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Since his earliest memory, Steve would visit his Grandfather on weekends and Holidays. Steve even got to know his Great Grandfather, who lived in a bedroom just off the kitchen, on the upper floor of the South end of the large two-level house.
A very large man, Steve would always remember him sitting in his favorite chair, in front of the kitchen sink, patting his huge stomach and saying “Drink milk boy. It is very good for you. It will put meat on your bones”. Steve’s Great Grandfather was the one who always gave him pennies when he came to visit when Steve lived on Islay Street. As soon as he left, Steve would go over to Ken and Dottie’s store and buy his Bazooka bubble gum. The memory of his Great Grandfather was limited. Mostly because Steve was just too young, and never stayed put in one place long enough to really get to know him.
Steve’s Grandfather built the huge house on a five-acre lot to accommodate his seven children with many bedrooms and bathrooms, in a very ritzy part of town. In fact, to this very day, dozens of famous movie stars still live in huge mansions only driveways away. Steve met some of them. Burl Ives, Jonathan Winters, even Fess Parker, just to name a few.
A long driveway came off the main road and wound up a small incline separating large Oak trees and dense brush and opening up to a large area for parking or turning around. Manicured bushes of Guava fruit surrounded the parking area in front of the home. Steve would always check for the tasty fruit before following the family up the wide Cherry Wood steps, separating the garage from his Grandfather’s room, and entering into the kitchen in the center of the upper level.
The beautiful walnut wood paneling and hand woven carpets through out the home helped to set off the Oak furniture and large Oak cabinets. The guest bathroom at the North entrance had a sink made from a large clamshell. A Baby Grand Piano sat prominently in the corner of the large living room. The home was what a person might expect of a Doctor’s income and a large family of that era.
Elegance was evident through out the entire home. Below the house were the tennis courts and Orange orchard. To the South, just off the parking area was a guesthouse that was under construction, but was never finished. Large Oak and Pine trees surrounded it. Steve even tried eating the Acorns after reading about Indians in school. The Acorn Mush didn’t taste good at all, very bitter. But the Pine trees offered up Pinecones each year, and Steve loved to break them open and eat the small seeds.
His Grandfather lived downstairs, just off of the garage, and his Grandmother lived upstairs. An arrangement that Steve would not really understand until he got a little older. During the summer, Steve would set traps for Gophers. He got a quarter for each tail he turned in, some days Steve would make as much as $3.00.
The real thrill of these visits were the hours spent in his Grandfather’s room, in front of an old, very large Oak roll top desk, eating Oranges. Steve’s Grandfather would sit with him and patiently cut up Oranges with a scalpel and hand the slices to Steve and watch him gobble them down. Slice after slice, until the large basket that Steve had filled and brought in from the orchard was empty.
Above the desk, proudly mounted in the center of the wall, was an old-framed certificate that Steve would love to read, over and over. Steve’s Grandfather was a Doctor. The certificate was very large and filled with beautiful scrolled writing proclaiming his Grandfather’s right to dispense medicines of all kinds, including Marihuana, but not Aspirin. Aspirin had not yet been buffered when that certificate was issued.
The idea that Aspirin was not approved as a prescription drug that could be given by a Doctor, but Marihuana was OK to prescribe was very odd to Steve. Aspirin was now available to anyone as an over-the-counter remedy, and of course, Marihuana was a drug that had been illegal since before Steve was born. But it used to be available just like Aspirin, right over the counter, usually in liquid form.
Year’s later Steve learned about old Mexican recipes for curing all kinds of things. One recipe was to take one once of Marihuana and put it in a quart of rubbing alcohol and let it sit for no less than twenty-four hours. Then take out the Marihuana and squeeze out the alcohol in cheesecloth. Throw the Marihuana away and use the now treated alcohol to rub on sore muscles and joints. It actually works.
His Grandfather’s room was filled with stuff that could keep Steve occupied for days, if he could stay that long. Surgical tools of all types were haphazardly laying on top of cabinets and shelves, most of them long outdated and no longer in use by modern Doctors. Even the old black leather bag was still filled with stuff and could always be found in the same place, on the floor, right next to the left side of the big Oak desk.
Steve’s Grandfather was old. Suffering from Parkinson’s disease, the Old Man’s hands would shake violently while cutting the Oranges, some days better than others. On real bad days, his Grandfather would place a handkerchief in his mouth to keep his teeth from chattering. This never bothered Steve. He would sit there eating Oranges and asking his Grandfather questions as long as the Oranges kept coming. Slice after slice, cut skillfully with a surgical scalpel.
Steve could eat them faster than his Grandfather could cut them.
This is when Steve would ask questions, between each slice. Steve heard many stories about his Father and Uncles and about events in town when his Grandfather was the County Health Officer. About friends whose homes were quarantined because of some communicable disease and about the time Steve’s Father burnt down a neighbor’s barn.
Most of the stories were forgotten. Some he would not understand until he had gone to school and learned about Science and History and how the town was first started. Steve heard about some project his Grandfather worked on that had something to do with growing medicines in egg embryos, not as part of the research team, just as a contributor in some way. In years to come, Steve would hear the stories again from other people in town. His Grandfather was very well respected and so was his Grandmother. She used to teach woodcarving at the local Community School.
Steve’s Grandfather was a Doctor in his heart as well as a practitioner. Not much information was known about Parkinson’s disease at the time. One sunny afternoon, the family all went to the train station to see Steve’s Grandfather off on a trip. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, a kind of family reunion, right there at the train station.
Steve did not understand what all the fuss was about. Most ten-year-olds are too busy growing, and Steve wasn’t the exception. Grand Dad was just going on a trip to the UCLA Medical Center for some kind of treatment for the disease. True, he was going for treatment, experimental treatment. Steve’s Grandfather knew he would die during the operation. The Doctors were going to cut open his head and do something. It was what he wanted. Steve’s Father later explained that it was all in the name of Science. So maybe others would not have to suffer as his Grandfather did. That was the last time Steve saw his Grandfather. Standing on the back of the train waving Good Bye. No more shaking hands slicing Oranges with a scalpel in front of the old large Oak roll top desk.
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