A lot of you wonder why I call my father ‘the old man’. And my mother ‘the old lady’. They say, “Show some respect! After all, they gave you life! Give them something in return!”

Right. They gave me life, which is what I asked for in the first place; I don’t call them ‘the old man’ and ‘the old lady’ out of disrespect; I call them ‘the old man’ and ‘old lady’ because — because they are older than me!

Yeah, that’s it! They — are simply older than I was at the time.

I meant no — disrespect!

Anyway, I call ‘em as I saw ‘em, and ‘the old man’ will always be ‘the old man’ (even when I’m as old as he is now) — and my mother will always be ‘the old . . .’ They died when I was in my twenties and early thirties, for God’s sake!

Okay, okay, enough said, already!

We took a drive — the four us — in the car that belonged to L. Snyder’s, from Watertown, NY, to Coshocton, Ohio, that autumn before we had to give it back. We wanted to see Grandpa Mills and the older man’s two younger sons since Grandma Mills had died and the restaurant had been sold.

Aunt Steve (oh, yes, my mother — the old lady) — had a sister named Aunt Steve (and she wasn’t even gay) — she had been named for Grandpa Lasch, the Croatian Jew: Stepvanna Lasch. And she was still single (at 19), called ‘Steve’ or, better still, ‘Stevie’ or ‘Stepvanna’.

She was still living in Coshocton because she hoped to marry one of the remaining Mills boys (both had joined the Army and were awaiting their final instructioms); one was already married; one was engaged. Stevie was employed by J.C. Pennies and expected to be their next Costume Jewelry Buyer.

The car, a 1936 Dodge, lasted 109 miles. The old man, frustrated this side of madness, sold the vehicle to the first farmer he found with a hundred dollars in his pocket and bought four airline’s tickets from Syracuse to Coshocton. At 4;38 we boarded a United jet bound for central Ohio.

At 6;22, we stepped off into Grandpa Millis’s waiting arms (and Beech Nut Chewing Tobacco stained-shirt). “I’ll send the money to Snyder as soon as I get home,” the old man said, as response to a question that never occurred to the old man.

Grandpa Mills had rented a house on 17th Street, and his granddaughter-in-law, Juanita, lived with him. Don was also there, waiting for his instructions from the Army. “Don is working for the florist this afternoon, as is Rol for the drugstore, but Juanita is home getting the place all set for you. She is such a good girl!”

We piled into Grandpa's taxi and headed for 17th Street.

One thing I noticed was the ‘swing’ from the old porch on the front of house and restaurant on 4th Street. It was painted green and fastened to the roof of the porch with big I-bolts and 1,000-pound hooks that slipped through them as if elephants were destined to ‘spoon’ on that swing.

“Rol and Helen want that when the war’s over,” Grandpa said, referring to the swing.

“That’s nice,” the old man said.

Our rooms at the house on 17th Street were much nicer, more roomey than our apartment on Colley Avenue — or even the house in Norview. I couldn’t believe the ‘older’ man could actually afford such a place until I figured out he’d spent almost the entire amount he’d made on the house and restaurant on 4th Street, held in abeyance ‘til 1992 — he died in 1984 — the older man collected $2,750.00 that was not used for rent or repairs.

I was sorry to go home when September came and school was starting. I had a brilliant idea; I would stay on at Grandpa Mills’s and matriculate at Coshocton High — after all, it’s where the old man and old lady had both gone to school, as well as aunts, uncles and assorted relatives. And on toppa that, most of the original staff was still there!

To my surprise, it took very mild persuasion — especially where my little brother was concerned. “All you have to do is pack up my typewriter and stamps, paper, and clothes, and ship ‘em on to me. You don’t care, do you, Jack? G randpa?”

“I couldn’t care less,” Jack said, Grandpa shook his head. It was settled.


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