Grampa Davis was the kind of grandfather every kid should have! He was kind and gentle, he was funny, and he'd play my endless toddler games till I tired of them.
He'd cross his leg and let me "ride the horse", sitting on his huge foot. He always said he'd give me "a skate in the pants" if I wasn't good.
When I was only two - or maybe even younger - my dad had his appendix out, and had complications that nearly killed him. He was laid up for a long time and needed my mother's constant attention. So did I, of course, so Grampa came and stayed with us to help her take care of me.
The main thing I remember about that time was one day when I was "helping" Mom peel potatoes on the kitchen counter. She had the paring knife, while I had a butter knife and stood on a stool beside her. The doctor came to see my dad. The front door was no more than 10 steps away, but Mom unwisely left the paring knife on the counter when she went to open the door. Before the doctor even took off his hat I was screaming and dripping blood from the inside of my little finger, which I had sliced to the bone.
Grampa grabbed me off the stool and sat on a kitchen chair with me standing between his knees while the doctor cleaned and sewed up the gash. The only thing I actually remember after picking up the paring knife to "help", was Grampa's large, strong, gentle hands holding and comforting me.
Grampa's one true love was my Swedish grandmother. She departed this life far too early, leaving Grampa with five teenaged children to raise! It was a struggle, and very hard emotionally on all of them, but he never found another love, and depended on hired girls to help raise my mother and her older siblings.
Grampa played the guitar, wrote songs and stories, and gave what Mom called "readings" of funny anecdotes that he told in Swedish dialect, in celebration of my grandmother's heritage. Mom thought if his life circumstances had been different he might have been an actor, or an entertainer. But I never saw any evidence that he was unhappy with his life as it was.
My earliest memories of him are all during the WWII years. I remember him loudly singing "Halleluya, I'm a bum!" which I learned to sing along with him. One day I was crying over some toddler trauma and he started the song, but stopped after the "Halleluya...." and looked at me. I remember stopping long enough to shout "I'n a bun", then resumed crying! It became a lifelong family anecdote.
I remember making one of those strange but satisfying sounds kids love, deep in my throat while "walking" on my knees on the floor. Grampa would always say I was charging my battery.
Throughout my first 30 years, Grampa was a strong presence in my life, even though we always lived thousands of miles apart. He was a frequent visitor, and wrote Mom all the time.
His letters always ended with him telling me to be good or he'd give me a skate in the pants.
************************
I don't know how he got the nickname "Bob", but it began in his childhood, and has been carried down through generations of his descendants. The families of his sister and brother knew him as "Uncle Bob". He even shows up as Robert H. in the 1895 Iowa State Census.
He'd cross his leg and let me "ride the horse", sitting on his huge foot. He always said he'd give me "a skate in the pants" if I wasn't good.
When I was only two - or maybe even younger - my dad had his appendix out, and had complications that nearly killed him. He was laid up for a long time and needed my mother's constant attention. So did I, of course, so Grampa came and stayed with us to help her take care of me.
The main thing I remember about that time was one day when I was "helping" Mom peel potatoes on the kitchen counter. She had the paring knife, while I had a butter knife and stood on a stool beside her. The doctor came to see my dad. The front door was no more than 10 steps away, but Mom unwisely left the paring knife on the counter when she went to open the door. Before the doctor even took off his hat I was screaming and dripping blood from the inside of my little finger, which I had sliced to the bone.
Grampa grabbed me off the stool and sat on a kitchen chair with me standing between his knees while the doctor cleaned and sewed up the gash. The only thing I actually remember after picking up the paring knife to "help", was Grampa's large, strong, gentle hands holding and comforting me.
Grampa's one true love was my Swedish grandmother. She departed this life far too early, leaving Grampa with five teenaged children to raise! It was a struggle, and very hard emotionally on all of them, but he never found another love, and depended on hired girls to help raise my mother and her older siblings.
Grampa played the guitar, wrote songs and stories, and gave what Mom called "readings" of funny anecdotes that he told in Swedish dialect, in celebration of my grandmother's heritage. Mom thought if his life circumstances had been different he might have been an actor, or an entertainer. But I never saw any evidence that he was unhappy with his life as it was.
My earliest memories of him are all during the WWII years. I remember him loudly singing "Halleluya, I'm a bum!" which I learned to sing along with him. One day I was crying over some toddler trauma and he started the song, but stopped after the "Halleluya...." and looked at me. I remember stopping long enough to shout "I'n a bun", then resumed crying! It became a lifelong family anecdote.
I remember making one of those strange but satisfying sounds kids love, deep in my throat while "walking" on my knees on the floor. Grampa would always say I was charging my battery.
Throughout my first 30 years, Grampa was a strong presence in my life, even though we always lived thousands of miles apart. He was a frequent visitor, and wrote Mom all the time.
His letters always ended with him telling me to be good or he'd give me a skate in the pants.
************************
I don't know how he got the nickname "Bob", but it began in his childhood, and has been carried down through generations of his descendants. The families of his sister and brother knew him as "Uncle Bob". He even shows up as Robert H. in the 1895 Iowa State Census.
Grampa Davis was the kind of grandfather every kid should have! He was kind and gentle, he was funny, and he'd play my endless toddler games till I tired of them.
He'd cross his leg and let me "ride the horse", sitting on his huge foot. He always said he'd give me "a skate in the pants" if I wasn't good.
When I was only two - or maybe even younger - my dad had his appendix out, and had complications that nearly killed him. He was laid up for a long time and needed my mother's constant attention. So did I, of course, so Grampa came and stayed with us to help her take care of me.
The main thing I remember about that time was one day when I was "helping" Mom peel potatoes on the kitchen counter. She had the paring knife, while I had a butter knife and stood on a stool beside her. The doctor came to see my dad. The front door was no more than 10 steps away, but Mom unwisely left the paring knife on the counter when she went to open the door. Before the doctor even took off his hat I was screaming and dripping blood from the inside of my little finger, which I had sliced to the bone.
Grampa grabbed me off the stool and sat on a kitchen chair with me standing between his knees while the doctor cleaned and sewed up the gash. The only thing I actually remember after picking up the paring knife to "help", was Grampa's large, strong, gentle hands holding and comforting me.
Grampa's one true love was my Swedish grandmother. She departed this life far too early, leaving Grampa with five teenaged children to raise! It was a struggle, and very hard emotionally on all of them, but he never found another love, and depended on hired girls to help raise my mother and her older siblings.
Grampa played the guitar, wrote songs and stories, and gave what Mom called "readings" of funny anecdotes that he told in Swedish dialect, in celebration of my grandmother's heritage. Mom thought if his life circumstances had been different he might have been an actor, or an entertainer. But I never saw any evidence that he was unhappy with his life as it was.
My earliest memories of him are all during the WWII years. I remember him loudly singing "Halleluya, I'm a bum!" which I learned to sing along with him. One day I was crying over some toddler trauma and he started the song, but stopped after the "Halleluya...." and looked at me. I remember stopping long enough to shout "I'n a bun", then resumed crying! It became a lifelong family anecdote.
I remember making one of those strange but satisfying sounds kids love, deep in my throat while "walking" on my knees on the floor. Grampa would always say I was charging my battery.
Throughout my first 30 years, Grampa was a strong presence in my life, even though we always lived thousands of miles apart. He was a frequent visitor, and wrote Mom all the time.
His letters always ended with him telling me to be good or he'd give me a skate in the pants.
************************
I don't know how he got the nickname "Bob", but it began in his childhood, and has been carried down through generations of his descendants. The families of his sister and brother knew him as "Uncle Bob". He even shows up as Robert H. in the 1895 Iowa State Census.
He'd cross his leg and let me "ride the horse", sitting on his huge foot. He always said he'd give me "a skate in the pants" if I wasn't good.
When I was only two - or maybe even younger - my dad had his appendix out, and had complications that nearly killed him. He was laid up for a long time and needed my mother's constant attention. So did I, of course, so Grampa came and stayed with us to help her take care of me.
The main thing I remember about that time was one day when I was "helping" Mom peel potatoes on the kitchen counter. She had the paring knife, while I had a butter knife and stood on a stool beside her. The doctor came to see my dad. The front door was no more than 10 steps away, but Mom unwisely left the paring knife on the counter when she went to open the door. Before the doctor even took off his hat I was screaming and dripping blood from the inside of my little finger, which I had sliced to the bone.
Grampa grabbed me off the stool and sat on a kitchen chair with me standing between his knees while the doctor cleaned and sewed up the gash. The only thing I actually remember after picking up the paring knife to "help", was Grampa's large, strong, gentle hands holding and comforting me.
Grampa's one true love was my Swedish grandmother. She departed this life far too early, leaving Grampa with five teenaged children to raise! It was a struggle, and very hard emotionally on all of them, but he never found another love, and depended on hired girls to help raise my mother and her older siblings.
Grampa played the guitar, wrote songs and stories, and gave what Mom called "readings" of funny anecdotes that he told in Swedish dialect, in celebration of my grandmother's heritage. Mom thought if his life circumstances had been different he might have been an actor, or an entertainer. But I never saw any evidence that he was unhappy with his life as it was.
My earliest memories of him are all during the WWII years. I remember him loudly singing "Halleluya, I'm a bum!" which I learned to sing along with him. One day I was crying over some toddler trauma and he started the song, but stopped after the "Halleluya...." and looked at me. I remember stopping long enough to shout "I'n a bun", then resumed crying! It became a lifelong family anecdote.
I remember making one of those strange but satisfying sounds kids love, deep in my throat while "walking" on my knees on the floor. Grampa would always say I was charging my battery.
Throughout my first 30 years, Grampa was a strong presence in my life, even though we always lived thousands of miles apart. He was a frequent visitor, and wrote Mom all the time.
His letters always ended with him telling me to be good or he'd give me a skate in the pants.
************************
I don't know how he got the nickname "Bob", but it began in his childhood, and has been carried down through generations of his descendants. The families of his sister and brother knew him as "Uncle Bob". He even shows up as Robert H. in the 1895 Iowa State Census.
