I never had to ask Granddaddy about why he didn’t introduce himself. I found out later that evening on our first visit. After dinner, I played outside, pretending the moon shadows were Indian spirits and I was part of their dance. I was comfortable in the dark at Cave Rock, and the night sounds in the mountains were enchanting. I played until I was shivering cold and then hurried inside. A huge fire crackled in the granite fireplace, and I practically jumped up and down as I stood in front of it. He occupied his favorite chair, and Susan sat on the red sofa, leaning over the maple armrest, talking to him. He often talked to Susan, particularly in the evenings, and she listened attentively and carried her part of the conversation. Susan was going to be thirteen years old. I warmed myself by the fire and listened.
“. . . and your father was a pretty good athlete too—that is, until he got into that rock fight with those hooligans down by the creek. Susan, it was awful. Blood everywhere. A rock hit him right on his eyeball and ruined it.” Granddaddy was talking frankly, his voice not revealing any noticeable emotion. Responding to the horrible image, Susan put her hand up and covered her right eye. “No, the left one, he lost it completely,” he continued. “He still was a good shot with his bird guns. His right eye even seemed to get stronger.”
Susan and I had seen Daddy pop the glass eye out of his left socket. It made me squeamish to see him hold a glass eye in his hand and pretend he was going to open his eyelid. I always wondered, “Where does that hole go?”
Granddaddy looked up at the ceiling and around the room, breathing in small heaves. “I have to admit, I was pretty mad at him. For all the money he spent on boats and airplanes in Twin Falls. What I gave him was supposed to set him up in business.”
His face looked pink in the flickering flames from the fireplace. He stopped talking, reflecting back on his second son. When he resumed, his voice dropped lower and lower. “Your father was doing better. Bought the Coca-Cola plant in Santa Maria, was trying to get his business going. But your mother—” He stopped, but then realized he had to finish up with what he started. “If it hadn’t been for her . . .” He paused again, “Well, I don’t know, it would have been different.” He was nearly swallowing his words, not wanting Susan or me to be affected by his intense dislike of my mother. He didn’t actually say she caused my father’s death, even though he felt certain in his own mind that his son’s violent outbursts because of her caused his heart attack. But in all the times we spent with him, he never directly attacked her or talked meanly about her.
“Your father had a part of him that riled easily. Honey, you might know that.” He shifted position and leaned toward Susan until I could barely hear him. “There was something inside that ate at him from time to time, but not always. His men loved him, would follow him anywhere and work hard for him. Why, Lester moved down from Twin Falls to Santa Maria. He had a big practical joker inside of him and loved to be the center of things.”
A hollow timbre entered his voice as he went on. “When he passed, I know you and Hersch and Kit were alone. I felt terrible.” Granddaddy moved his hand onto the table holding the lamp, and I thought he was going to comfort Susan, but he seemed frozen by what he was telling her. “Your daddy was gone. There wasn’t anything I could do or say that would change that. Susan,” he was looking right at her, “it was a hard time for Granddaddy.” She could see the expression on his face much more clearly than I could. She reached over with her hand and put it gently on top of his. He flinched slightly, but not from her touch. No, she had touched something inside him that he wasn’t used to. He must have liked the warmth in Susan’s touch because he left his hand under hers.
He soon gathered himself and continued his monologue quietly. “And then your Uncle Ty passed. Two of my boys in two years. Both gone,” he repeated, still sounding stunned. “Just gone.” He leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the knotty pine ceiling, ghostly in the amber glow from the fire. I looked up as well, drifting from plank to plank, from knothole to knothole. “Just gone,” he said almost to himself.
When Susan looked at me, I knew not to say anything. We both knew what terror our father had rent upon us. We knew pain and fear and burrowing into our own cocoons to protect ourselves from our father’s urges. It was the pact we shared. She told me years later that many people who knew our parents thought we’d end up in an institution because no children could endure such constant onslaughts from both parents without, as she said, “cracking up.” One reason was because we knew we were safe here, even as our grandfather spilled forth his emotions upon losing his two sons.
Susan got up from the sofa, sat on the armrest of Granddaddy’s chair, and put her arms around him. He slowly emerged from that haunting period in his past and hugged her back. “Honey, you and your brothers stay close. Take care of each other. Forgive each other once in a while. Understand me?”
He leaned forward, shifting his balance, and said, quietly, “I think I’ll go on to bed.” He stood up and awkwardly ambled to the corner bedroom he always used.
I watched him use the doorknob for a brace, enter, and close the door. Susan looked up at me and said, in a voice wise beyond her years, “He’s still so very sad. And he’s alone.”
I moved over to the sofa where Susan was now sitting. We both liked Uncle Ty. We didn’t know him well enough to say that we loved him. But our cousins, Ty III and Charlie, loved him deeply, and everybody who knew him did, and that was good enough for us. We knew that when our father died, we would be spared, and terror and pain gone. But, Granddaddy loved him, and Aunt Shirley loved our dad, no matter what anybody said. And that was that. We sat, looking around a room where we had experienced nothing but fun and security.
When we finally stood up to go to bed, I asked Susan, “Why didn’t he tell that man at the spring his name?”
“I think I know,” she said, sounding tired. “He was talking about his life earlier, and he said something about not wanting us to be bothered because of things he’s done, who he is. He knows his kids suffered because of it; people saw them differently, expected things, and he’s not going to do that again with us. He said he should have realized all that before,” she recounted. “I think that’s it, Hersch. He did say he’s happy we’re here.”
Our time at Lake Tahoe passed too fast, and even though we spent many days at the same beach, and around the same boulders or riding in the Chris-Craft, each occasion was a new adventure with Granddaddy. I grew to trust his watchful eye and protective ways, and I realized that he liked the bond that was growing between us. In the evenings I learned how to build a fire in the fireplace and play new card games and board games. I would read on my own or listen to stories my grandfather told about hunting, fishing, Tahoe, and his children.
We returned to Grandma’s house, satiated and smiling, eager to share our adventures with her. She listened politely to all our little tales, but she was most interested in how we got along with our grandfather. Our happiness told her everything she wanted to know, and it pleased her immensely. The last weeks of summer at Grandma’s were serene ones before we had to return to Los Angeles. Our beginnings of a bond of trust and caring were set during that vacation at Lake Tahoe, and it set the stage for many more visits to come.
CHAPTER FIVE
The North Shore Club
I hurried through my breakfast, turned to Granddaddy, and said, “I’m ready to go down to the lake.” He smiled and said, “Sure, but remember: Wear your shirt. Don’t run up the steps. And, oh, we’re going out to dinner tonight—the North Shore Club.” I didn’t pay much attention when he mentioned the club. I was too busy grabbing my stuff and rushing out the kitchen door and across the deck. I hesitated as I looked out over Lake Tahoe. It was 8:30 on the third day of our visit to Lake Tahoe with Granddaddy.
We had arrived three days earlier, late at night, and when I woke up the first morning, Granddaddy was sitting at the huge table in the great room, looking out over the lake. In front of him were two large bowls, a b
ox of Cheerios, a jar of honey, milk, and two large spoons. I ate quickly, stood up, and said, “I’m ready.” My memories from last year of rowing around the cove were fresh and exciting.
He reached over and caught my left arm with his hand, saying, “Hold on a minute. I want you to help me with something. Down on the beach.” He gulped a last spoonful of Cheerios and stood up. I followed him across the deck and down the steep steps leading to the beach. He wore an open-collared shirt, nice slacks, and two-tone summer shoes, so I didn’t think what he needed help with was going to get him dirty.
On the beach he started picking up pieces of wood, broken, splintered, and bleached gray and white from the constant punishment of the hot sun and beating waves. He was making a small pile and pointed me toward a couple of larger timbers. I picked one up and, even in its ruined state, it looked like the bench seat from the wooden rowboat I used last summer. I looked all around the cove. There was no sign of the small boat I had tied to a tree at the end of last summer.
