Tom Sawyer and Mel Selle

My Grandpa Selle, my personal Tom Sawyer, died a few weeks ago. His accomplishments were many, but he’d be mortified if I shared them in public, so I’ll focus on what he gifted his grandkids.

Grandpa came from a family of erzählers — I reckon farmers are natural storytellers with all the time they have sitting on Ford tractors between the rows, polishing tales until they gleam. But while many tales favor the teller, Grandpa’s were self-deprecating and grateful to God (and an overworked guardian angel). Farmboys are never far from danger, and they must feel nauseous in the few moments when they aren’t, because they go sprinting back toward it.

Not all adults are skilled at communicating with kids. There is, intrinsic in childhood, a scale to adventure that can never be replicated as an adult. Events are larger, the world is not only more colorful but more fantastic, and the laws are somehow arbitrary (bedtime) and absolute (sharing). The shades of gray that bedevil the post-pubescent haven’t set in yet, so characters in one’s life are either completely evil (e.g., a strict teacher) or angels (e.g., a doting aunt).

Grandpa, having always been an educator, never forgot what it was like to be his grandkids’ ages, and his stories reassured us that — intentionally or accidentally — learning the hard way was quite all right so long as we gained something from the experience.

A couple of stories, if you don’t mind. The first, “Bullies and Boxing,” details the bigotries of small differences — in this case, the “city slickers” in the small town of Dale and farmboys, the “country bumpkins,” who were their targets.

I‘m in the second or third grade. I‘m downtown in Dale, standing in front of the drugstore. I‘m surrounded by the city kids from Dale. They are calling me names and pushing and shoving me. I can‘t run all the way back to school. They have me outnumbered. I‘m cornered. I feel like crying.

The kids in our school usually got along with each other. However, sometimes there would be strife between the city slickers and the country bumpkins.

Lucky for me the druggist came out to see what the problem was about. He scolded the other kids, I think he later told my father that the town kids had ganged up on me. It wasn‘t long before Dad bought us two pairs of boxing gloves. [My older brother] Ray was supposed to teach me to box so I could defend myself. 

This was exciting! We put on the shiny new gloves. They had lots of soft padding in them. They even smelled new. But how could I box against Ray? He was 6 years older than me and much taller. We decided that he should stand on his knees. Then we would be the same height and it would be a fair fight. 

I was about to learn another lesson. 

I went right after him, throwing haymakers, hooks and jabs. He was able to block all my punches. Worse yet, even though he was my height (by being on his knees), his arms were much longer and stronger than mine. It wasn‘t long before he punched back at me.

“WHAM!!! Right in the nose! More blood all over the place! My poor nose.”

Be careful when fighting your older brother because he always has a trick up his sleeve. And sometimes even a boxing glove.

The second story, “Seehauer‘s Hill,” is a personal favorite because of what it emphasizes. For those of you in the South, you may never have known the joy of bombing down snow-covered hills and breaking distance records, but for those of us tundra-types, the sledding hill was where legends were made, trees avoided, and jumps launched from (often resulting in clavicular disaster). 

One year, I got a pair of skis for Christmas. I tried them out on the barn bridge. That was a slope that allowed us to drive up to the second floor of the barn. It seemed to work pretty well, but I didn‘t get much time to practice. 

On Sunday afternoon, Dad said he would take me to Seehauers‘ hill to go skiing and sledding. Great! We picked up two of my friends, Peanuts and his brother Wayne. When we got to the big hill, I headed for the top with my skis. For some reason unknown to me, Dad kept urging me to walk farther down the hill before putting on my skis. I couldn‘t imagine why, but thought I‘d humor him. Finally, when I was less than halfway up the hill, he was satisfied. I was a bit frustrated, but I put my feet into the ski straps and took off down the hill. 

Whee!!! Here I go! Plop! Down I went. 

I had gone at least 10 feet before falling on my back. Somewhat embarrassed, I got up and continued for another 20 feet. This time I ended up with my face in the snow. 

