Touching Gently: A Memoir

By Charles Hargrove

The story begins with Charles Hargrove's childhood in the city of Redlands, California during the Great Depression. He paints vivid, moving portraits of the people who influenced his life: his wise father, his strong and loving mother, and his talented Uncle Jack. His personal story conveys a larger picture of the time and place, and the culture, from which he sprang. _x000D_
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Charles tells of his coming of age, his delight in becoming an Eagle Scout, his relationship (and continuing obsession) with the game of golf, and the hardships of life on a destroyer during the Korean War. And he writes most lovingly of his wife, Joan Van Euer, sharing their story from their youthful courtship to her heartbreaking death from Alzheimer's. Charles writes plainly and truthfully of life's twists and turns, paths considered but not taken, the precious victories and bitter losses, the pain and dark places, and the simple but exquisite joy of being human._x000D_
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"A great book about a fine gentleman and what it takes to be successful in life and business. Charles writes about his life experiences and lessons learned playing the game of golf. To be a good golfer, you must have commitment, dedication, patience, competitive attitude, and willingness to practice, practice, practice. Charles learned and practiced all these things, which made him a good friend, accomplished golfer, and a successful businessman." ~ James R. Hughes, Jr., President & CEO, Hughes Retirement Advisory Group_x000D_
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"Touching Gently is more than a personal memoir; it is the autobiography of a time that may seem ancient history to many. His simple, direct style establishes a voice still audible to his contemporaries. The trials and tribulations of daily life are depicted in a tone that is indeed gentle – made more so by hope, humor, and acceptance of love, life and death without complaint. As Charles' fellow-'swabbie' in the United States Navy, I read with great delight his descriptions of his ship, USS Halsey Powell DD 686. As a Quartermaster, Charles sent signals – as a Gunner's Mate, I fired guns. This is my twenty-one-gun salute of respect for his book."~ Michael Fuller, PhD., Author of Legacy _x000D_
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"A story of love and courage. The author engages the reader with his personal journey of life's great joys woven in everyday challenges of being a caregiver for his wife. It chronicles the painful reality of watching the essence of his beautiful wife slowly disappear before his eyes. It also illuminates the plight of many primary caregivers of those with Alzheimer's: what to do when the care giving burden becomes overwhelming." ~ Patricia Lungren Partridge, RN, BSN, MSG

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ambler Publishing Company
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734045635

Book preview

4:6

Chapter 1

Come sit a while, and visit.

Iwas four years old. Mom and Dad had decorated the Christmas tree with multi-colored ornaments, silver tinsel, white lights and, under the tree, a sheet of white cotton resembling snow. Ceremoniously, they had placed a small gold angel on the top of the tree.

Charles, a happy toddler

Mom had adorned the dining room table with silver cutlery, fine china and a white linen tablecloth with matching napkins. Mother’s centerpiece arrangement contained pinecones and holly in an oval bowl with a pillar candle and several red and green Christmas ornaments.

The aroma of roast turkey, cut green beans, mashed potatoes, and succulent brown gravy wafted throughout the house. Mom baked corn bread and made a green Jello salad filled with fresh fruit and dollops of sour cream. The feast ended with her homemade pumpkin-hazelnut pie. We ate too much!

Afterward, Dad sat in his easy chair; Mother sat across the room on a sofa behind her new honey-colored maple coffee table. Opening the book, Mom began reading:

At Christmas time, we come to reflect on the things we believe — what we know to be true — the miracle of Christ’s birth — acts of hope and faith.

When Mom finished reading the story, it was time to open presents. Okay, I’ll be Santa. I’ll pass out the presents, Dad said as he handed me a gift. Open this one first, Charles.

I quickly tore into the wrapping and pulled out a Spalding baseball mitt. It was way too big, but I didn’t care. I was curious about the next present, a small square box covered with gold paper. Opening it, I found a baseball. Oh, boy! I hollered. Thanks, Dad! Now we can play catch!

Mom’s turn was next. She expressed delight when she opened the box and saw a new wide-brim yellow garden hat and green and yellow garden gloves. Thanks, Ivan; it’s just what I needed.

Mom and I had shopped for Dad’s gifts. It was easy since Dad hinted that he wanted a pocket knife. He liked the knife we gave him, and was surprised when he opened another box and saw the paisley tie inside.

After we opened the gifts, Dad left the room. Several minutes later he returned carrying a brand new tricycle. Wow! I screamed. Is that for me?

The smile on Dad’s face indicated that it was, indeed, for me. The tricycle had silver handlebars and white tires. The frame and fenders gleamed bright red. I jumped onto my new tricycle and began riding it around the house. As I gained confidence, I rode faster and faster, like a race car driver going around the track. The whole house whirled by me in a magical Christmas blur. Suddenly, I lost control and sped into Mother’s new maple coffee table, my voyage ending in a loud CRASH! Daddy, I yelled, how do you park this damn thing?

