Grandpa Frederick Lewis
By Thelma Ludlow
Grandpa Lewis is
a very pleasant part of my memory. He
stands out as a handsome, refined, intelligent gentleman. He spoke quietly, but the look in his dark
eyes made his words decisive. He did not
need to raise his voice to demand respect.
He was tall and walked with a very straight back. Once he and Uncle Bill, his brother, led a
march at a ward party and the way they moved reminded me of high stepping
horses.
From my early
childhood, I remember Grandpa holding an important assignment of some kind in
the church. He was always up early on
Sunday morning and ready to go.
Excepting Fast Sunday, breakfast was an early one so there would be no
last minute rush. I can recall breakfast
at their home with exceptional clarity.
Grandma would leave the food on the stove to keep warm until after the
morning prayer. We would all be on our
knees around the table. Sometimes
Grandpa prayed long, in which case Grandma reached back and quietly pulled the
mush dish and the frying pan from the heat.
She did this with her eyes still closed.
I peeked and saw her.
We knew better
than to quarrel when Grandpa was there.
He abhorred discord of any kind.
He used to say in that quiet yet commanding voice, “Let's have peace and
quiet.” Sometimes Grandma's Scotch
temper flared when she became riled and she was apt to call the object of her
irritation a few names. Grandpa would
say quietly but reprovingly, “Agnes, Agnes, let's have peace.” The only time I ever heard him depart from
his talk of peace was when Uncle Bill argued with him. Uncle Bill was different from Grandpa. He sputtered, scolded and argued noisily a
great deal. This annoyed Grandpa and
provoked him to say, “Bill you old fool, stop that.” Of course, Uncle Bill stopped only after he
had completed what he wanted to say. And
these exchanges did not alter the affection the brothers felt for each other.
Grandpa had
musical talent. He was a master on the
big bass drum. It was he who beat the
drum at the city square when unfriendly Indians were descending upon the town
from Spanish Fork Canyon. The sound of
the drum was the warning for the people to prepare for an attack. Grandpa also played that drum in the Spanish
Fork Fife and Drum Band. On the Fourth
of July this band would serenade the various sections of the town early in the
morning, just as we were getting up. The
members were sitting in a long wagon drawn by a string of horses. It added much to the thrill of the
celebration. I remember it well, and how
I loved it!
I doubt if anyone
in the family old enough to have seen and heard it could ever forget Grandpa's
dulcimer, another musical instrument. It
had strings but no bow. It was played by
hitting the strings with a marimba. It
was not as large as a marimba and it had no frame to hold it up. It rested on the table but required a certain
degree of slanting. Grandpa obtained
this slant by putting the top of the instrument on the quart cup and the bottom
on the pint cup. This seemed to prop it
up just to the required degree. A week
or so before Christmas, Grandpa would start to tune the dulcimer. He did one string at a time and he worked
slowly. He would turn the peg ever so
slightly, then listen carefully to the tone.
He did not want to break the strings.
Because it was used so seldom, the instrument was usually very out of
tune when he started the tuning process.
When the tuning was completed, Grandpa made arrangements for a fiddler
to come on Christmas day to play with him and the dulcimer. Will Holt was the one I remember the best.
On Christmas day
after dinner was over and the dishes were washed, Grandpa got the dulcimer
ready, and as soon as Will and his violin were there, we had some good, old
pioneer music. The selections were so
lively that everyone felt like dancing.
One year we young ones did just that.
We went upstairs and danced the Virginia Reel. After a while, we began swinging our partners
with such “gusto” that the hanging lamp in the parlor below us began to swing
in a manner that threatened its safety.
We were duly ordered to dampen our enthusiasm or stop the dance. I think of that day every time I visit the
“Pioneer Museum” at the north park in Provo.
That is where the family put the dulcimer, and I look at it and think
back every time I visit the museum.
Grandpa loved to
be with the little ones in the family. I
remember how he played with Shyrl Pace, his first great grandchild. He would take a pan and play a marching
rhythm with his head held high. Behind
him came Shyrl stepping to the rhythm and with a stick gun over his
shoulder. They went round and round the
room. They both took it very seriously,
although they couldn't have know that they were creating such a lovely memory
for us. Shyrl was perhaps three years
old at that time. I can also remember
the adoring look on the face of Aunt Priscill as she watched Shyrl. He was her first grandchild.
Grandpa and
Grandma drove Old Bess and the buggy down to spend Thanksgiving with us. They arrived quite early to beat the storm
and Grandpa was delighted that we were just going out to throw on the first
load of beets. He quickly changed his
clothes and came with us. Grandma stayed
in the house to help Mother with dinner.
Grandpa drove the wagon to each pile of beets and the rest of us threw
the beets up and into the huge wagon.
Every time it was his move, Grandpa would slap the lines on the horses'
heads and say, “Get up, Poopsi Whack!”
Of course, we would all laugh.
