I never knew either of my grandfathers. My paternal grandfather died when my dad was 11, leaving behind a widow and three children. He'd worked in the cloth mills in south Jersey before he took ill and when he couldn't work anymore, the family moved to Illinois to live with his aunt. My maternal grandfather died when my mother was 20, having outlived two of his three children. He'd had a good job with the telephone company, a blessing during the Depression, but died before reaching pension age and my grandmother went to work in a department store. She lived with my parents from the time they married until she died in the late 1970s.

The only male ancestor other than my father I ever knew was my paternal great-grandfather. He was born in Scotland, went into the mills there at age 14 and emigrated to the U.S. at age 20, where he met and married my great-grandmother, whose family had emigrated from the north of England about the same time. He worked in the lace mills in Philadelphia until age 84, retiring only when the mill he was working in closed and moved to the Carolinas, leaving the employees without jobs or pension benefits (pre-ERISA). He lived to be 97 and my oldest son was born on what would have been his 110th birthday. We named him for Grandpop.

When my paternal grandfather died (1942), my paternal great-grandfather somehow gathered enough gas coupons to drive from Philadelphia to Evanston, IL and load my grandmother, my two aunts and my father into the car and drove them home and moved them in with him and my great-grandmother. What they could fit in the car was all they brought with them. Shortly after the war, my oldest aunt married a veteran who turned out to be a serial cheater and a drunk. My great-grandmother was dying of breast cancer and my grandmother had lost her sight to diabetes. My great-grandfather moved the aunt, uncle and their four kids in with him (in a three bedroom twin home in Philadelphia) and pretty much raised those four kids as well. He never complained or expected any praise, just thought it was what family did.

None of my family were ever hunters or shooters until my dad and mom bought an acre from a farmer outside of town and built a house. The farmer and his three sons-in-law were all living on the farm and were hunters. They got my father started. Dad only ever owned one shotgun (a Stevens Springfield 16 gauge sxs), one .22 (a Remington Model 33) and one center-fire rifle (a Winchester Model 94 .30-30). I have all of them now and they'll go to my oldest son in due course. He taught his three sons to shoot and hunt and got us into handloading. Two of us still do.

My dad has been gone almost 9 years now and I still miss him. My mom, who was 6-1/2 years older than he was, is still chugging along at 94. She lived in the family home until December of 2017.

I've been richly blessed by having family that loved me, encouraged me to get a good education and provided the means to do it. They were never rich in material things, but they were rich in Christian faith, love and generosity. I couldn't have asked for more from any of them.

Last edited by Remington40x; 03/13/19 10:28 AM.