“Oh no!!! There goes one of my skis without me. It‘s going so fast and so far! This is so embarrassing. And why does Dad have that big grin on his face?” 

I made several more attempts, but never was able to go all the way down from the top on my skis without falling at least once. So I stuck the skis back in the car and got out my trusty sled. This was a wooden sled with steel runners. That‘s what everybody had. This would work much better. 

I went down the hill at break–neck speed, lying on my stomach. The snow was crusty and hard so the sled went right over the top. About half way down the runners broke through the snow and the sled came to an abrupt stop. My legs came right up off the sled and I flipped up and over (“Ooohh! That hurt my back!“But, no blood. Back up the hill to try it again.)

This time I chose a different route. Maybe I would miss the area where my sled sunk into the deep snow. No luck. This time, when the sled broke through the crust and stopped, I slid right off and kept going. Face-first right into the deep snow. 

“Ooooohhhh!!!” My face pushed into the the cold, hard crusty snow. Snow under my shirt collar, in my ears, up my sleeves, in my gloves!!! 

“Something is wrong here. I’ve been on Seehauers‘ Hill for a whole hour, the most wonderful sledding hill in the township, and I haven‘t had one good run.” 

So I walked around and looked carefully at the area where the sleds would break through the crust. I found a place where the crust was thicker. “Maybe my sled will go right over the top if I try it here.” 

Back to the top of the hill. This time I had a plan. By this time there were about a dozen kids sledding. Some of them had gone quite a bit farther than I had. I looked down the hill. “If I can steer around the right side of that soft spot...and then go left past that bush . . . then I‘ll be able to slide as far as anyone else did.” 

There was always competition to see who could go the farthest. Based on what I had learned on the last two painful trips down the hill, I decided to sit up on the sled with my feet forward. That way I could steer with my feet and I wouldn‘t risk plowing my face into the snow. 

Wheeee!!! Here I go! Picking up speed. Now steer to the right! Will I make it past the soft spot??? Yes!!! I made it! Now steer left. Around the bush? Yes! More speed. I‘m almost flying now! I‘ve already gone farther than the others!!! I may set a new world‘s record! What‘s that ahead?!?!? A fence??? A barbed wire fence? A BARBED WIRE FENCE!!! There‘s no gate!!! The bottom wire is too low!!! I‘m going so fast!!! Wwwwhhhhaaaaa . . .” 

What do you think happened next? I was not hurt, but how do you think I got out of this jam? 

Oh, I could tell you that my quick thinking saved the day, but that would be stretching it a bit. 

I think that God gave me the chance to think clearly in the final seconds before reaching the sharp barbs on the fence. Or maybe he sent my guardian angel to give me a nudge at the last moment. Remember that I was sitting up on the sled. One barbed wire was about at the height of my stomach, one at the height of my face, and one was higher. 

At the last instant, I rolled off the sled to lie flat on my stomach. The snow had a very slippery crust. I kept sliding, feet first, right under the bottom wire. When I stopped some distance past the fence, I looked up to see my cap hanging from a barb on the bottom wire. 

“Wow! What a ride!” 

I stood up, but my knees felt wobbly, like rubber. I turned to get my sled. “Where is it???” 

Then I saw it. Way down there by the woods. My sled probably broke the hill record for greatest distance even if I wasn‘t on it.

A child is blessed indeed if he has an adult in his life who knows what it is to not know, and has the patience and wisdom to share his experiences in a way a kid can appreciate. Most adults are true to Peanuts form, talking at kids without ever saying something that translates. Not so with Grandpa, who took an interest in our interests. In my case, that was chess.

He turned the pieces on a lathe, designed and built the board from oak, walnut, and bloodwood, and took me to a tournament in Madison. I won $50, an archduke’s ransom for a kid. Thirty-two years with such a man is a gift. I can only be grateful.

Grandpa passed with my sister holding his hand and my cousin, a nurse practitioner, on his other side. Grandma had just stepped out to talk with other family members. It was as good a passing as any of us could wish for, and we celebrate the fact that he has a new body in Heaven with which to explore Creation perfected.