Abbie

Grandad was born in Oklahoma on land homesteaded after the government opened up the Indian Territory.  He was raised a farmer, and during WWI he grew wheat to feed the armies fighting in Europe.  He was married with three girls when the wheat market busted after the Armistice was signed and had to sell what remained of his acreage to pay his debt to the bank.  The family boarded a train and rode to Wendling, Oregon, where he had heard that the sawmill there was looking for a man who could drive a team of horses.  On the train up into the hills from Springfield he met the mill owner, who asked him a few questions, decided that Abercrombie was too big a mouthful and called him Abbie, and suggested that he might think of bigger things than merely delivering firewood to the citizens  of Wendling.
He bought a house on the east side of  town and drove the team until he decided how he wanted to proceed with his life.  He decided on sawmill maintenance and with self education and hard work advanced to assistant head millwright.
He was a man of few words nor did he exhibit much emotion.  I never heard him laugh out loud.  He would grin briefly or would squint his eyes, but mostly he observed life with curiosity and with a rational outlook.
A lot of things amused him.  His grandchildren amused him, and evangelist preachers and "holy rollers" amused him, his wife's family amused him, and he greatly enjoyed reading cowboy novels and watching cowboy movies.
When I was small I would see him getting into his car and ask, "where you going, grandad?" and he would answer "going to see a man about a horse," and smile and drive off.  Every time I decided that he was driving down to the Downing's ranch to buy me a pony.  I would wait, or discuss with GD what we would do with a pony, but a pony never came.
When we were driving and a car approached us he would raise his first finger.  "What are you doing, grandad?"  "Just sayin Howdy."
He said things like "pertneer," for almost, '"aint," "mebbe" for perhaps.  When he hammered his thumb or bumped his shin or suffered some frustration he would say "Shoot!."
Mom said that when she was small he said "Shit!" but the youngest girl, Carldene, always followed him around and repeated after him so he softened his tone.
He was stoutly built and very strong.  He was noted as one of the best "cold spot" welders in the state of Oregon.  When there was a breakdown of machinery he would work all night if need be to get the mill back in production.
When he came home he would eat with little conversation then go sit by the woodburning stove in his easy chair and read a western novel until his eyes shut and the novel fell from his fingers and rested on his stomach.
He did not drink alcohol or gamble.  He enjoyed going to county fairs and finding the man with the hammer that he could slam down and cause the weight to fly to the top and ring the bell.  He would collect his stuffed animal and walk away with a faint grin.
In the summer during the war mom and her best friend Shirley would go to different farms in the valley and pick fruit or beans to can for the winter.  Usually I would be dragged along.  They wore shorts and tied their hair in a kerchief and they would wear a man's shirt with the bottom tied in a knot around their stomach.
One day after picking fruit mom dropped me off with grandma and went to the store.  She came back crying and angry.  She talked quietly to grandad.  I noticed him leaving.  Sometime later during dinner he returned looking disheveled and breathing heavily.  I was surprised to see him in an emotional state.
The next day I walked into town on the walkway across the mill pond.  Along the way I heard a conversation that was interesting but not entirely clear to me.
"You know old Q., he has a kind of dirty mouth?"
"I've noticed that,"
"Well, yesterday old Abbie's eldest daughter was walking in front of the union hall wearing them short pants and old Q. come by and said something to  her that set her off."
"Oh, my, her man's in away in the army, aint he."
"That's right.  Well she run on home and told old Abbie.  Now you know, he dont say much.  So I hear that old Q. there was in his barn milking his cow, and Abbie come marching in and took a look at old Q there and marched over and kicked over his milk bucket.  Q. come up a yelling and swung at Abbie and they had quite a tussle and Abbie whipped him good then marched out and drove home.  Never said a word."
"Well, my stars, that dont sound like Abbie."
Then they saw me and frowned and I scurried off, bemused.
I asked mom about it and she looked at me and stared into space so I waited a while then went out to play.
Abbie was a strong believer in family and in protecting his girls.