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

by Herschel Cobb

  The padlock on the wire gate was small but sufficient to stop anybody from playing around the boathouse, especially from endangering themselves by getting pounded by waves bashing the lakeside wall of the huge boathouse basket. The reason for the prodigious “U” frame, filled with boulders, stemmed from the fact that the boathouse actually had to be built twice. When Granddaddy bought his cabin in the 1930s, the dock and boathouse didn’t exist. He hired a company to construct the boathouse, and they sank large posts into the lake bed and built a U-shaped wooden dock on top. The structure depended solely on the strength of the posts sunk into the lake bed. Furthermore, the metal hut was fixed to the dock.

  The firm promised that it would withstand the Lake Tahoe winter, but it failed miserably the very first one. The boathouse was destroyed, and on his initial summer visit, he saw the boathouse was gone, with the wood, metal, and pillars scattered all over the beach and surrounding boulders along the shore. He was furious. He decided to design and guide the project himself. He settled on building a huge wire mesh cage, with pillars sunk deep into the lake bed at twice the depth that was recommended. He hired a barge to haul boulders from the shore and place them in the huge frame he had constructed. The wire mesh was wrapped around the frame twice. With that sort of reinforcement, it had prevailed all these years.

  His Chris-Craft swayed gently in the water, all four lines secured to cleats along the catwalk on the inside of the hut. The cover of the boathouse was nothing more than a curved metal roof, like a Quonset hut. Streaks of sunlight shot through the various cracks and bounced off the sandy bottom, making everything sparkle in the dark interior of the hut. He checked every knot one more time, and we retraced our steps through the gate, down the four steps, and began the walk along the beat-up pier. I was getting hungry and looked forward to Granddaddy’s promised “extra special breakfast.”

  Sunlight filtered through the tips of the tall pines surrounding the cabin and shone on us. It was still early, a little after 8:00. The waves lapping the beach were no more than a few inches high, and the sand was still cool to my touch. I could hear my stomach growling as we entered the cabin, and Granddaddy told me and Kit where to get place mats and utensils to set the table. The one table in the cabin was huge, twenty feet long and four feet wide, rough-hewn maple. It served multiple purposes: for breakfast, lunch, dinner, playing cards, dominos, board games, drawing, and just sitting and looking out at Lake Tahoe.

  Granddaddy went into the kitchen and slipped a soiled red and white apron over his head. He opened the refrigerator, put bacon on the grill, and lit the propane burners. Then he started rattling through all the drawers and cupboards, looking for pots, skillets, spatulas, and whatever else he needed. It was obvious he was not accustomed to working in the kitchen. Susan and Louise tried to help, but the kitchen was small, and after bumping around for a few minutes, Louise came out and fussed with the place settings at the table, where Kit and I sat in anticipation. The cooking bacon smelled good, and Granddaddy was pleased with whatever else he was cooking because he had a big grin on his face. He cracked some eggs and stirred them around a skillet; he opened a yellow box and whipped up the contents with milk in a pan. I was thinking, “Great, pancakes and syrup.” He kept smiling and stirring the contents of the pan around. Then he poured water into the skillet. Susan gave me a look that told me that whatever I thought was for breakfast was not what was being cooked. Kit sat next to me, coloring in a book and looking hungrier every minute.

  Granddaddy finally called, “Okay, ready! Grab a plate and get in line. I’ve got something really special for you.” Susan was already in the kitchen, so I handed her a plate and fork. Kit grabbed his plate and dashed in to line up next. When Granddaddy filled Susan’s plate, Kit’s eyes opened wide. His mouth started to quiver, and his plate shook against his fork and rattled. Granddaddy filled half of Susan’s plate with watery scrambled eggs that ran to the edge, and the other half with a ladle full of a runny pale yellow meal that looked like paste.

  He topped it off with a couple of strips of bacon and announced, “Now, here’s a breakfast that’s special in the South, hominy grits and eggs and bacon. Fixed just the way the Cobb family likes ’em. There’s butter for the grits on the table and that makes them taste even better. Couldn’t be better.”

