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

by Herschel Cobb

  She slammed the door shut, turned, and stormed back through the living room. Kit and I did not move or make a sound. We were mostly hidden by the banister post upstairs, lying flat on the carpet, peeking just over the edge of the landing. As soon as she disappeared, I motioned to Kit to follow me, and we crawled to our bedroom, locked the door, and huddled on the floor behind the bed.

  Summer was close at hand, but there was no way for Susan or I to call our grandmother and beg her to take us for three months, and we feared our isolation would continue, exposed to the drunken outbursts of our mother. To our good fortune, one afternoon Ayako confided to Susan that our grandmother wanted us with her for the summer and “plans were in place.” She was extraordinarily vague about what “plans,” but the mystery only increased my hope.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mist and Clarity at Lake Tahoe

  The bow of Granddaddy’s Chris-Craft inboard rocked gently from side to side. He had turned off the engine, and we were drifting toward the shore. I gingerly crawled out to the tip of the bow to draw as close as I could to the deer lapping water at the edge of the lake. It was dawn of the first morning of our first trip with Granddaddy to his cabin at Cave Rock, Lake Tahoe, Nevada. He had awoken Susan and me in the dark, hustled us into his boat, wrapped us up in blankets, and cruised north toward Skunk Harbor to look for animals at the lakeshore.

  He had stood by his word and brought us to Lake Tahoe. That morning, I could not gauge the resolve of his decision, and was not willing to openly trust that it was not a trick. My uncertainty was like the mist on the lake surface, a veil hiding our boat, only my mist hid my sense of safety and confidence. As our trip unfolded, it became the first of a string of the most meaningful summer vacations in my life.

  I was transfixed by the doe and her two fawns, standing with their front hoofs slightly in the lake, lapping and looking, lapping and looking. I had never seen anything like this before. It was nearly dark at lake level, but above me, the cobalt-blue sky had a pinkish hue that marked the beginning of dawn. I knew the mountains surrounding Lake Tahoe would keep the lake dark for a few more minutes and make it less likely the deer would spot me. The mist on the water partially hid the Chris-Craft as well.

  “Hersch, get back here. Get back here now.” Granddaddy was whispering firmly, worried I would fall in. I heard him but ignored the warning.

  The small waves on the Nevada side of the lake were slowly pushing the Chris-Craft toward the shore while I slid as quietly as I could along the bow, reaching with my hand and pulling the rest of my body forward. I knew Granddaddy would not come after me because Susan was with him on the front seat and he wouldn’t leave her alone. Besides, he was wearing light beige gabardine slacks and street shoes, neither of which he would risk soiling unless I fell into the cold water.

  To improve my view of the doe and her fawns, I gripped each side of the bow and raised myself a little higher. The doe lifted her head and looked straight at me; her brown eyes were huge, moist, and soft. At that exact moment the Chris-Craft rocked with a stiff jerk, my left hand slipped off the edge, and I landed flat on my chest on the bow tie. Ouch! The doe turned her head to her fawns, and off they all bounded, gone in an instant.

  I looked back at Susan, who was standing up to wave her hand apologetically. Yet as she gained her feet, she rocked the boat, and I lost my balance. Granddaddy laughed as I bobbled my head back and forth toward them and the shore, watching the deer flee. I wanted to yell at Susan, but I didn’t want to scare the deer, even though they were spooked and there was no chance of them returning.

  “Now, come on back here, Hersch.” His voice had relaxed.

  “I wanted to see too,” Susan added.

  “No, you didn’t. You wanted me to fall in,” I said crossly.

  “Hersch, keep quiet,” he commanded. “Look, there are probably some more up by the landing. Scoot on back here, and we’ll head up there while it’s still a little dark.” Granddaddy’s voice was low and firm. “Come on now, so I can start the engine.”