I had an idyllic childhood, packed with games like Kick-the-Can, London Bridge, Treasure Hunt and, of course, Jacks. My friend Babette lived across the street and we often played jacks on her red cement front porch.

Lou Ellen Wilshire, another friend, lived on the other side of a vacant lot, just up the street from my house. She had a large umbrella tree in her front yard and we often climbed up into the high branches and savored juicy apples picked from her parents’ apple orchard in Oakglen. Other times we made mud pies.

In the spring of 1933, I experienced my first long car trip. My parents decided to drive from Redlands, California, to Wheatland, Missouri. Dad wanted to introduce me to my grandparents, and he thought it important that we all spend a summer vacation with them.

Before sunrise on a Saturday morning, we left Redlands. Dad anticipated that the 1,630-mile journey would take three long, hot days traveling in his 1932 Ford sedan. One of the reasons the trip was arduous was that neither the car nor motels where we would stay had air conditioning.

Mother packed food for the journey: apples, carrots, bananas, homemade raisin cookies and water for us and for the car’s radiator. I slept on and off in the back seat. Dad drove from sun-up to sunset, the entire way, often stopping to add water in the radiator to keep it from boiling over.

Each day, when darkness began to fill the sky, my parents started searching for a motel. We watched for the motel signs, which were mainly hand painted on large pieces of wood or cardboard attached to a wooden post. These facilities typically had rooms arranged in a low building with parking directly outside. The three of us slept in a double bed.

Each room we rented had one window covered with a gauze-like fabric, one chair, a small table and faded linoleum, and the only source of light was a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. At night the bare bulb glowed like a tiny moon. Often the room smelled of tobacco, and we occasionally noticed bugs crawling on the floor. The toilet facilities were outhouses that had to be shared with other guests. Mom didn’t like staying in these accommodations.

On the final day of the trip, we left our motel at about 6:00 am. The air was still damp from the rain the night before, but the sun was rising and shining brightly, like a giant orange perched on top of a distant hill. We found a local diner and stopped for breakfast. Dad and I had pancakes covered in butter and warm maple syrup. Mom had orange juice and oatmeal. Dad was anxious to get back on the road. Okay, let’s all finish breakfast and be on our way. We don’t have much farther to go. We should be there before supper and we’ll have a nice dinner together. I wonder if they’ll have chocolate milk. That would be nice, I thought.

As we drove through areas familiar to both of my parents, they had fun reminiscing. I recall Mom’s repeated comments and questions, Oh, look at that! … Remember that? …We used to drive here on the weekends… Well for heaven sakes, remember the pond? The pond is gone; what a shame…. I wonder what ever happened to Billy Evans and his wife, Milly. People used to say, ‘There goes Billy and Milly and their little boy, Willy.’ "

Dad chucked, I remember Billy; he was a character. He always had a silly joke to tell. Some of them didn’t even make sense.

Mother added, I wonder if they still live around here. Maybe they moved away. They owned a nice little farm… Milly was in my high school class… I thought there was a stream right here, but now the whole place is covered with corn… Things have really changed… Ivan, I hope you know where you’re going… How much farther do you think it is?

Well, that sign up there is where we turn; it says Wheatland two miles. Turning at the sign, we left the main highway, and drove on narrow, unpaved roads. Dad’s little Ford purred like a cat, happily knowing it didn’t have much farther to go.

As we entered the town, Dad slowed down, pulled over and stopped at Wheatland’s town square. Dad’s Ford made a little hissing sound as if it knew we had finally arrived. My parents were silent; I wondered why.

Speaking softly, Dad said, Sure looks different.

Mother agreed, Sure does. I remember it being bigger somehow.

They sat there without another word, and after a few minutes Dad pulled away and headed toward my grandparents’ home. After three long hot days, we had finally arrived. Before we had a chance to get out of the car, my grandparents rushed across the front lawn to welcome us. Grandmother was short, plump and had a lovable face with bright blue eyes. Her grey hair was cropped close to her head. In contrast, Grandfather was tall and slender.

It was a happy family reunion with lots of laughter. Grandfather hugged me and while still in his arms, Grandmother kissed me. After dinner, I was exhausted and couldn’t stay awake; Dad carried me to bed.

The next morning Grandfather and I sat on the front porch in rocking chairs he had made. Charles, your grandmother and I have lived in Wheatland all of our lives. What do you think of our little town?

It’s nice, Grandpa. I like it.

