A Granddaughter Remembers by Katherine Heintschel
Katherine Heintschel
My first memory of my granddad was riding on his shoulders. His bald head was below my chin, his denim jacket warm beneath my bare legs. Tall and long-legged, he more loped than walked. A knee injury gave him a slight hitch in his gait but he was strong and energetic, vital enough at 72 to piggy back a two-year-old child. I was eye-level with his cherry tree.
When I was very small, I played in Granddad’s backyard more than my own because the Maumee River was dangerous to a child. His back yard was bordered on the south by a Concord grape arbor, bordered on the other side by a long low building, painted white, that used to be a chicken coop. Granddad converted it to a woodworking shop. There was a mysterious gray shed, a bird bath that was chiseled out of a huge stone, and tall pine trees. And of course the cherry tree. It was the last of the orchard that grew on his property before he sold the land for houses, including my parents’ house, along the Maumee River.
The cherry tree in Granddad’s yard spread branches for climbing, offered shade, and was home to a swing. Lush and fragrant blossoms, white like snow, lay heavily on it in the spring. That cherry tree held my family’s best stories. Though it is gone now, I know the joyful time of this maybe one-time ride. When I got older, I read in its shade, or climbed to a comfortable nook in it dark-barked branches to read. A perfect swing, with a dusty scuff from feet beneath it, offered unlimited solace and entertainment.
Because Granddad chose his property in Waterville on the river, because he built my parents, my sister, and me a modest Cape Cod house across the small dead end street from his back yard, because I loved playing outside, Granddad provided me the roots to grow. Of course my parents raised me, and loved the river, too. But I view life on the Maumee River as Granddad’s legacy.
The very best time to live on the river was the winter. The river was shallow at the end of our property, and if the weather was just right, the ice would freeze smooth and clear. My dad, retired Air Corp Captain that he was, used his survival skills and checked the ice. Once given the all clear, we took turns helping to move snow away from the best spots. The whole neighborhood joined together. We laced up or clipped on our skates and skated on the Maumee River. As a tiny child, I wore two-bladed, probably aluminum, skates on my feet. The form for me was more of a shuffle, but the older ones glided in circles, held hands and waltzed, or played hockey. The ice wasn’t checked for miles, might not have been safe, but if it were, one could skate far down the river.
Sometimes the river would flood early in the winter season, and when it receded, it left long pools of water that then froze into wonderful skating arenas. As I was older, on these days, I would race home from school, throw my books down, change my clothes, and race to the skating ponds. On these ponds, I could skate safely for miles. And I did. There was nothing like gliding in the cold, listening to the winter. Often I was alone and allowed to skate by myself. Sometimes friends would come, but I didn’t need them. Now, folks would consider skating on the river, or even on these long ponds, unsafe, and indeed it can be. There were stories of drownings, but my sister and I were taught to respect the river, and we were never unsafe. A man-made rink in a neighborhood back yard is simply not the same. That is a legacy my granddad, Howard Good, gave to me.