Pop

My grandfather.

Pop

“More and more, when I single out the person who

most inspired me, I go back to my grandfather.”

--James Earl Jones.

Earl Melbourne Carpenter was born in Colville, WA.

in 1897. He grew up on a farm, raising apples and

watermelons. Twice a week, his Dad would load up

a wagon with fruit, drive it ten miles to town to sell 

the produce. Earl was the only son, so he always 

accompanied his father, eager to see the elephant, 

and get a candy cane. Colville swarmed with farmers,

ranchers, miners, and lumberjacks; all jobs that
young Earl would later try on for size.

There was no middle name on his birth certificate,

so when he was 18, he gave himself the name

“Melbourne”. He had read about Australia, and

dreamed about going there some day, and doing

some homesteading. He never made it there, but

he kept the dream alive.

I made my appearance in 1944, and he became a

grandfather at 47. Before I was born, he moved the

family from Spokane to Seattle, driving a Model T

Ford, pulling a trailer. In 400 miles it broke down a

dozen times. He always called this his Steinbeck

period, “It was pure Grapes of Wrath time.”

During the Depression, midst soup lines, erratic

unemployment, and fist fights with cops and thugs

while on picket lines...he became a progressive,

joining the Communist Party. This haunted him

later during the McCarthy witch hunts.

He made a living as a house and bridge painter,

joining the union. Heights never bothered him.

He thought he could make a fine steeplejack.

In his spare time, he was an artist, painting

Western landscapes in the style of Charlie Russell.

In his life he painted hundreds of these, getting

a modest reputation.

When I was about ten, one day I took stock of him,

becoming more aware of who he was in the world.

He had always been a laborer, and had muscular

arms and shoulders. He was six feet tall, combed 

his hair straight back (always smelling of Rose hair

oil), always wore glasses, had false teeth, and wore

a thin mustache in the style of the 30’s movie stars.

He had piercing hazel eyes. He had big powerful

hands. It was fascinating to watch him working on

an oil painting, as those big hands delicately held

thin camel hair brushes.

He was always more like a father to me than just a

grandparent. He was very aware that I had no idea

who my biological father was. My mother had passed

away by the time I was in the Navy. It was my

grandfather who wrote me twice a week. After he died,

I was surprised that he had kept all my letters, for I

had kept all of his letters to me as well. Today, all of

our letters are mixed together by date, and are stored

in a metal brief case that he had kept his oil paints in.

As an actor, I

travelled to Australia for

work; he just loved it.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub