid my blind panic. I fought to wedge my legs to hold on. I was completely upside down, absolutely terrified, screaming as loud as I could, “Stop, stop, stop!” My window was open and the air rushing through the cockpit was pulling me toward it. I thought for sure I was going to be sucked out of the window and fall through the sky to my death. I hung upside down, frantically holding on. I could see the ground below as it whizzed by in large patches of brown and green. Watching made me dizzy. All I could think was: He is going to let me drop out of the plane and die.

  My body was strained and rigid, so I was shocked when I bumped against something. At first I thought I was sucked out of the window, but it was my father’s right arm and side. He bumped me back. The plane was quickly rolling back on its side and then into a left bank, and then back to level. When my seat belt strap eased up, I realized it had held me in place. I was so petrified, I thought it had come off and I was loose and going to fall out of the plane. I gasped and curled my body and grabbed the strap with my forearms because my hands wouldn’t close. I collapsed in my seat in relief. My head bounced against the hard side, just next to the window. The air rushing by grabbed my hair, but my arms felt too weak to reach up and close the window.

  “Is that enough excitement for you, big boy?” My father was laughing, thrilled at the aerial maneuver. He asked the same thing over and over, but I didn’t reply. I stared dully at the floor of the cockpit. I was trying to gather myself. I didn’t know what else was to come. The longer we bounced along, and I just sat still, the better. Maybe he had gotten enough excitement for o
ne ride.

  I could tell by the engine noise that we were slowing down. I hoped fervently we were going to land. I didn’t look outside because I was afraid we were still up in the sky and he was turning off the engine for some other thrill. When the nose pointed slightly downward, I peeked out of the windshield. I saw mountaintops higher than we were. I felt so happy, so happy.

  It was hard climbing out of the airplane. I crawled out of the cockpit and sat on the wing until my father came over and lowered me to the ground. I ran over to a fence and watched the plane being pulled back into the hangar. When my father came out, I ran over to our car and climbed in. He didn’t say anything on the drive home, and I sat silently with my hands folded on my lap. It felt good to hold myself, even in such a small way.

  The second shock of that summer’s day came right after we got home. I ran into the house, afraid of what my father would do next. I found Mom sitting at the table playing cards with three other women. She had a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I went up to her, but she instantly shooed me away. “Go on out and play, Hersch. We’re busy here.” She didn’t realize I wanted her protection. When I didn’t move, she insisted, “Now, go on out. Close the door too.”

  I had no choice but to obey. The front door was still open, and I walked slowly through it and down the front steps. I was all alone.

  To keep from crying, I shut down inside. I didn’t want to feel anything. I wandered aimlessly over the lawn until I spied my special bush at the far edge. I halted when I reached it, my arms at my side. There was no place for me to go, so I just stood there. After a long while, somebody yelled at me. I heard them but pretended to be busy looking at a bug on a leaf. I just wanted no one to bother me.

  I noticed my father’s car was gone, and I slowly returned to our house. When I reached the front door, I could hear the ladies talking and I went in. One of them said, “Hersch, your mother’s in the kitchen, with Betty.”

  I approached the kitchen carefully and stood quietly outside the door. I recognized Betty McRoberts’ voice because of her rasp. She and her husband knew about all the turmoil and stress in our household. She had two daughters and she liked children—Susan, me, and Kit, my brother who was four years younger than me, included.

  I heard her say, “Marge, I tell you, and I’m your friend, he’s going to drive them into the nut house. They can’t move without him throwing a tantrum and torturing them. Did you see the look on little Hersch’s face when he came home? He was scared to death.”

  There was silence. Then my mom’s voice: “Betty, I just don’t care anymore. I just want out. I want out of this flea-trap town. I want to go back to Los Angeles.” Her delivery of the words was sloppy, and I knew that meant she’d been drinking. But what she had said made me freeze inside. My stomach felt sick, because I knew it was true. She didn’t care.

  Then Betty said, “Marge, they need you. You’re their mother.”

  My mother paused again for a few seconds. Then I heard her say, “They don’t care. Just the other day Kit called Ayako ‘Mommy.’ Did you know that?” She sounded disgusted. “I never wanted them in the first place. He can have them. I just want out of here.”

  I lurched backward, reeling in shock. I felt empty and numb. Just then Betty and my mom came through the door. My mom walked past me without saying a word.

  Betty looked down at me and gasped. “How long have you been standing here?” She must have read the expression on my face because she didn’t wait for me to answer. She put her hand gently on my back and walked me toward the front door. I thought she was going to push me outside, but she came out onto the front porch with me.

  “Hersch,” she leaned down to me and spoke in a low, calm voice, “your mom and dad aren’t getting along right now. They may say things, crazy things, but they don’t want to hurt you. Tell your sister to call me if you three need help.”

  Her red lips moved and I heard words come from her mouth, but my mind was filled with what I’d heard my mother say. Betty squeezed my shoulders and returned inside to her card game. My eyes didn’t focus too well, but I managed to walk down the steps without falling, continued across the lawn, and stopped next to a huge tree on the parking strip. I put my hand on the tree to steady the shaking that had taken over my entire body. I stood there rigidly, staring at nothing.

