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My
Czech-Moravian maternal grandfather was a talented, if sometimes
quirky, man. He spent his early youth with his family in what was
then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was apprenticed to
a cabinetmaker in Germany when he was 14 to learn a trade and complete
his scholastic education, and when he immigrated with his family
to Texas at age 18, he brought some of those carpentry and building
skills with him. He and my grandmother spent a lifetime sharecropping,
growing cotton, mainly, and living in the landowner's houses as
part of their income. He taught other farmers in the Burleson County
area some of the European techniques for plowing hilly, uneven land
in order to prevent soil erosion.
Aside from farming, Grandpa also had some artistic inclinations.
He once sent away for plans to make violins and made at least 3
or 4 in various sizes, two of which I have, employing his skills
as a hand carver and some newly learned ones involving steaming
the wood in order to make it curve and bend as necessary to make
the body of the instruments. He hand carved cow horn to make the
lower string connectors and also hand carved the necks, including
scrolly tops. A couple of old Mrs. Burn's horses in a nearby pasture
provided the horsetail necessary to string the hand carved bows.
One year he decided to make some yard art, long legged storks, I
think they were supposed to be. Storks figure in Czech culture and
folklore, but I'm not sure where, precisely. He carved two wooden
frames of the birds' outlines in two different poses and, using
rebar rods for the bird's long legs, thinner rods to reinforce their
necks and wire mesh for the bodies, he poured a cement mixture in
the molds and let them harden. Then he painted them in several different
colors and tones to create detail and poked the rods in the ground
in the front yard of their house in Caldwell.
One year Grandpa painted the birds in shades of salmon pink and
my brother Butch and I decided they had become flamingos since our
last visit.
That painting
thing, that was perhaps Grandpa's most quirky habit. He was a great
one for barter and also enjoyed doing things for other friends and
neighbors, especially older people. He loved to trade for “stuff”,
too, rather than being paid in money. Somehow he seemed to end up
with a near continuous supply of leftover paint from some of these
trades, and he managed to use almost all of it, often to my Granny's
chagrin. He painted everything in sight until the paint was all
gone, the wooden fence, the trim on the house, outbuildings, those
storks, the metal lawn chairs and his late 20's Model A Ford, a
four door flat topped sedan, if there was enough to go around. The
big question always on our minds as we neared Caldwell
from Beaumont
was what color we were going to see plastered everywhere as we rounded
the corner to the left onto O' Neal Street. My mother and her sister
usually started wondering aloud when we reached Brenham,
about 36 miles out. The usual expression upon sighting the house
and yard was usually a variation on “Oh, Daddy, what were you thinking?”
Or “I thought he couldn't get any worse than the last time!” From
Granny we heard “Oh, that Frank Nedbalek, such a crazy!” in her
heavily accented English when my mother or aunt asked where he had
gotten that particular batch of paint. Grandpa saved string, rubber
bands, nails, screws, bits and pieces of wood, but never did he
seem to have any leftover paint. He seemed compelled to use the
very last ounce of every color. Who knows, he might have become
another famous Moravian painter like his countryman, Alfons Maria
Mucha, had he been able to further his fine art studies.
The most arresting, startling might be a better word, example of
the unleashing of Grandpa's inner artist was what came to be known
informally as “The Year Of the Aluminum Paint”. On that visit we
rounded the corner on a very bright, hot, sunshiny day, anticipating
hugs from both grandparents, of taking a spearmint leaf from the
plants by the front door and crushing it between finger and thumb,
a tradition followed by every member of the family, of being able
to chomp into Granny's prune and poppy seed kolaches and checking
out any new chickens and ducks that may have been added since our
last visit. Instead we were blinded, retinas frying right inside
our heads, by the sight of just about EVERYTHING covered in gleaming
silver metallic paint, the house trim, the wooden fence, the mailbox
and wooden post, the big tractor tire planters in the front yard,
the storks, the metal lawn chairs, the Model A, right down to the
spokes on the wheels, even the big outhouse way at the back of the
lot, the toilet seats inside also gleaming in the dim light. Nothing
escaped Grandpa's deranged brush, it appeared. The sunlight seemed
to reflect from every surface, and for once Mama was speechless.
Not even a low moan escaped her lips. Once my brother Butch and
I recovered from the initial shock we were captivated by the surreal
scene before us. I don't recall so many things ever being monochromatically
adorned before that or after. This was truly the zenith of Grandpa's
efforts to “redd up” the home place. He must have stumbled onto
the mother lode, hit pay dirt, scored a bonanza in the silver mine
of paint. I think he must have acquired gallons and gallons of the
stuff, more than he usually ended up with. I'd be willing to bet
that the gleam could be seen as far away as Rockdale
which, coincidentally, was home to the Alcoa Aluminum plant. Not
only that, but Granny and Grandpa's lot was located directly in
front of the Nagel Aluminum Chair and Ladder factory. Hmm, I wonder
if there's a connection? I can still look back over the years and
imagine our Grandpa Frantisek Nedbalek as the Tin Woodsman in J.
Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Yep, I believe he
had searched for, and finally found, the highly sought silver lining
in an otherwise ordinary life.
© Frances Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
June 21, 2015 Column
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