Grandpa Leary
In honor of St. Patrick's Day a reflection on my grandfather - Walter "Ted" Clark Leary.
Ted grew up on a large farm on the Eastern Shore of North Carolina.
He was one of fourteen children. His father had seven children with his first wife, and seven with his second.
When Ted was three his father died and as his mother had her hands full with the farm, and given the fact that he was the baby, he managed to get in a good bit of fishing and reading.
At fifteen he was sent off to boarding school, and from there he went to NC State, and having a knack for math and fixing things, he decided on a degree in Engineering.
He also walked onto the wrestling team, which he loved but it led to cauliflower ear and partial deafness in one ear. He was short, but strong - you could never knock him off his feet.
When he graduated, he sold his share of the farm and moved to Charlotte and there met and married my grandmother, Mildred McCraven. He was a faithful husband, Baptist and a Mason of the third degree (which used to fascinate me, especially when I read the DaVinci Code).
The Leary family can trace its roots to before the Revolution. No one is sure why they left Ireland, but the theory is that it was largely for religious reasons. The family has been Protestant for a long as we can tell. Odd for a Leary whose ancestry traces to county Cork.
Ted's father and uncles fought for the Confederacy in the Civil War and he was handed down a pistol and a rifle Ted, in turn, handed it down to his only child, my mother.
So here I am in a world that feels a million miles away and yet it is only two generations. I could be a Daughter of the American Revolution, a Daughter of the Confederacy and a legacy member of the Masons or Eastern Star or some such, but I have no interest in any of this. Many of my southern peers cling to their family histories - this never held my interest. I was too ready to move on - to leave the racist legacy of the South, to be on my own.
I only hang on to the stories.
Stories of the Chowan river: fishing, camping, searching for Indian treasure, the story about learning to wring a chicken's neck, the story about the ball of lighting that rolled across the floor in the outhouse and left a burn, the story of the hurricane that almost swept his sisters away in Edenton. The story of the grandson of a former slave who traced his heritage and came to find my grandfather when my mother was twelve - they stood on the porch and my mother listened through the screen door - these are the stories I carry with me.
Ted grew up on a large farm on the Eastern Shore of North Carolina.
He was one of fourteen children. His father had seven children with his first wife, and seven with his second.
When Ted was three his father died and as his mother had her hands full with the farm, and given the fact that he was the baby, he managed to get in a good bit of fishing and reading.
At fifteen he was sent off to boarding school, and from there he went to NC State, and having a knack for math and fixing things, he decided on a degree in Engineering.
He also walked onto the wrestling team, which he loved but it led to cauliflower ear and partial deafness in one ear. He was short, but strong - you could never knock him off his feet.
When he graduated, he sold his share of the farm and moved to Charlotte and there met and married my grandmother, Mildred McCraven. He was a faithful husband, Baptist and a Mason of the third degree (which used to fascinate me, especially when I read the DaVinci Code).
The Leary family can trace its roots to before the Revolution. No one is sure why they left Ireland, but the theory is that it was largely for religious reasons. The family has been Protestant for a long as we can tell. Odd for a Leary whose ancestry traces to county Cork.
Ted's father and uncles fought for the Confederacy in the Civil War and he was handed down a pistol and a rifle Ted, in turn, handed it down to his only child, my mother.
So here I am in a world that feels a million miles away and yet it is only two generations. I could be a Daughter of the American Revolution, a Daughter of the Confederacy and a legacy member of the Masons or Eastern Star or some such, but I have no interest in any of this. Many of my southern peers cling to their family histories - this never held my interest. I was too ready to move on - to leave the racist legacy of the South, to be on my own.
I only hang on to the stories.
Stories of the Chowan river: fishing, camping, searching for Indian treasure, the story about learning to wring a chicken's neck, the story about the ball of lighting that rolled across the floor in the outhouse and left a burn, the story of the hurricane that almost swept his sisters away in Edenton. The story of the grandson of a former slave who traced his heritage and came to find my grandfather when my mother was twelve - they stood on the porch and my mother listened through the screen door - these are the stories I carry with me.
"So here I am in a world that feels a million miles away and yet it is only two generations." It is remarkably distant, isn't it. My dad was a Mason and I loved sneaking in to look at (and touch) his apron. He kept it in a leather case and writing this, I can smell its scent. Thanks for bringing that back to me.
ReplyDeleteWhat a rich story about your grandfather. I can't get over your great grandmother left with all of those children after her husband died when your grandfather was three. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI can so related to this golden line- "So here I am in a world that feels a million miles away and yet it is only two generations." Carrying on stories (rather than a legacy) is definitely a way to move forward. Thank you for your candid reflection on a topic so many of us find hard to discuss.
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