Grandpa, Charles, Grandma & Ivan on the front porch

He told me that he made his living as a carpenter. Today he would be called a contractor. He was well-known in the community for his design of homes; a simple one-story house with a front porch extending across the entire width of the home. His own house followed a color scheme according to my grandmother’s taste. Their home was painted a soft yellow with brown trim. Grandfather told me that the front porch was designed for socializing with friends and neighbors. When they walked by, they might be invited to come sit a while and visit.

Their house consisted of a large living room, a dining area adjacent to the kitchen, and three small bedrooms. At the time the house was built, most homes did not include indoor plumbing. Families used outhouses. My grandparents’ outhouse was located about twenty feet beyond the back door. The main access to the backyard and the outhouse was through the kitchen. Water for the household necessities was obtained from a pump located outside the kitchen door. I watched my grandparents make repeated trips to the pump to fill pitchers or buckets with water for cooking, bathing and washing dishes.

My grandparents took great pleasure in their vegetable garden. They grew carrots, corn and green beans. Grandfather planted apple trees and several rows of blackberries. Each morning Grandmother treated me to buttered toast covered with her homemade blackberry jam. She also kept a barrel of apples in the backyard. The apple barrel gave Dad an opportunity to teach me an important lesson. He suggested that I eat an apple every day and, in doing so, select only the best apple, just as you would select a best friend. You never want to eat bad apples or have bad friends.

Wheatland was small, more like a village than a town. In the early thirties, the population was probably not more than several hundred people. My grandparents lived one block from the town square and catty-corner from the only gas station in town. It was owned by a friendly man, Homer Robertson, who, like my grandfather, was tall and slender. Homer had thick wavy brown hair and always wore faded bib overalls, blue shirts and brown scuffed leather shoes.

Customers would tell Homer how much gas they needed, and he would pump the gas by hand. He would push and pull the long pump handle back and forth until the amount of gas requested was visible in the large glass container that sat on top of the pump. This would then allow the gas to drain from the glass container into the car through a hose. The price of gasoline was a kingly sum of $.10 a gallon.

Across from the gas pump stood a small shed, where Homer would sit in stormy weather. Inside the shed was a wood-burning stove and next to it a small pile of wood. Homer had two rocking chairs placed near the stove. Weather permitting, he would take the chairs outside. In addition to selling gas, Homer had a side business selling soft drinks: coke, orange soda, root beer and a chocolate drink I loved.

Charles and Grandpa’s dog on their way to Homer’s gas station

Occasionally, when Homer saw me outdoors, he would hold up, high in the air, a bottle of the chocolate drink. He would twist it in the air, a gesture that invited me to join him. Of course, I did. We would sit and chat, and I enjoyed the fact that he talked to me as if I were an adult. He once asked me, What do you think President Roosevelt is going to do about the price of corn?

Well, I don’t know. He doesn’t talk to me.

Homer would often comment about what he thought President Roosevelt should do to help the farmers. I liked Homer; he was a nice man.

Dad told me that he didn’t want me crossing the intersection to Homer’s gas station without his permission. I couldn’t understand why he thought it was dangerous, since only five or six cars crossed that intersection daily. However, I recognized that my father was simply being cautious out of love for me.

The town sparked my curiosity. The Town Square was indeed a square; it was one block long and one block wide. It was like a park edged by many trees. There were benches placed in shady spots and several picnic tables. On the edge of the park, a makeshift drinking fountain sat surrounded by mud and several thirsty bees. Circling Wheatland were hundreds of acres of corn fields, the main source of revenue for the community. There were other field crops, such as potatoes, beans and carrots, as well as fruit, including apples and berries.

I was struck by the differences between Redlands, the city where I lived, and this small community of Wheatland. For example, I saw several large dogs, some brown and some black, roaming the streets or sitting on the wooden walkways built in front of the stores. They were not on leashes, and they didn’t seem to be going any particular place. They were well behaved. Perhaps the word friendly is a better description because the dogs, like the people I met in this town, seemed to be one big happy family. I also recall hitching posts in front of the stores. Occasionally horses were tied to them.

The few cars I saw that summer were black Model T Fords. They were noisy, and smoke billowed from the rear of some of them. In addition to the few cars, horses were still used for transportation and delivering goods. I saw them pulling wagons full of baled hay, large sacks of potatoes, baskets of corn and a variety of fresh vegetables along the dusty roads.

One morning after breakfast, Dad and I took a walk into town. He wanted to chat with his long-time friends and the local shop owners. We stopped at Miller’s grocery store. Dad and Mr. Miller chatted about local politics. I wandered around the store and spotted a big jar filled with licorice. Mr. Miller noticed this. Charles, help yourself to a piece of licorice. I did so and thanked