Grandpa Ray

Let’s go back to Raymond Riddle Fifer…or should I say “go forward”? Either way, Raymond is my grandfather on my mother’s side. And he was the only grandfather I ever knew. My first memories of him are when I was about 6 years old, so they are hazy memories at best. We lived in Manhattan Beach at that time and Grandpa lived in Sacramento. That was a long ways away! There were no Interstate freeways and the only road to Sacramento was Highway 99. I remember spending a short period of time with my Grandpa and Elaine. (He had divorced and re-married) It was summer time and he and Elaine lived in the tree section of downtown Sacramento. I can still remember the trees arching over the street and giving our bare feet some relief by providing cool shade to walk in. I remember holding my grandpa’s hand as we walked to a community pool and then spent the afternoon there, beating the heat by sitting in the wading pool. I also remember the evenings, with the heat so thick that even conversations were muted. I would sit on the porch steps and listen to the sounds of summer.

Later, after an evening bath, I would lie in bed and listen to Grandpa and Elaine in quiet conversation on the front porch. A whirring fan as it pushed the hot air around. The crickets chirping. And I would fall asleep, quite content.

My grandpa had a hole in his head and he was bald! Well, not an actual hole in his head, but a BB sized indentation in his forehead and it always fascinated me! I always had to touch it…of course he made up stories of how that odd hole happened to be. And the fact that he was bald was a real plus as far as I was concerned.

I think I was about 8 or 9 when I visited him again, and once more it was for about a week. Only this time it was in Bakersfield. On Alder Street. Grandpa was a manager for General Motors Acceptance Corporation and had been transferred to this location. It was the last place he lived. And once more I remember falling asleep during a summer night, the swamp cooler fan squeaking rhythmically. And I was content.

I was 13 when Grandpa died. May 31st 1954. And I still miss him.

Oh, we went to see Elaine sometime in the 1960’s. Denise was just a baby, but she was walking. And she walked all around Grandpa’s living room, picking up little knickknacks and putting them in her diaper bag; to take home…I think Grandpa would have laughed.

That date, 1954…it’s important because Grandpa was only 60 years old. And his father, Great Grandpa Louis, was also 60 years old when he died. So you can imagine that I spent a few days wondering how far apart we were, genetically. Did I have that gene? The 60 year gene? But my 60 years have passed and I’m getting close to 65 now. Keeping my fingers crossed!