I cringed but asked anyway, “Granddaddy, what happened to the rowboat?”
He straightened up and said, “Bring those over here.”
I gauged the tone of his voice, automatically looking for the edges of anger. I took hold of the plank and another piece that was curved and looked awfully like the keel, and dragged them to add to his pile. I recognized more pieces of the rowboat, all broken or splintered and bleached out. He stood above the pile and didn’t say anything. I looked from the pile, then up at him three or four times, expecting at least a scolding.
He didn’t say anything, but looked out at Lake Tahoe and back at the pile two or three times, as if deciding what to do next. The lake was smooth as glass. I said, as compliantly as possible, “Is this the boat?”
“Yep.”
I waited a moment and asked, “What happened?”
“That.” He pointed to the lake. I looked again at the pile of smashed, beaten, ruined timbers and then again at the lake, beautiful and slowly undulating with barely a ripple. “Hersch, that lake is part of nature, and nature doesn’t care—been here through all of time. She can be easy, like right now, or harsh, like she will be late this afternoon. And in the winter, with storms and snow and sun, she never gives in. The waves are twice the size you like to play in, and reach all the way up to the steps. I’ll bet half the rope you used is still around that tree.”
Then, in the same breath, he started chuckling. “But not the other half or your boat!” He indicated the pile and said, “This is what nature can do if you’re not careful and don’t respect her. Don’t forget that, okay?” I nodded, not knowing what to expect next.
“Right now, she’s just right for rowing around.” He looked again at the lake. “She’s taught me an awful lot. You can learn from her.”
I looked over the pile of remains of my boat and thought I’d be stuck on the shore for our entire vacation. Granddaddy started walking back toward the steps, and I thought he was leaving me to mope by myself and absorb what he said. I was angry with myself for losing my boat and sorry that I was trapped on the beach with no way to explore the cove and shoreline. When he reached the end of the pier, near the steps, he yelled back at me, “Come on. I told you I needed some help.”
On the other side of the pier was a rowboat, about the same size as the one destroyed, resting on the sand but tied firmly to an anchor bolt on the pier. I had expected my grandfather to be angry with me, insist I’d done something irreversibly bad, and teach me a lesson by condemning me to have only the beach to play on. My father’s way had been to pound on me until my fear bled throughout my body. I looked at the rowboat in disbelief, wondering if it was a trick.
“Pete noticed what happened. He found this boat for sale at a pretty good price, the oarlocks fit, and it looks worthy enough. What you say we put her in the lake and see?”
I was still cautious but hopped over the pier and pushed on the transom while he pulled the rope. Once we got the boat to his side of the pier, I pulled her down to the edge of the lake. Granddaddy fitted the oarlocks, helped me place the oars, and gave me a slight push into the water, careful not to get his shoes wet. I pulled on the oars with all my might, coasted out a little, and reported that no water was leaking into the boat. I found out later that Pete had thoroughly tested its seaworthiness by filling the boat with water, none of which had leaked out after a full day.
He had his hands on his hips and shouted to me, “Remember the steps. When you get done, remember the steps.” His voice echoed around the cove, and I knew he was firm in this. He did not want me to run up the forty-eight steps to the cabin. I shifted the oars into the boat, waved with both hands as if to say yes, and he waved at me and turned toward the hillside leading up to the cabin. When he started climbing the steps, I stopped rowing and watched. Two or three times he paused, put his hand on his raised knee to catch his breath, looked back at me, and then continued on. The rowboat drifted while I watched him. I thought about what he had just done, not quite believing his patience. My sense of closeness mildly thrilled me. His actions spoke loudly, and I learned to watch what people did, and less to what they said.
Granddaddy’s rule was to never run up or down the steps from the cabin to the beach below. He told me that’s how he “ruined his ticker,” thumping on his chest where his heart was. He was on the dock and heard the phone ringing up in the cabin and sprinted up the steps to answer it. He was expecting a call and didn’t want to miss it, but when he reached the top and grabbed the phone, the line was dead. His heart was pounding, faster and faster. He sat down in a chair and tried to calm down, but nothing slowed the bursting sensation in his chest. Finally, he passed out, and when he woke up, he was soaking wet. At least he was breathing normally and his heartbeat had slowed down. But ever since that time, he noticed that when he exerted himself, his heartbeat sped up and would not slow down for a long time.
This morning I rushed down the steps, not running but rushing. My “rush” was fast, but not as fast as my “run.” The sun glistened hot on my back; I had a towel, a lunch bag with a sandwich and a bottle of juice in it, and the rowboat was waiting. The water in the cove was smooth as blue transparent silk, and I hurriedly checked the oars and oarlocks and pulled the boat across the rough sand toward the cove. I had done this a hundred times; each time brought a new and different world to my senses. Granddaddy wanted me out of the sunshine by 11:30. After that time the sun’s rays burned hot, and I had a redhead’s skin, which practically fried, no matter how much sun cream I put on. Sometimes I wore a T-shirt, but not until afternoon. My instructions were to keep within the cove, not to venture too far north past Sky Water Lodge, and not to drift to the south. This was fine with me. He bought me a new pair of swim fins and a mask, knowing that I liked to swim under the icy water, chase schools of fish, dive down deep and grab at the crawfish, pretending I lived underwater.
I knew that by 9:00 or 9:30 a dark blue line formed across the lake, on the California side, running from the north to the south. If I watched long enough, I could see it slowly and steadily move across the lake toward Nevada. The moving dark blue line meant that big waves, formed by breezes blowing from California, were headed to the Nevada side; huge. Strong, relentless waves broke the smooth surface of the silky vision that existed from dawn to mid-morning. By late afternoon, the waves would be three to four feet high, pounding on the boathouse piers, beaches, and rocks of the Nevada shore. The change transformed the lake, carrying such power and force that I felt as if I’d been swept away from the mountains and suddenly landed on the beach next to the ocean in the middle of a storm. The winter months were filled with storms, and whatever was left out or caught on the beaches and small coves along the Nevada shore was pounded and beaten and brought under the control of the winter lake so that by spring or summer, all that was left was a reminder of the telling strength and relentless neutrality of nature. I kept my grandfather’s words about “learning” from the lake in my mind. At the most unexpe
cted moments, I learned lessons: how to judge the risk of playing in the huge afternoon waves, realizing the timelessness of all nature, growing to love the beauty of the lake, seeing my muscles harden and grow strong the more I rowed and swam. My self-reliance grew, unknown to me at the time, but years later, a comforting force.
The morning sun was positioned just behind the roofline of his cabin. Its brightness made me turn my head, until I put both hands on my forehead to protect my eyes and took another look. There he was, standing, watching, and finally waving his huge hand at me as if to say, “I’m here to make sure you’re all right.” I knew from past mornings like this that he’d check on me every so often, just to make sure. I would row around for hours, occasionally catching a glimpse of him walking across the deck or slipping back into the cabin. He never said anything, and I never said anything, but his watchfulness and concern filled me with a sense of security that I’d rarely known.
I spent the morning rowing, diving after fish, playing on the huge boulders near the shore, and exploring up and down the outside of the cove. The boathouse and pier were home to schools of fish and hundreds of crawfish, all targets of my interest. I knew it was late morning by the increasing size of the waves breaking against the boathouse and the welcomed heat of the sun each time I pulled myself out of the icy water into the rowboat. My shoulders had been exposed for a couple of hours, and with every additional minute in the sun, I felt the slight burning sensation that warned me I was turning redder. I ate my sandwich, guzzled down my juice, decided to row to shore, and tied up the boat.
Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb Page 13
