Redisms...

Redisms

Theology in the Trenches

by Kathleen Kjolhaug

 

And so we went.  To Grandpa Red’s we went.  It wasn’t exactly over the river and through the woods, or was it?  Over a river we did pass as well as wooded areas upon the way.  Plenty of white and drifted snow was seen throughout the frozen tar tundra upon which we traveled, and once we arrived, disappointment would not be ours.  Story telling never disappoints, and as “grandpa” is my dad, and Red is his name, he was in prime time as we listened to what we refer to as “Redisms.”  Dad’s ability to utilize the English language like none other is his claim to fame within the family, and this weekend would be no different.  His experiences of days gone by reflected a colorful cast of characters. 

“Brighten McKenzie,” boy beneath the bridge, captivated the imagination of my father, and thus, a visit or two was eminent as a young lad.  With little food, and a mere cave from which to launch, Brighten and his father hung out when not trapping for the next meal.  Dad arrived for a swap of conversation about dinner time, and as etiquette would dictate, the two shared what little they had.  One small leg of squirrel, and my dad was beholden to both.

"Itchy Tom” roamed freely round town.  With his clothing clinging for days-on-end, he helped dad in the stables a time or two.  Hot water was ordered up from the nearby café and when Itchy Tom added a good share of catsup, perhaps the world’s first instant soup was made.  Waitress waited upon him as remarks flowed freely from her lips.  “So how long do you wear your shirt?” she asked one day.  Itchy Tom merely looked past her stating the truth, “About six inches below my belt.”  (Not exactly the same verbiage used, but…you get the portrait.)

“Ole the bum” lived in the town dump holding up in a shed-shack personally crafted.  Ole called it home.  Consumed by consumption, he drifted.  Landing back in the landfill each night was his goal.  Just a shy short with a bit too much consumed, Ole hit the ground one evening.  Consumed by furry little critters with long tails, or in plain terminology, rats, was he.  That was the end of the tale of Ole.

On dad roamed through his bank of memories, recollecting portions of which I knew nothing.  His great-grandfather and grandmother died, leaving behind a young boy.  Raised in a home which was paid a whopping $7.00 per month for each and every child the keeper had retrieved to make his living, it wasn’t long before the boy turned eleven.  No longer was the keeper paid, and off the young lad was shipped with a load of cattle to Minnesota.  Enter… my great-grandfather. 

Far from dad was the sadness of happenstance, and near was the intrigue and laughter.  At the feet of dad were his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  Blessed be the tie that binds.

I’m in awe of my dad, grandpa Red.  I’ve always marveled at his ability to not only get along with people from all walks of life, but to respect each one of whom he speaks.  The way dad lives his life is reflected in these words which hang upon our wall. “God sends great souls into the world clothed oftentimes in curious attire.  And one misses much good fellowship who thinks that from what men seem to be he can determine what they are” (Bruce Barton).  Amen.