  Granddaddy was so pleased he beamed, but he hadn’t noticed the expression on Kit’s face. It was caught between tears, panic, and the realization that what he saw was his breakfast. When Granddaddy went to fill Kit’s plate, it dropped to his side, and he said, “Granddaddy, I’m sorry.” Then both his lips quivered. “I guess I’m not really a Cobb, because that looks awful and I think I hate hominy grits.”

  Kit stood forlornly, freckle-faced, plump, red-haired, his tummy bared between his T-shirt and shorts, waiting for something terrible to happen to him. Granddaddy stopped short, with his skillet of runny eggs extended and a serving spoon in his other hand, clearly baffled. Susan quickly put her plate on the table and returned to Granddaddy’s side. Taking a hold of his wrist, she gently guided the skillet back to the stove. She pulled on his apron and he bent down so she could say something into his ear. She touched his cheek while she whispered to him. His expression changed, and he looked over at Kit. He bent over again and said something back to Susan.

  He straightened to his full height and said, “Why, Kit, that’s all right. That’s just fine. I’m extra hungry this morning, anyway. Do you mind if I have yours?” Kit didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Granddaddy to be so nice about his refusal to eat what he was served. Granddaddy continued, “Susan says you like pancakes and syrup. Is that right?”

  Kit blurted out, “That’s right, Granddaddy! I really like syrup, and pancakes too.”

  “Well, she says she can cook ’em up just the way you like them. Can you wait a few minutes?”

  Kit’s face beamed with happiness. “Yes, sir.” Then he handed Granddaddy his plate and fork, as though his sentence of having to eat hominy grits and watered eggs was lifted, and scooted back to the table. Granddaddy stayed in the kitchen with Susan, showing her where things were and cleaning up as she mixed pancakes and cleared the grill. He was a big man and nearly filled the kitchen, and that’s where he stayed. His admiration for the way she had deftly handled the situation filled his face, and the easy way he leaned against the counter showed clearly how special she was to him. Her way with him was extraordinary. No matter what the impasse, she formed a kind of beacon that was easy for him to follow. She could ask him anything, make suggestions, and he was happy to please her.

  I tried not to be as childish as my younger brother. Still, I merely poked at my plate of hominy grits, added enough butter and syrup to make them edible, and skipped the eggs. My hunch was that Susan would make enough pancakes for everybody, and she did. Granddaddy happily ate his eggs and grits, and somehow the pot of grits on the stove was empty when I went to help clean up. My guess was that the ground squirrels had a special breakfast that morning too.

  I’d seen that look of panic on Kit’s face before, in Los Angeles at the new house Mom had bought the previous year while we were at Grandma’s for the summer. Kit hated lima beans, and so did I. We dreaded having to eat them, and Kit refused to even come to the table when he smelled them cooking. Instead, Kit hid under his bed. My mother, for some reason, thought it was amusing to force him to eat food he hated. She and her new husband, Dick Branstedder, laughed at how picky he was. What they didn’t know is that Kit didn’t really eat them. He mashed them on his plate, pushed them deep into his cheeks and then excused himself from the table to go spit them out in the garden.

  My thoughts of home life in Los Angeles were broken when Susan asked if I wanted more pancakes. She put two more on my plate and two more on Kit’s. Life here really was good. Lake Tahoe glistened in front of me, huge and light blue, cradled by majestic mountains and embellished by scattered pure white cumulus clouds.

  Granddaddy watched Kit devour his syrup a
nd pancakes, totally absorbed in stuffing more pancakes into his mouth, and Susan, carefully taking one bite at a time. The expression on his face was affectionate and caring, satisfying to himself and to us.

  I hurried through the rest of my breakfast, anxious to explore the beach, the dock, and the huge boulders near the water. That’s what I did the rest of that first day. I went to bed early, wonderfully spent by the hot sun, ice-cold lake water, rarified air, and constant swimming and exploring. I drifted to sleep in comfort, feeling an unfamiliar conviction that I was right where I belonged.

  The next morning, I was awakened very early by a cold breeze gently wafting over my face. I smiled at the realization that I was at Lake Tahoe with Granddaddy. I quietly climbed out of the lower bunk so as not to wake Kit, who was asleep just above me. I discovered Granddaddy and Susan already in the kitchen making hot cereal. I walked in and said, “Susan, how about pancakes?”