  I crawled back to the windshield of the craft, careful not to scratch the finish on the mahogany foredeck. Granddaddy took a large step toward the middle of the boat, reached over the slanted glass, picked me up, and set me in the middle of the front seat. His hands felt huge and strong, and I could hear a little grunt while he lifted me. The smile on his lips thinned with the effort. He turned on the engine, revved it, and pointed the craft toward the middle of Lake Tahoe.

  The inboard retreated quickly from the shore and small cove. The throttle was a chrome lever fixed at the center of the steering wheel, and pulling it downward made the engine accelerate. When we were clear of the cove and I could see the faint blue shoreline in both directions, Granddaddy steadily pulled the throttle farther downward. Through my seat I could feel the engine respond with a strong, rumbling roar, a sound I grew to love. The stern sank low in the water as we sped up. The bow rose so high I couldn’t see where we were going, and the waves reached as high as the sides of the boat. He loved the power and speed of his Chris-Craft. I tried to make a remark to Susan, but it was lost in the roar of the engine, the wind rushing by our faces, and the splash of the waves along the sides.

  Granddaddy smiled at both of us and yelled, “Faster?”

  Practically at the same time, we yelled, “Yes!”

  His right arm reached around me, holding me firmly, and his hand held onto Susan.

  “Hang on.” His voice was jubilant. With his left hand he pushed the throttle lever down, and off we raced. The bow flattened out, and I read the speedometer saying twenty-five miles an hour. I was grinning widely, filled with feelings of excitement and danger.

  A two-week stay at his hunting cabin felt like a reprieve after another school year in Los Angeles. The two years since my father died of a heart attack had molded me into a lonely child who distrusted everybody. With my father, what began as fun often turned to pain and terror. I was constantly on guard. At home, in L.A., my mother’s excesses with liquor and men continued unabated. As a result, while I was enjoying myself out on that boat, a part of me was sure that the adventure would turn out badly.

  An unbidden memory returned, of another time when I had raced on the water, back when we lived in Twin Falls, Idaho. My father had kept several boats on the Snake River, one of which was an outboard runabout. The Snake River has small streams feeding into it, and over time small inlets developed where the water rushes down the hillside. The inlet water is so clear that fish and colored rocks seemed to shimmer and almost jump up and down. My father often invited me to go with him to “check out the new fish,” yet the offer sometimes was not as innocent as it seemed. One time, after viewing the fish, he dipped his cup and drank the clear water and then told me to dip my cup. I was stretching my arm over the rail to reach the water when he “bumped” me and I fell overboard, into the river. The water was ice cold, but I was lucky that the inlet was shallow. Nevertheless, when I stood up, I was soaked. Daddy took my outstretched arms, but dropped me twice back into the water. He thought this was hilarious, telling me that this would make me tough, but I was frozen through and through. As we headed back, he piled on the fun by revving up the motor and zigzagging back and forth at top speed, so I was thrown from side to side, my hands too cold to grab the side rails.

  When we got near the sandy beach where people gathered, he slowed down and told me to sit way forward, in the tip of the bow. As we passed the beach, he let go of the steering grip on the motor and stepped to the center of the boat, shifting all his weight forward, causing it to level out. Then suddenly he tromped on the rear transom, causing the bow to spring up, flipping me into the air. I flew backward, arms flailing, and yelling for help. Daddy grabbed me out of the air and came down with me in his arms. I was scared out of my wits. He was laughing at his clever trick.

  Two women on the beach ran into the water, yelling at my father as he ran the outboard up onto the beach. The women reached into the boat for me. My f
ather, though, climbed out of the boat and told them to leave me alone. “I was just having some fun with my son.”

  The picture in my mind was suddenly interrupted. “Hersch, is this too fast? You okay? Want to slow down a little?” Granddaddy’s voice pulled me back to Lake Tahoe. He sounded genuinely concerned. His arm rested on my shoulders and his hand held Susan, keeping us safely in place.

  “Yeah, Granddaddy, I’m okay,” I answered.

  “Your eyes look a little misty. Still sleepy?” he asked. The Chris-Craft was slowing down, gliding through the smooth water, not making much noise.

