I had such a good response from my recent Facebook post about my grandfather, that I thought I would write a little something about my paternal grandfather, James G. Coleman, Sr.
Unfortunately, I had precious little time with him. When I was about 3 1/2 years old, we received a call that he had died of a heart attack. This was before any of my 5 siblings or 3 cousins on my father's side of the family had even been born.
So I am the only one of my generation to have memories of "Pawpaw" Coleman.
There are three that stand out. One direct, the others by means of photographs.
First, the direct memory. I remember my grandfather liked to play on the floor with me. After a certain amount of roughhousing, he would order some warm milk for me, presumably to help me get to sleep. Because I really have a memory of playing on the floor with him, it must have happened shortly before his death.
Second, there is a great picture that one of my parents must have taken. It would seem that Pawpaw Coleman was given the task of putting me down for a nap. The picture shows us both on a bed and guess which one was sleeping. I was bright eyed and Pawpaw was in dreamland.
Finally, I know there are pictures of me with my grandfather's golf driver (or whatever it was called in those days) in my hands addressing a golf ball. The club was taller than I was and I have no idea whether I ever hit the ball.
As it turns out, a decade later, I came across my grandfather's golf clubs in a closet or some other storage space. They were in an old fashioned golf bag. I asked my grandmother if I could have them and she, of course, agreed.
I would play golf with friends on the 9 hole municipal golf course close to our home. I remember riding a bicycle to the course with my golf bag over my shoulder.
The woods were still in reasonable shape. I had to buy a set of irons from a discount department store. I could only afford one-half of the irons, so I bought the odd numbers (3,5,7, and 9). The woods were really made of wood and, if I knew where they were, they would be priceless (at least to me). I gave up on golf around the time I was 15 or so and I don't know what happened to the clubs after that.
But that leads me to another story told by my father, James G. Coleman, Jr. My dad would comment from time to time that he hated golf. When I would ask him why, he told this story. My grandfather would play golf every Saturday and my father would caddy for him. Now, it seems that my grandfather was a no better golfer than I am (still waiting to break 100). He also had quite a temper. So, if he had a bad shot (and there must have been quite a few of them) he would hurl the offending club into the nearest water hazard. My father would have to retrieve it for him so the round could continue.
Sad to say, that temper must have been genetically passed on the Y chromosome to both my father and subsequently to me. For dad, unruly children would send him over the edge. For me, errant golf shots and hitting my head in the attic proved to be my undoing.