  My sense of utter hopelessness was broken when my sister skipped up to me and asked what I was doing. I told her what happened and what Betty had said. She crept behind the tree, near the street curb, and looked up and down our street. She said, “There’s nowhere for us to go.”

  The rest of the summer, we became even more careful to keep out of the way of both of them. They drank more than ever, and their arguing became violent. He hit her and she threw things at him. We learned to duck out of the way, crawl out of the dining room, and hide.

  Now, as I lay in my bed after my grandfather had come to visit, I was still holding the envelope with the note he’d written to me. I felt once again the determination he’d shown when he saved me from certain harm at the hands of my father. I had been plunged into another bottomless pit of terror when an old man grabbed my father’s hand and made him stop. My roly-poly, smiling grandfather had shown me the support that I craved.

  Yes, he’d shown his unbending resolve out on that island in the Snake River. No man, no matter how large, would stop him from what he decided to do. As I held that note in my hand, I looked inside myself for something similar. If I could only become determined like my grandfather, I could survive whatever came next.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Passing of Two Sons

  By that fall my parents had dropped any pretense of civility. They traded hate-laced jabs between them, fueling the blistering tension with alcohol. Susan and I avoided them, spending as much time as possible in our rooms. I was in first grade at Washington Street School, which became a safe refuge during the day.

  The rift between my parents hardened. The rancor and insults spewed back and forth unabated, always edging toward violence. Just after Christmas, my mother moved to Santa Monica, California. I remembered so clearly the conversation I overheard when she told her friend, “I never wanted them in the first place. I just want out of here.” Her declaration haunted me for many years afterward. Her departure struck an exclamation point on my memory like a pick ax striking granite.

  After my mother’s departure, winter snows filled Twin Falls, and my father spent considerable time traveling to Oregon and California. Ayako took care of us while he was gone, and when at home he occupied himself with his business and hunting. He largely ignored Susan, and I received a few spankings for no reason I understood, and remember them because they seemed halfhearted. His mood was short and pouty, but not aggressively violent. He did not make any mention of my mother returning, and Susan told me she was not going to leave Los Angeles.

  During my Easter vacation, my mother insisted that I join her. She favored me over my sister and brother and likely sensed that she needed one of us with her so my father would continue to send her money. My father acquiesced, and I finished first grade in Santa Monica. When I joined her, I quickly understood that she did not want to live with my father, but wanted his money.

  My father’s travels had a purpose. He negotiated the purchase, with the help of my grandfather, of the Coca-Cola Bottling Companies in Bend, Oregon, and Santa Maria, California, and at the beginning of summer, my father moved to Santa Maria, California, a small town on the central coast, taking my sister and brother with him, along with Ayako. He bought a large Spanish-style home at 223 Morrison Street.

  My mother had rented a small apartment, and while I was in school, she watched TV. Initially, I felt a reprieve because I’d escaped my father’s violent outbursts. I soon realized, though, that I faced an equally pernicious danger. I could be discarded upon her whim.

  My mother liked to go out at night and she frequently took me with her. The first time occurred during the
early evening, and I thought it was fun to sit in a dimly lit lounge, on a soft leather seat in a booth, and watch my mom talk to men who sat down with us. Soon, she and a man got up, left the booth, and walked away. I waited, expecting them to return, but after a long time passed, the room had emptied out. I scooted out of the booth and made my way to the man behind the bar.

  Before I even asked, he said to me, “Here, that woman left this for you, and she wrote an address on this napkin.” He pushed a ten-dollar bill toward me, along with a napkin that had our address written on it. “There’s a taxi stand right out that door, over there. She said for you to go home.” He turned away, wiping the rim of a glass with his bar towel.

  When I opened the side door, I was briefly blinded by the setting sun, but I saw an orange-yellow car with the word “Taxi” on the side. I showed the napkin to the driver and asked if he’d take me to that address for ten dollars. The first part of his answer scared me stiff.

  He examined the napkin, turned it sideways, and said, “You’re a long way from home, kid.” Then he paused and said, “But I think this is enough; climb in the back.” He smiled creepily as he pulled the bill from between my fingers.

  I realized how expendable I was. How could she just leave me in a strange place far from home? From then on I carried a paper with my address on it whenever I went anywhere with my mom.

  First grade ended, and by early summer my dad stopped sending money, so my mom was forced to move to Santa Maria, joining my father, sister, and brother in the house on Morrison Street. Neither of them had any thoughts of reconciliation. The bitterness my mother and father felt toward each other reignited the instant we arrived, and it boiled over at the slightest contact between them.

  My father became openly violent toward her. Once, they were picked up in front of our house by my Aunt Shirley and her date to attend a jazz concert. My father slapped my mother across the face. Blood poured from her mouth, and she rushed inside for help. Shirley followed and applied a towel as I watched in the front hallway. She was aghast at the violence she had witnessed from her favorite brother, shooed me to my bedroom, and immediately drove away with her date. My dad used the side door, stormed up to his bedroom, and locked the door behind him.