By Chase McLauchlin
Charles Roscoe Spitzer, my Grandfather, was born in Oklahoma in 1931. He was the seventh of fourteen children. As a child, he witnessed his four-year-old brother?s death when a wash basin full of boiling water fell on his head. The effects of the Dust Bowl forced his family off their farm and into poverty. They moved to New Mexico, where picking cotton provided the barest necessities. Charlie stopped going to school in the third grade and worked in the fields with his dad and older brothers.
One afternoon, when he was thirteen, he sat down on the shaded side of his family?s small house and tried to rest from the day?s work. A broom swatting him across the face woke him up. His mother snorted, ?Go on. Get out of here! We don?t need any more mouths to feed.?
Charlie left home with a few of his brothers. He became a migrant worker and picked beans, berries, cotton, and the likes throughout the western United States. Still young, Charlie was a magnet for trouble. The same year he was kicked out of his house was the same year he picked up smoking. Not much later he picked up drinking. He often found himself picking fights at the local tavern. When no one would fight him in the bars, he and his brothers would duke it out in the parking lot.
Needless to say, he spent many nights in jail. His life was full of mischief and funny stories all the way until he was drafted into the Army during the Korean War. He was stationed in California and parts of Oregon. The Army wasn?t much different than migrant work; he even made his way into the brig. He left the Army with nothing.
But he found a young girl working at a drug store. Not much later, they fell in love and married. They lived in a tiny house in inner-city Portland and Charlie made his living as a garbage man. They had three kids and spent their weekends picnicking and dancing at the local halls.
Charlie grew tired of being poor. He decided he wanted to be a plumber. He could hardly read or write, and, without a high school diploma, he wasn?t even qualified to be another plumber?s apprentice. He learned that he could bypass an apprenticeship if he passed the state?s licensing exam. Becoming a plumber became an obsession. He?d stay up all hours of the night mulling over plumbing text books. He learned to read as he learned to plumb.
After months of studying, Charlie took the exam and was the second highest scorer in the state.
He quickly started his own company and moved to a small suburb of Portland. He built a house on a hill where each of his neighbors called themselves Mormons and worshipped at a ?steak house.? His 13-year-old daughter, my mother Rose, became fascinated with the religion. He allowed her to be baptized. His two younger children were also baptized within the year.
Charlie, as stubborn as he is ambitious, would not join. But after five years, his children broke him. One night he stayed up and drank the rest of his liquor and smoked every last bit of tobacco he had. After thirty years, he quit smoking. A week later his son baptized him.
Charlie has been an upstanding member of the church ever since. Today his skin is tan and made leathery with years. Lines sink deep into his face. A scar sits on the side of his mouth from a horse bite. But behind his weathered face are soft eyes. Eyes that have been made pure from a life of trial and heart ache. They twinkle as he smiles.
His hair is still thick and dark, but it will soon be gone. Next week he undergoes chemotherapy and radiation. The years of smoking caught up with him ? he has lung cancer.
The time is not far off when Grandpa will no longer be in my life. But I will forever be influenced by his legacy. I have long felt his testimony of Jesus Christ and the restored Gospel. He was the first to teach me the Plan of Salvation. All but the youngest of his grandchildren are married in the Temple. His determination, fortitude and devotion will influence his family for generations.
A few years ago, my sister made a Thanksgiving tree. It was like a Christmas tree but family members would hang leaves on it with their names and something they were thankful for. I found his leaf and written on it was the word ?Famley.?
It made me cry. Family was the center of his life. It is now the center of mine. Families give us the love and refuge we all seek. Families are the greatest influence of our personalities and character. In a society where families are constantly denigrated, we must remember the strength we draw from them cannot be compromised. This Thanksgiving, remember what Famley means to you and hold fast to the ideals that make it strong.
Chase McLauchlin is a student in the Opinion Writing class