My great grandfather, Jacob Edward Emery, was a Naval officer who fought in the Civil War under Admiral Farragut. Jacob died when my grandfather was three and left his wife and son with a measly pension on which to live. My grandfather’s life seemed almost Dickensian, my great grandmother took in needle work to make ends meet. I have remnants of her “tatting” and embroidery stitches that she would embellish ladies’ dresses and handkerchiefs with. My grandfather worked from the age of five delivering newspapers after school. As a teenager, he helped the church sexton by pumping the organ and ringing the bells. Education was important to my great grandmother so school took precedent over work. My Grandfather got a scholarship to Yale University and managed to graduate with a Phi Beta Kappa, despite working full time at various jobs. He supported his mother until the day she died.
My grandfather was a brilliant but stern man who lacked any sense of humor. He believed that children were to be seen and not heard. My Dad’s relationship with my grandfather was dysfunctional and complicated. My Dad, however, was always interested in our lives and took an active part every single day. My Dad encouraged us to be whatever we wanted to be and he truly valued our opinions. He had a great sense of humor and loved every minute of his life.
Luckily, my Mom and grandmother made all of the holiday arrangements so my Dad and Grand Dad were forced to see each other on a regular basis. One Thanksgiving, my Mom planned a big shopping weekend, my brothers and I needed new ski equipment and the best deals were at a sporting goods store in Denver, where my Grandparents lived. My grandparents were going to California to my uncle’s house for the holiday. As far as my Dad was concerned, we were in the “clear”, no one needed to know that we planned to spend Thanksgiving in Denver, in a hotel.
We left early on Thanksgiving morning, the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We had snacks and a Coleman Cooler with plenty of water for the almost three hundred mile drive. The first “leg” of the trip to Cheyenne was uneventful, but we all were happy for a “pit stop” to stretch our legs at Little America, when it began snowing. As Dads do, my Dad headed out to “warm-up” the car for us as we finished buying more snacks and souvenirs. Upon our return, Dad was busy scraping the car which was blanketed with newly fallen snow. No worries, my Dad was a seasoned driver, a little snow wasn’t going to put a damper on our Thanksgiving Day.
With spirits high and beautiful snow falling we got back on the highway, heading to Denver. Within minutes, the falling snow became a “whiteout” and the semi – trucks ahead of us began pulling over on the side of the road. These factors were enough for my parents to make a u-turn and head home. That blizzard chased us for the entire return trip.
It was a scramble for my parents to put together a Thanksgiving spread with a frig that contained a bottle of milk and eggs. We had had reservations at the Brown Palace Hotel for dinner that night. Waffles were the best choice and they were delicious. We watched The Wizard of Oz on tv and headed to bed.
The next morning we drove to the airport and flew to Denver. We checked in to The Shirley Savoy Hotel, a hotel that time had forgotten. The employees were doppelgängers of the characters in the Wes Anderson movie, The Grand Budapest Hotel; they looked like they had worked at the hotel forever. Our favorite, Toby, was the bellhop/elevator operator, he wore a pill box hat with a thin chin strap, striped pants, a cutaway jacket with red velvet lapels, a white shirt and a red bow tie. My brothers and I tortured poor Toby by calling for the elevator then running and hiding. Of course, when our “crime” was reported to my parents, we were forced to apologize to Toby.
We spent the early afternoon shopping at the largest sporting goods store that I had ever been to, it took several escalators to get to the ski department floor. As my Mom made her purchases, she arranged to have everything except our new ski jackets, shipped to our house. We were prepared for a full season on the slopes.
My Dad, brother, and sister went ahead to the hotel to get ready for dinner. We were walking with the green light when my older brother was hit by a car that didn’t stop. He was thrown on the pavement in front of the group of us crossing the street. The rest is a blur, but I remember a Good Samaritan who drove us to Denver General Hospital. My brother’s leg was broken and was placed in a cast. The Police interviewed my Mom at the hospital emergency room about the hit and run driver. After the usual hospital discharge that took a thousand hours, my Mom, Brother, and I got a cab back to the hotel. My family soldiered on and had a big Thanksgiving dinner redux at The Brown Palace, with a lively discussion about the day’s events.
The Denver Police wanted a local contact for the hit and run report so my Dad had to call my grandparents and let them know about our Thanksgiving shenanigans.
My parents loved taking a risk, we took an impromptu vacation to San Francisco the next spring, my grandparents were in Laguna Beach at my Uncle’s house at the same time. We had a great time, no blizzards or hit and runs. And… my grandparents were never the wiser.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Deirdre LaMotte says
Admiral Farragut was a great family friend of my family’s in the 1800s. In fact, the Barney house was on Shepard’s Row before it was renamed Farragut in the mid 1800s. Mother had a wonderful walking stick of his with a little canon at the top that I always played with as a child.