I have few recollections of my paternal grandfather, J.B. Stilwell. My grandparents already seemed so old when I was a wee lass. Pardon me. I just dove into my Ancestry DNA origins page. I’m more Scottish than any other heritage, so I’m channeling the words of my people. Was that too feeble of an attempt at humor? The crickets in the background agree. Anyway, whether they were old in age or simply old-fashioned in their habits, probably a bit of both, I didn’t interact with them as often as I did with my mom’s parents. Still, I recall my Gramp dressed to the nines all of the time. He operated a barber shop in the parlor of his modest Wilmer, TX bungalow. There’s nothing like the smell of a barbershop. Give me a whiff of 3 Roses Hair Tonic, some “mixed on the spot” shaving cream, and a bit of Brut aftershave and I will go on for hours about this legend of a man. He wore a barber smock each day: pristine white, zipper up the front, embroidered flowers down the lapels. I recall the white color was blinding. Granny Stilwell once told me she never used bleach, just lemon juice and sunlight. I still live by those words. There he would stand with his horn-rimmed black glasses and his perpetual perfectly trimmed flattop haircut, sporting a crooked smile and a twinkle in his eye. My memory has trouble differentiating between Gramp recollections and those of my own father. That is how closely they resembled each other. Now, my grandparents had 5 children. Many of those children had 5 or more children. I was one of many grandkids. My privilege existed in the fact that I was the youngest granddaughter. Also, there was the fact of my eyes. They are, what is still recognized as the primary family trait, Stilwell eyes – dark brown, heavily browed, and slightly downturned at the edges. This was a fact never unmentioned by Gramp. If we visited on Sundays, he’d be in dress slacks and glossy black wing tip shoes, even though church was never his thing. He wouldn’t so much as step off of his porch without his signature Fedora. He’d get in the floor with me and act like a bear, making growling noises and swiping at me with his “gramp-paw”. I would shriek with laughter and he would sit back on his knees and laugh with me. As his Alzheimer’s took hold, the bear game stuck with us until the end. I was seventeen when he passed away. I remember thinking how ironic it was that all his late-in-life speech attempts sounded like his sweet, cuddly bear alter-ego. That sums up all I knew about this adorable old guy. It’s funny how we don’t realize that our elders had lives and adventures and tragedies of their own, that we are only chapters of a much larger story.
If you’ve ever tried having a conversation with me, you’ve probably told me I might have an attention deficit issue. It’s near impossible for me to stay within a certain line of thought. I typically return home at least 3 times before I go anywhere – so many things to remember. I keep shoes in my car because I used to show up at work barefooted on a regular basis. I love structure but being organized is not a skill I keep in my wheelhouse. Even if I could remember where the darn wheelhouse is, I’m quite sure I misplaced the wheels along the way. Yet, I try. The youngsters are telling everyone to do a digital detox nowadays. They say it helps you declutter your life. One of the tips was to get rid of any phone apps you haven’t used in 6 months. The next step is culling your email. I have over 20,000 unread emails. I’m not cut out for this life. But, let’s talk about those apps. As I was going through and deleting, I noticed there was a message waiting inside one of the tiles. It was some free genealogy program I downloaded years ago. I tapped on the indicator. The message said there was a document that potentially coordinated with the family tree I’d started. I was instructed to tap on the attachment to see a picture of said document. And, one tap later, there he was, my Gramp. It was September of 1918. A nineteen-year-old James Benard (like Leonard) Stilwell had completed a draft registration card for WWI. I’m sorry. Did you catch that? I said world stinking war – THE FIRST ONE. He lived in Ferris at the time. His listed occupation was farming. That makes total sense because his parents were sharecroppers near Bristol. He checked the medium box for height, the slender box for build, and the brown box for eyes and hair. And there, at the bottom, was my great-grandfather’s signature – C.M. Stillwell. Oh, the stories my father told me about his grandpa, Charlie Mims, were amazing. I should’ve known all this. The dates were right there in front of me. My grandfather was the appropriate age for the first world war, born in 1899. Many phone calls and text messages to my older brothers/cousins later, I can tell you he never served. A little more than a month after he registered, an armistice was signed, and Germany’s leader stepped down. The bloody conflict of the Triple Entente was over, just in the nick of time for J.B. He went on to play his fiddle in many a honky-tonk band, cut many a flattop haircut, and played with many a grandchild in the floor, bear pawing at our very hearts. One mystery remains. Why do we use 3 “Ls” in Stilwell when Charlie Mims used 4? Maybe the answer is in my wheelhouse. Artist credit for the portrait of J.B. Stilwell goes to my cousin, Frank Price, in Andrews, TX.
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