North Star Writers Group

As you read this, somewhere a gentle little man who spent most of his life in the rolling hills of western New York State is smiling because of something that happened a couple of weeks ago in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Sally and I recently became grandparents again when our oldest son Bob and daughter-in-law Anita brought an eight-pound, one-ounce baby boy into the world at a hospital in Pittsburgh.

When Bob called to tell us the news, he began by declaring “It’s a baby!” and like all grandparents, Sally and I started whooping and hollering and swapping high-fives.

Then, after a brief pause, our son added, “And we’ve named our son Jesse Krishnan Batz.”

That’s when Sally turned to me with tears in her eyes and before long both of us were bawling like babies.

The late Jesse Smalley, the boy’s namesake, was Sally’s father and we cried the afternoon we found out our newest grandchild was named after him because we knew how proud that would make Jesse.

You see, Jesse was one of those special people you meet maybe once in a lifetime, provided you’re really lucky.

During the early days of World War II, Jesse worked on top-secret projects at a defense plant in Buffalo, N.Y. Security was high at the facility. Years later, he would tell stories about how employees were often followed to and from work.

At some point, he said goodbye to that good-paying but highly stressful job and went to work at one of the many sprawling vineyards that dot the western New York landscape.

There, Jesse found happiness planting, pruning and pampering fat, purple concord grapes that eventually ended up in the wine glasses of the world.

Every December, Jesse and his wife Rose made the drive to Ohio to spend some time with us. The year we bought a house with a grape arbor out back, I asked Jesse for tips on caring for my concords.

“The big thing,” he told me, “Is pruning them at the proper time, and the proper time for concords in Ohio is on New Year’s Day.”

“You mean around New Year’s Day, don’t you?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “I mean on New Year’s Day.”

So, the next January 1, there was Bob – pruning shears in hand – braving sub-zero temperatures and a frigid 30-mile-an-hour north wind to stand on a step ladder and prune his grapes.

As it turned out, Jesse was absolutely right. The following fall I was blessed with a bumper crop of concords.

Jesse Smalley, whose ashes were scattered over his backyard flower garden after he died in 1991 at age 76, was some kind guy.

He was always the first person at the dinner table to volunteer to say “grace” . . . he could quote entire passages from the Bible word-for-word . . . he loved to gather children on his lap and read them bedtime stories.

And then, of course, there were the sardines.

Every Christmas, as the grandkids tore into their gifts on the living room floor, Jesse would eye the proceedings from the comfort of his favorite easy chair with a cold beer in his hand and a plate of sardines on his lap.

As he ate the sardines one forkful at a time, chewing slowly so he could savor the saltiness of the snack, Sally and I and the kids would be secretly gagging because none of us could stand the taste of sardines.

Once I found out my newest grandchild would be named after Sally’s father, I made myself a promise that when the child is a bit older, I’m going to take him onto my lap some day and give him a few pointers on growing concord grapes.

Sally, on the other hand, has already given the new baby a special gift.

When we drove out to Pittsburgh two days after young Jesse was born, she took along a few clothing items, several baby toys and one more thing.

It was a can of sardines.

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