  “No, Granddaddy. I was just thinking.” My voice was light, covering up the nervousness I’d felt. “Can we go over to Glenbrook, please?” I discovered that my eyes were filled with tears and my vision was blurry. I wiped my face with my sleeve and put my arms forward, bracing myself against the dashboard.

  Granddaddy’s arm was as strong as my father’s, I realized. I didn’t know what I expected. My entire body was shaking, but he held me firmly in the crick of his elbow. The engine revved a bit, and he turned up the lake toward Glenbrook, cruising at a steady speed. I wondered if Granddaddy knew what I was remembering. In between being terrified, I felt guilt and loss at my father’s death. I didn’t want to believe he was dead. I remembered in Los Angeles seeing the back of a large man with red hair sitting on a bench, rushing over and touching his shoulder, only to be face to face with a complete stranger. I mistook him. I often looked for my father and sometimes saw a profile or back of a head that looked like him. It was always the wrong face and person. I wanted to find the person I dreaded most.

  Now I was sitting next to my grandfather, cruising in his boat out on a huge lake. He acted as though he cared. He treated Susan and me as if we were the most precious things in his life. My dark memories were in complete contrast to being with him and the wondrous sights unfolding around me. I wanted to see through my mist, part the fog, gain some clarity.

  I was scared to trust, fearing the empty feeling of being tricked. The rush of cold morning air suddenly chilled me, and I felt like I would never be warm again. I nuzzled into the crick of Granddaddy’s arm. He wrapped it around me and held me tight. Susan put her arm around me too, under his, and I was sure she knew exactly what I was going through. After all, she knew what used to happen out in our boat. The leg to Glenbrook did not take too long, and I warmed up along the way. The shoreline between Skunk Harbor and Glenbrook is mostly rocky, and we didn’t attempt to drift in to look for animals. We stayed out from the shoreline, the engine roared steadily, and I relished my grandfather’s arm around me, imparting a sense of comfort.

  Granddaddy received his mail in Glenbrook, Nevada, and he had often talked about the lodge and its owners during our drive from Atherton, along Highway 50, to Lake Tahoe. By the time we arrived at Cave Rock, where his cabin was, I felt I knew about all sorts of places, including Glenbrook. Our intention was to explore Glenbrook Bay, pick up his mail, and perhaps have breakfast at the lodge. As we rounded a last outcropping of huge rocks, the bay opened up, and I looked in awe at how peaceful and beautiful it was. The bay was expansive, more than a half mile across, with huge rock outcroppings on each end and a long sandy beach in the middle. Pine trees filled the spaces between the rocks, which framed the beach like a postcard. As we entered from the lake, the huge meadow behind the resort’s buildings came into full view, entirely undeveloped, interspersed with a few stretches of old, worn fences and deer grazing in the far distance.

  The buildings were rustic, painted green with white trim around the windows, blending into the grassy landscape and trees. The family who owned Glenbrook was named Bliss, and the place had been in their family for several generations. It had been built as a logging site and ferry terminal for transporting logs from the east side of Lake Tahoe to the west side, and eventually to San Francisco. The bay had the remains of several docks, with huge wooden pilings poking above the water line and old lengths of steel bars and bolts sticking out on all sides. A slight mist lingered on the water, and Granddaddy was careful to avoid any pilings hidden just below the surface as he maneuvered the Chris-Craft to the lone, long dock that remained to serve guests arriving by boat. As we came up next to the dock, a young man sprinted down from the main lodge.

  “Hello there, Mr. Cobb. See you got some help this morning.”

  “Dennis, you’re here again this year?” he greeted the young man, smiling and looking down at Susan and me. “Yes, I do. And pretty good help, if I do say so myself. This is my grandson Hersch and his sister, Susan. Got one more, too, back at the house. It was a little early for him.”

  “I’ll say. It’s barely 7:00. Been out on the lake long?” Dennis asked. At the same time he took the line from the bow of the boat and hitched it to a cleat on the dock.

