Bob

Batz

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August 7, 2009

Remembering Elmer Dobbs . . . My Grandpa

Sometimes, usually when I least expect it, memories of my grandfather Elmer Dobbs come rolling back across the years to me.

It often happens when I’m eating pancakes.

I also find myself thinking of him whenever I’m fishing or driving past one of those friendly little family-owned taverns that are rapidly disappearing from the American landscape.

Elmer Dobbs, a wisp of a man with snow-white hair and a devilish sense of humor, died many, many years ago. In contrast to my grandmother Odiel Dobbs – a stern taskmaster when it came to dealing with grandkids – Grandpa Elmer was Santa Claus.

Grandma was a no-nonsense woman, perhaps because her parents named her Odiel, which wasn’t the most common first name for baby girls even way back then. Whatever the reason, Grandma Dobbs proved to be a major challenge for me, especially on all those bitter-cold Michigan Sunday mornings when she made me walk 11 miles to Sacred Heart Catholic Church because my grandparents didn’t own a car.

No matter how foul the weather, she always went to 6 a.m. mass, like maybe she wanted to get in good with God before other parishioners had a chance to or something. Many times I tried to convince her I was too ill to walk to church and that I should stay home with Grandpa Dobbs.

“I don’t feel good,” I’d tell her as we dressed for church.

“What’s wrong?” she‘d ask.

“I think I have malaria,” I’d tell her.

Then she’d frown and help me pull on my boots for the long trek ahead.    

  
Grandpa Dobbs – who called me “Robbie” – also had a favorite place to take me. Like my grandmother, he walked everywhere because they didn’t own a car, but unlike my grandmother, who made me hoof it 11 miles to church, he made me walk just two blocks to Dinty Moore’s, a cozy neighborhood tavern, to spend a little time with the men he used to work with at the Buick auto plant.

“We’re gonna take a little walk,” he’d announce every Saturday afternoon, and we’d be off. He never told my grandmother where we were going and to my knowledge she never asked.

Once we were inside the tavern, he would buy me a hamburger and a big orange drink and I’d sit there eating and listening to the retirees from the Buick plant exchange “war” stories about their days inside the sprawling factory.

The men – I don’t remember any of their names – made me feel welcome on those Saturday mornings a long, long time ago.

I was gone from Flint when my Grandfather Elmer died. But it’s the little things, like his smile and those Saturday’s at Dinty Moore’s and the way he called me “Robbie” and how he always ate his pancakes slathered in bacon grease that still linger in my mind. 

Oddly enough, I have nothing to remember my grandfather by except my memories . . . and, ya know what, that’s enough for me.

Contact Bob at bbatz@woh.rr.com

© 2009 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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