Grandfather Watches over Me

The following is a former winner of the Amazing but Incredibly True Story Contest.

Copyright Estellaleigh Franenberg, 1997

When I was two my parents left me in the care of my grandparents to raise. My grandmother was a no nonsense type. She was very religious and believed that if you "spared the rod you spoiled the child." I was a normal kid, and as I grew older I received quite a few beatings that would be considered child abuse by today's standards. My grandfather was a free spirit who spent a good deal of his time riding the rails as a hobo. When he was at home he was my best friend and ally. I trailed around after him like his shadow and he was the only person in the family that made me feel loved, that I was not just a burden to be tolerated. He taught me to love to read the newspaper every morning so I would know what was going on in the world. He gave me my sense of humor and taught me to appreciate myself.

He was my grandmother's fourth husband and not my blood relative so my grandmother could not understand why we were so close. Because of this he was also not allowed to have any voice regarding my welfare. When my grandmother gave me a beating he was to stay out of it but sometimes when the beatings became lengthy he would physically stop her by grabbing her hand and saying, "Enough." (I think the beatings were a way for my grandmother to deal with her frustrations and she didn't realize the harm she was doing to me, for she really was a wonderful person. This is my opinion as an adult looking back on the past.)

Anyway, I would usually then run to my room and throw myself across my bed face down and cry. Sometimes my grandfather would come and sit on the edge of my bed and pat my leg and tell me everything would be ok. There was a freight train that passed a few blocks from our home. He would tell me about riding the rails and he told me when I was old enough to run and catch the train we would go away together and live on the road. He made being a hobo seem very exciting and romantic, and I lived for the day when we could go away together.

My grandfather died when I was eleven. I was the only one in the family who seemed particularly upset about it. At his funeral the minister told people not to cry for my grandfather as he was already burning in hell since he had not accepted religion the way they believed one should.  The minister used the funeral as an opportunity to make an altar call for other lost souls.

Some days later I did something that upset my grandmother and she started beating me with a razor strap she kept close at hand. My legs and arms were welting up as she raised her arm over and over to hit me. Suddenly she said, "Oh!" and stood up straight. She grabbed her arm and then turned and went and sat down in a chair. I ran into my room, fell across my bed and sobbed. I felt the edge of the bed sink down like someone had sat on it and felt a hand on my leg. I felt an enormous sense of peace. I looked over my shoulder, but of course there was no one there. In the distance I heard the whistle of the freight train going by.

I never felt my grandfather's presence again but years later when I was grown I met a woman who I believe had some psychic abilities. We were talking and she described a man who fit both my grandfather's looks and distinctive manner of dress exactly, and asked if I knew such a man.  I asked her why and she pointed across the street to an empty bench and said, "He's over there. He watches over you."

To contact the author, write to Estellaleigh Franenberg. 

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