  Granddaddy answered, “Not yet. Let’s have some warm oatmeal to tide us over and get going.”

  “Where?” I asked, puzzled because it was cold throughout the cabin and probably colder outside.

  “To get some of the best water you’ve ever tasted,” he replied with a hint of mystery. Susan was nodding and smiling, in on the secret. I accepted the bowl she handed me, filled the top with brown sugar and cream, and warmed myself with each spoonful.

  “Hersch, out on the side porch, grab that aluminum pail and ladle, and meet us in front of the house. Better bring a sweatshirt, it’s cold.” He was leaving the kitchen with Susan as he spoke.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I went outside. A narrow porch ran the full length of the north side of the cabin with a railing and wooden bins attached. That side of the cabin was always shaded from the sun, and the wooden bins were used to store fruit and vegetables, taking advantage of the natural coolness. The icy air gave me shivers, and I quickly put on my sweatshirt. Looking around the porch, not really knowing what to expect, I saw a large silver-colored vessel with handles on each side and a ladle sticking up, and knew it was the large aluminum pail. I wiped it with the damp towel he had tossed to me, but it was already clean. I guessed that Louise had already cleaned the pail. I grabbed one of the handles and went around front to his car. The pail sat on the back seat, so tall its top was at the same level as my head, while Susan sat in front with Granddaddy. She turned on the radio but got nothing but crackling noises. He drove up to Highway 50, turned right, and headed south, through the tunnel at Cave Rock. About five miles after that, he pulled over to the side of the highway and parked behind a couple of cars.

  “Well, we’re here, I think.” He had trouble containing his laughter as he made a feeble attempt to make his mystery last a while longer. “Put on your jacket and tie your shoes. We’re going for a hike. Oh, and bring that bucket.”

  I took the pail by one of the handles and shared carrying it with Susan. We followed Granddaddy as he started down a narrow path between scrub pine and small manzanita bushes. The path was strictly single-file. The bushes came up to my knees and the branches were stiff and sharp and easily poked through my pants. Off in the distance, between some pine trees, I could see Lake Tahoe and cabins near the shore. We hiked for what seemed like forever, halfway to the lake, when I heard Granddaddy’s voice: “Hi, there. Good morning.” I looked up and saw adults and some kids standing together. We had arrived at wherever he was taking us, which was the middle of a meadow, covered in manzanita, shrubs, and rocks. I didn’t see anything special about the place. I squeezed past Susan and Granddaddy to get a better look.

  Granddaddy put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, Hersch, this is it. Don’t look like much, but just you wait.”

  Three kids, all about my age, and some adults were standing around some rocks with water sputtering out between them, making a small puddle and flowing into a rivulet toward Lake Tahoe. It was a natural spring, snow-fed from the mountains to the east. One of the adults placed a big metal bucket, like the one I was holding, under the spouting water. We all watched the bucket slowly fill up. The kids wore mittens and were slapping them together to warm their hands. Filling the bucket took a few minutes, and after he lugged it away from the spout, another man stepped up and put one of the three buckets he had in place to be filled. A boy about my age stood next to him, watching rapt as water sputtered from between the rocks.

  The spring sometimes spurted and sometimes flowed smoothly, so it was slow going for the man filling his first bucket. He struck up a conversation with Granddaddy, asking, “Pretty nice day, I’d say. You from down by the lake?” He motioned with his head toward several small cabins in the distance. “Haven’t run into you before.” The man’s voice was pleasant and friendly, like he was passing the time of day with an old buddy.

  “No,” Granddaddy answered casually, “we’re over past Cave Rock, down that road on the left, down by the lake. In that group of places down there.”

  The man switched buckets, handing the first one to the boy with him. He remained bent over because he could not find anything except a tiny nubbin on which to set the base of the bucket, so he was holding it while water trickled in. He continued chatting. “These your kids?” I could see him smile and wink at Granddaddy.

  “Well, I feel pretty young at heart, but these are my grandchildren,” Granddaddy replied, smiling, “here for a week or two.” He waited a beat, then asked, “That your boy?” Granddaddy liked kids, I would learn. At the drop of a hat he would buy ice cream for anybody nearby.

