My Grandfather By Vincent Allen
MichaelSolender on August 19, 2010 in Miscellaneous, On The Wing 1 Comment »Editor’s Note: Vince Allen shares another memoir with us in this homage to his grandfather.
My Grandfather: John Edwin Leatherwood
By: Vincent Allen
Since I recently became a grandfather I frequently find my thoughts returning to my maternal grandfather, John Leatherwood, because he was such an enormous influence on my life before he died. Although he was an imposing figure, he was perhaps the most steadfast family man that I have ever known, and he still managed to be a ton of fun whenever it was appropriate.
Leatherwood, as his friends and co-workers called him, was the epitome of a weathered, tough, and scarred blue-collar warrior that had been forced to work hard all his life in order to provide for his family. By anybody’s standards, he was a large man, standing six feet two inches tall with a ramrod straight back and broad, strong shoulders.
He weighed well over two hundred and twenty five pounds, but there was never a time that he actually spoke about his weight because it was just not one of the things that he focused on during his life. He almost always wore a gun-metal gray worker’s uniform that had full length trousers and a button up short-sleeved shirt.
During the work week his shirts still had the white embroidered patch over the left breast pocket with his last name, Leatherwood, in red letters like the ones that were worn by mechanics and service station attendants. On the weekends, he dressed pretty much the same way except that the shirts would not have the name tags on them.
The natural expression on his face could best be described as a scowl, but old injuries made it seem much more menacing than it really was. He had worked in a bomber factory during World War II and had fallen victim to an industrial accident that scarred his face diagonally from the bridge of his nose slanting upward across his left eye, and it had also damaged and blinded him in that eye.
The damaged eye was scary to little kids and gave him the look of a really tough man, which he actually was in all of the ways that mattered. He had also lost half of his right index finger in another work-related accident and jokingly referred to it as his nub. He always laughed at the smaller children in the family after he would perform a slight of hand maneuver that made it look as if he could make that half of his finger disappear. All of these physical imperfections combined with his ruddy complexion from working outside most of his life left strangers with the impression that he was not a man to be trifled with, and they would have been right.
If there was ever a person who gave credence to the old saying, “Never judge a book by its cover”, my grandfather was certainly that person. Despite his gruff exterior, he was the most devoted family man that I have known in my life. A large part of that devotion was consumed by the need to work hard all the time to earn a living but strangely enough I remember the other aspects of his devotion much more clearly.
As a young boy and his oldest grandson, he mentored me in all of the many crafts, skills, and trades that he had learned over the years. He taught me how to paint, how to use hand tools, how to do some simple car repairs, and how to install wood paneling. He absolutely insisted that I attended school and took my studies seriously. He did the same for my siblings, cousins, and other family members that sought his support, but somehow I always felt that I had a special relationship with him.
He never hesitated to help other family members when they were down and out. He did not give handouts, make no mistake about that, but instead he would provide exactly what the person needed to help them meet whatever challenge they were facing at the time. He provided food, shelter, and transportation to work for my mother several times during my younger years when her marriage to my father ended and she was left to support four children on her own. Without the help that my grandfather provided to us at the time, our situation would have been very dire and there is no way to predict what would have become of us.
He was just as strict as he was supportive and while his discipline was old-fashioned by today’s standards, he did not have to resort to those measures often. He expected that everybody knew right from wrong and that if you did wrong then you should have expected to get punished for it. He did not take any joy from punishing his grandchildren but he certainly did not shirk that responsibility either whenever it was appropriate. He was also just as quick and took enormous pleasure in rewarding good behavior which is a balancing act that I never fully appreciated until I became a parent myself.
Just because he looked scary and was serious about his family obligations did not mean that my grandfather lacked a sense of humor. He possessed a rapier-like wit which he would use when fencing with insults and teasing other family members. It was a rare occasion when one of us was able to get the better of him when trading jibes across the living room or dinner table. Each of us was tagged by him with a funny nickname that was usually the result of his observations regarding one of our least desirable personal traits. My own nickname was Harum-Scarum because when I was younger I would charge into things without thinking about them first which frequently resulted in some kind of accident.
His nickname for my mother was Queenie because of her sometimes superior attitude. Nobody in the family went unscathed when it came to my grandfather’s nicknames. I remember having fun when my grandfather was in a happy mood and would start to sing some of his favorite old vaudeville or country songs. He had a good voice that was loud and the tone was very deep but he carried a tune well and he would sing some funny songs when he was happy and he felt like it.
Some of the best times that I remember having when I was a boy were the hunting and fishing trips with my grandfather. He bought me my first shotgun, took me on my first hunting trip, taught me how to bait a hook, and was there when I caught my first fish. It was a dark, foggy, morning out in his small fishing boat on the lake at the Flying S Ranch when I hooked a small largemouth bass and reeled it in. We did not catch a lot of fish that day because the weather was bad, but I still remember it as one of the most fun times I had with my grandfather.
There is hardly a day that goes by when I do not think about my grandfather because of something he said or something he taught me about life and family. I am very fortunate to have been able to know my grandfather very well and even luckier to have lived with him and my grandmother during my teenage years, when his guidance helped me to make me into the person I am today. I very much want to be able to “pay it forward” and create memories with my grandchildren that they will cherish as much as the memories I have of my own grandfather, John Edwin Leatherwood, a giant of a man in all of the measures that really matter.



















