Carroll Forest Sacry

I learned from Grandpa Sacry that people are not "good" or "bad" but a mixture of both. I learned it, not because he said it for both he and Grandma Sacry spoke often of the "good guys" and the "bad guys" as if you could spot their color by seeing them walk down the street. (appearance really did seem to have a lot to do with it!) I know it because Grandpa was such an enigma himself. I can't imagine another person so full of qualities I respect and qualities I hate. And yet, to think of him brings such lonesomeness and longing to have him back that I can hardly stand it. When he died in 1976, for the first time I NEEDED to know about heaven and hell. For a long time I pretended he was just up in the pasture so I could handle his death. I wanted to know I would see him again.
Grandpa was "crippled" most of his life. I knew him first walking with a cane. But most of the time I knew him in a wheel chair sitting in the kitchen by the wood stove, in his silk sheeted bed or driving his truck. I can still feel the stubble of his beard on his cheeks, how it felt to kiss his lips (we were all lip kissers then), the soft squishy lump at the end of his elbow and his very bony arms and legs. Mostly, I felt warm and loved in his presence.
Grandpa was mean sometimes but I never remember him being anything but kind and loving to me. To share about my life without sharing about him would be impossible. He was my namesake and I always felt connected to him. I can remember the feeling of my chubby little legs toddling down the sidewalk between my first home about 50 yards from where he and Grandma always lived when I knew them. They looked forward to our coming (Dennis, Susan and I). Iknew it by the warm welcome we always received. We seemed to be the joy of their lives.
I understand that now that I have Grandchildren. It is largely because of them that Iknow how to Grandparent.
I realize I am not following my theme of enigma. It's because there is so much I want to share about Grandpa. I think I will post all week about him.
The mean part. One day all of us kids were told to pick rock out of the upper field. I was sick so I just rode in the truck with Grandpa. The others were in the field. Sitting there with the sick stomach I heard Grandpa scowling and complaining about Jim being lazy and not working very hard. I was very close to Jim and watching Jim with my sick stomach I realized that he was sick too. Grandpa rolled down the window and began yelling at him about being lazy and telling him to work harder. Right then, Jim fell over. I can't remember anything else about that day.
Another time Grandma and Grandpa were babysitting us when we were about 10 and 12. Grandpa was in the wheel chair in his dining room. He was mad at Jim and took his cane that was hooked on the wheel chair side and started whacking Jim with it. Jim grabbed the can and started hitting him back. I was in agony believing Grandpa was inappropriate but loving him fiercely and loving Jim too.
Looking back, I realize so much of the "mean" stuff Grandpa did, he did out of his own weakness and feeling out of control. There were so many things he couldn't do. Like put Jim in "time out." And how he had to rely on others to do his work and even get him out of bed for the day. When Dad was first married he worked for Grandpa on the ranch. He said it was hard to get any money out of Grandpa and he finally had to go into electrical work just so he could be free from that stress. Grandpa went through the depression doing everything he could to make ends meet.
I remember him constantly in new pursuits, buying and selling pigs, antiques (he had his own store for years), fruit, etc. And he was known as "stingy" all ofhis life.
He was a gentle man. It seemed he constantly had company because he loved to have people visit. Coming to the Ranch meant being able to visit with Grandpa. People would sit in the kitchen and talk for hours. And I would listen. He could argue without causing tension. Missionaries who came through made sure to have time for him. People came to hunt alot. He would go with them, driving them up into the hills and shooting (and hitting) out the front window. I can still see him hoisting the rifle tothe window, barely able to lift it as his muscular distrophy got worse.
He got out of bed every day unless he was really sick. He always wanted to go to town (Whitehall or Butte). He was a people person and didn't let his disabilities stop him.