After dinner, and when it was time to take the last load, Grandpa put on
an extra sweater and muffler and cap, and rode with Father to the factory. He had a good time that day.
The snow began
just as we were sitting down to supper that Thanksgiving Day, so Grandpa and
Grandma had to stay with us all night.
As evening closed in, we sat around the little coal heater in the
“parlor” and Grandpa told us stories as we ate the popcorn balls we always made
for the holidays. One of his stories
seems worthy of being retold, so this is it:
One time Grandpa
mad a trip to the canyon to get some logs.
He took Aunt Adlinda's boy, John Koyle, with him. The first night they made their bed under the
wagon. Grandpa kept his gun near enough
that he could reach it quickly. They
were tired so they both went right to sleep.
In the middle of
the night Grandpa was wakened by a slight noise. He sat up, reached for his gun
and looked all around. The moon was so
bright that he could see very well and what he saw was not reassuring. A real live bear was making its way down the
road which was only a few rods away.
Grandpa's first thought was to fire a shot to frighten the bear away,
but John was sleeping soundly and a shot might startle him into running toward
the bear. So Grandpa just sat with the
loaded gun in his hands and waited to see what would happen.
When the bear was
in direct line with the wagon, he stopped and looked in that direction. He sniffed the air several times because he
had caught their scent, but Grandpa sat motionless and after a few
unforgettable moments, the bear went on.
Needless to say, Grandpa didn't sleep much the remainder of the night,
and he decided that they must finish their work early the next day so they
could be out of the canyon before night came again.
I remember
another time when Grandpa was in that canyon under more favorable
circumstances. There was a resort called
Castilla a short way up the canyon. It
had a dance hall, some indoor and outdoor swimming pools, lots of grass and
shade for picnics and a few food concessions. Spanish Fork meetings and
conventions were often held up there.
One such meeting required the band to be part of the program so Dad had
to go because he played in the band. On
such occasions, we always took our picnic and went with him. The band must be ready to play at ten
o'clock, but our parents decided that we would go much earlier than that, go
beyond Castilla and cook our breakfast there.
We would go early enough to be back at Castilla before ten o'clock.
That morning we
were up at the crack of dawn and picked up Grandpa and Grandma about six
o'clock. We passed Castilla and went on
until we found a picnic spot with big logs on the ground to sit on. Grandpa said, “I'll get some dry wood for the
fire,” and away he went. Soon he came
dodwn the hill riding three long poles like a little boy rides a broom or
willow horse. He galloped and bucked all
the distance to the fire. He had enough
wood to cook three breakfasts and he had a good time bringing it. We all enjoyed our ham and eggs, fried
potatoes, hot cocoa, good homemade bread and butter with jam, and even a few
cookies; but I think Grandpa enjoyed it more than any of us did.
We really missed
Grandpa and Grandma when they went to Provo to live. I think that is why I visited them so often
when we went to Provo to school. It
wasn't out of my way going to and from school, so I called there two or three
times a week. They always seemed glad to
see me and made the habit of asking me to do little things that were beginning
to be difficult for them to do. Grandma
liked me to comb her hair, and Grandpa would have me write his checks so that
all he had to do was sign them.
One day when I
called there, Grandpa and Grandma told me they wanted to go to a theatrical
play, “Abies Irish Rose,” but they didn't see well enough at night to walk down
there alone. They said they had gotten a
ticket for me so I could help them get ready and go with them. I was delighted.
The night of the
play we had an early supper and I helped them put on their best clothes. We started early and walked slowly all the
way to the theater. Our seats were
center at the front so we were sort of on display, but we thoroughly enjoyed
the play and then walked back home safely.
I stayed all night with them.
The next day at
school one of my teachers said, “I saw you at the theater with that
distinguished looking old couple, who are they?” I was proud to say, “They are my
grandparents, and they are just as wonderful as they look.”
My last story of
Grandpa depicts him again as a loving, generous person. He told us that on Christmas day while he was
on his mission to Wales, he was standing in front of a restaurant waiting to go
in and have Christmas dinner with some money Grandma had sent him. It was very cold and he was wearing his huge
woolen overcoat. Nearby stood a hungry
looking, scantily clad little newsboy.
Suddenly the boy lifted the coat up and slipped inside of it right
behind Grandpa. Grandpa could feel him,
but allowed him to stay there for a while to get warm. After a while, Grandpa took him into the
restaurant with him and shared his precious money with the boy. They both had something to eat on Christmas.
Grandpa was the
first to go. Grandma was having problems
with hardened arteries which affected her thinking process. She became unable to take care of the house
and they had to have a woman come in and help.
Grandpa worried about Grandma and his health began to fail. He went downhill fast, and on June 28, 1920,
he died. The funeral was held July 1, at
the Spanish Fork 2nd Ward Chapel.
He is buried in Spanish Fork Cemetery.
How do I remember
Grandpa Lewis? I remember him as a man
of stature, a man of peace, love, spirituality, and generosity, an ancestor of
whom I am very proud.