  “Awhile. Been over near Skunk Harbor. The deer come down to drink there, and these two have never seen anything like that. A doe and two fawns, right, Hersch?”

  I answered promptly, “Right. But they ran before we got close enough.” I glanced at my sister.

  “Next time,” Dennis said to me. His voice sounded certain of that. I thought, “What a neat life he leads.” “You staying for breakfast, Mr. Cobb?”

  “Not this time, Dennis. Just came for the ride, and to check the mail. Can you watch the boat for me for a few minutes?”

  “Sure, it’s real quiet this morning. Late sleepers, I guess. Mr. Bliss is up. In his office.” Dennis took the stern line and wrapped it around another cleat.

  “Thanks, Dennis.” Granddaddy stepped out of the Chris-Craft onto the wooden pier. The engine was off and the key was still in the ignition. “Either of you want to come with me?”

  “I do. I’ll come,” I said.

  “Susan, how about you? Want to come along? We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Not really, Granddaddy,” she replied. “I’ll stay here and watch the boat.”

  I hustled out onto the dock. As I looked down between its huge planks at the lake, the water was so clear I could see the sand on the bottom and lots of little fish swimming around. I was peering through a wide split between the planks, following a good-sized fish, when I felt Granddaddy’s hand take mine and give me a little tug. We walked for a little while together, but I kept tugging to look over the edge of the dock, and he let go of my hand.

  “It’s mighty cold if you fall in, Hersch.”

  “I won’t, Granddaddy, don’t worry.”

  The pier was half the length of a football field, and when we reached the shore, we took a small path leading up to the main lodge, across a small road. The lodge was old but looked well cared for. Its two stories were painted dark green with white-trimmed doors and windows, fronted by an inviting porch with wooden lounge chairs. The front steps were white, the hand railings green, and it was surrounded by a large lawn that faded into the tall grass and meadow at the back and sides of the building. Behind the main lodge, set off thirty or forty yards apart, were several small cabins for guests, all in the same rustic style.

  When we reached the base of the steps, Granddaddy took hold of my shoulder and handed me a set of keys. “Here,” he said, “go and check my mailbox. It’s number twelve, see the number on the key? I want to say hello to some folks. The mailboxes are right inside.” He gave me a pat and, eager to help out, I bounded up the steps, two at a time.

  I opened the mailbox door, expecting to find lots of envelopes, but only four letters slanted along the side wall. I took them, locked the box, and set out to look around the lodge. The large dining room was immediately behind me, a really old room with the floor made of wide wooden planks, bare wood walls with lots of framed pictures, windows covered in light curtains, and well-worn chairs. The tables had white tablecloths, and one of them was occupied by a young boy sitting with an old man, probably a grandfather too. Both were grinning and chewing on pancakes and eggs and bacon. The food smelled wonderful. And it looked like things hadn’t changed in a hundr
ed years.

  Granddaddy’s mailbox was one of about fifty, located at the rear of the entry area. To the left was a reception desk, with nobody behind it, and to the right were stairs leading up to the second floor. I wanted to follow my nose and go upstairs, but I heard voices laughing behind a partially closed door on the far side of the reception desk. One of the voices was Granddaddy’s, so I walked over and peeked inside. He was swaying from side to side with laughter, moving his hands back and forth. I slipped in behind him, trying not to be noticed. But he did see me immediately, and in the middle of laughing with the other men, he put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me forward.

  “Bill, this is my grandson, Hersch Jr., almost eleven years old now. Hersch, this is Mr. William Bliss, proprietor of this fine place. Shake his hand and show him those muskles.” Granddaddy guided me around the desk in the middle of the room, and I squeezed the outstretched hand as hard as I could. I thought I was pretty strong, but the grip from the stringy old arm and hand that caught mine was like an iron vise. It didn’t hurt, but the handshake was so firm that I knew it could if he wanted to. His face was filled with deep lines, and he had a mild suntan and pleasant smile. His hair was white as the paint around the windows, cut short on the sides and trimmed flat on top.