  “Yup, one of them,” was the answer, “too early for the rest. Still in the rack.”

  “Strapping young’un, I’d say.” Granddaddy loved that word, “strapping.” And “muskles,” for muscles, with a hard “k.”

  The man switched to his third bucket, got it set, then peered up at Granddaddy. He said, “Say, I think Ty Cobb lives over in that neck of the woods. You anywhere near him?”

  I started to say something, but felt a firm squeeze on my shoulder and held my tongue. Granddaddy casually remarked, “Well, pretty close, I think.”

  I stood bewildered, not understanding. Only later that night, in talking to Susan, would I realize the wisdom of his restraint.

  Just then the man’s bucket slipped from its fragile perch and spilled. He grabbed to right it, but it emptied in a flash. He rose up, shaking his head, and said, “Back’s a little tired. You folks go ahead, and I’ll wait till you’re done. Go on, now, you just got the one anyway,” pointing at our pail.

  Granddaddy said he was not in a hurry, that it didn’t matter, but I’d already scouted out a way to set our large pail down so I could hold it while it filled. I watched the water dribble and spurt into the wide metal cylinder. Our pail was a lot bigger than his buckets, so filling it took some time. The adults talked, mostly about fishing, what bait was working, what the kids liked to do, and the weather. When the tilted container looked half full, Granddaddy reached down and tipped it so it was standing straight upright. “Hersch, that’s enough. Any more and it’ll be too heavy to carry.” We moved out of everybody’s way. “Here, Susan hand me that ladle.”

  He dipped in the scoop and handed it to me. “Hersch, have some of this.” I took a cautious sip and then a big gulp. The taste was simply delicious and invigorating. The mountain stream water was cold, crisp, lively, and the sensation of it flowing down my throat was slightly heavy, and wonderful. I took another gulp, too eagerly, spilling half the ladle over my shirt. I looked up and saw everybody was watching me.

  “First time,” Granddaddy said through a wide grin. The other folks smiled at each other, nodding with approval. Feeling not too badly for my clumsiness, I quickly handed the ladle to Susan.

  We waited around while two other families filled their pails. Granddaddy gabbed a little more about the lake, asked about the fishing at the boat ramp at Cave Rock, what bait was working there, and which stores had the freshest worms. A few small birds darted across the meadow, and after he pointed them out
, it seemed time to leave.

  Granddaddy waved his hand to the man who winked at him and said, “Well, been nice talking. We’ve got to head back and fix some breakfast. Maybe we’ll see y’all in a few days.”

  On the way back Susan took the front side, holding onto one of the handles, and we lifted our pail with a heave and stumbled along behind him. I looked back at the man. He was gesturing, saying, “Nice talking with you, Mister . . .” The man’s voice tailed off. Granddaddy waved again, but didn’t stop and neither did Susan or I. My head was filled with questions about why Granddaddy didn’t tell that man his name. But my heart was filled with smiles. And that’s what I was paying attention to. This small adventure had tasted just right.

  The hike back to the roadside didn’t seem half as long as the hike up. Granddaddy helped us the last part of the way, and at the car he wedged the pail on the floor behind the passenger seat. He had brought the lid and told me to keep holding it down tight so our fresh spring water wouldn’t slosh out.

  Back at the cabin, everybody drank the water out of the pail with the ladle or filled glass canning jars and brought them into the house. The water was always coldest in the morning, but it stayed cool all day in the shadows on the north side of the cabin. Every two or three days, we made the early morning hike down to the rock spring and filled up for the next couple of days. I think I drank more water than I normally ever would, just to empty the pail so I could tell Granddaddy that we needed to go to the spring.

  Thereafter, on the first morning of every visit to Lake Tahoe with Granddaddy, I anticipated getting up before dawn, putting on my sweatshirt, and preparing for the hike down the trail to the meadow. We always met families at the spring, and Granddaddy discussed with the other men the fishing, what animals the kids had spotted, how cold the lake was, the weather, where folks lived, and how nice the beach was near them. It surprised me how many people knew Ty Cobb lived over past Cave Rock, and each time this was mentioned, we exchanged a glance. He smiled imperceptibly and carried on the conversation without a break, never introducing himself or mentioning his name.