HEART of a TIGER

GROWING UP WITH MY GRANDFATHER, TY COBB

By HERSCHEL COBB

ECW PRESS

Copyright © 2013 Herschel Cobb
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77041-130-2

Contents

PREFACE, ix,
ONE The Snake River, Idaho, 1949, 1,
TWO 223 Pierce St., Twin Falls, Idaho, 34,
THREE The Passing of Two Sons, 60,
FOUR Mist and Clarity at Lake Tahoe, 95,
FIVE The North Shore Club, 131,
SIX My First Visit to His Office, 166,
SEVEN A Chance Meeting in the Night, 199,
EIGHT Spencer Lane to Cave Rock, Through Lodi, 225,
NINE “So, You Met Mr. Al Stump!”, 246,
TEN July 17, 1961, and Beyond, 273,

CHAPTER 1

The Snake River,Idaho, 1949

I sat between my father and my grandfather in the front seatof my father’s Packard, being bounced around as we incheddown a rutted dirt road. High above in the darkness loomedthe rim of the Snake River Canyon. We were headed to myfather’s small boathouse, set on the river’s edge. The headlightsjumped up and down, left and right as we lurched from potholeto pothole. My father also shined a spotlight along our path withhis outstretched left hand as he steered the car with his right,wanting to avoid a fallen branch or startled deer. From our houseto the dirt road had taken only twenty minutes, but we wouldneed another twenty-five minutes to wind down the face of thecanyon. My dad told me we’d sleep at the boathouse, then get upbefore dawn to go duck hunting. I was dreading the opportunity.I was frightened whenever Dad had a gun in his hands, and thisafternoon he had said it was time I grew up and learned howto shoot.

Granddaddy had arrived earlier that evening to visit us in TwinFalls, partly to hunt ducks with my dad, but really to see how myfather was spending the huge sum of money he had given hima few years before. My father’s latest purchase was a new Chris-Craftspeedboat, which was moored at the boathouse. My fatherwas grim-faced as he drove. Both he and my mother despisedbeing held accountable, resented any intrusion on how they spentthe money that was given to them.

Granddaddy had visited us last year, and I had a vivid recollectionof him. The hair on his head was thin, and he was roly-polyin the middle. Yet his voice was warm and direct, and when hepicked me up, his grip was strong yet gentle. He took in everythingaround him, seemingly looking right into me and at thesame time noticing every look and motion I made, and when hesmiled, his eyes twinkled. When he greeted my sister, Susan, andme, I felt like he had come all the way to Idaho just to see us. Headored Susan, two years older than me, with her light red hair thathung in large curls and her lovely smile. She paid special attentionto him, prompting him to laugh and tell her stories. He loved tosit her on his knee to talk about almost anything.

By the time of his visit this year, the leaves on the trees hadalready turned golden, then rust, and drifted listlessly to theground. I liked autumn because snow would soon fall and I wouldhave my seventh birthday at the end of the year, in December. So,I was excited my grandfather was coming—until Dad told me Iwas coming along with them to learn how to shoot a shotgun.

Granddaddy had come for dinner before the three of us wereto leave for the river. Dad wanted to fix a fancy meal, but mymother objected. During the afternoon they started drinkingwhisky, arguing and yelling at each other. I watched from behinda doorway. My mother felt a special tension on these occasions.She knew how much Granddaddy disliked her. He regarded heras a grasping freeloader. He had heard an earful of her complaintsthat she expected to live the life of a socialite in L.A. and “yourson isn’t moving fast enough.” He never forgot her selfish whiningor forgave her liquor-fueled gripes. In revenge, she relentlesslybelittled and henpecked my father.

When Granddaddy came to visit, she chafed at his disgust, butshe didn’t dare say anything. She yelled at Dad instead, saying itwas her house and she didn’t like his father telling her anything.

Dad became more agitated as the afternoon passed. He knewhe would have to account for his new speedboat. As his angerbuilt, I crept upstairs to hide. I knew his temper would rise likethe pressure inside a geyser. Anything around him was in dangerof being hit, smashed, and destroyed, and if he saw me, he wouldsurely grab me and give me a beating. Susan was already hiding inher room, and when I appeared at her door, she told me, “I knewthis would happen.”

Granddaddy arrived wearing hunting clothes, and he put hisguns and gear straightaway in Dad’s car. His boots were lacedup just below his knees, his pants were thick and stiff, and hewore three shirts bunched up by suspenders clasped onto his belt.He carried his tin cloth–hunting jacket on one arm. I knew hehunted every year with his friends in the mountains of Wyoming,and I wondered if he wore the same clothes there.

When we heard the doorbell, Susan and I rushed downstairs.Mother quickly emptied her glass of whisky into the sink. Whenshe opened the door, Granddaddy brushed right past her andpicked up Susan, hugging her and then me. He sat down in a bigeasy chair, put Susan on his knee, and began talking and laughingwith her. I rested my chin on the armrest, hoping to be noticed.His big right hand came over and squeezed my nose, as if to tellme I was next. My brother, Kit, who was just two years old, satnearby playing with his toys.

Yet beneath the surface, trouble was brewing. We knewthe danger signals in our house. Mother was already mad. Dadappeared, ready to yell at her, saw his father, and abruptly left theroom. When he returned, he suggested we have dinner right awaybecause we had to get to the Snake.

Susan and I were used to eating dinners on tenterhooks,awaiting an explosion of anger, but we were spared that night.Granddaddy’s presence kept my parents at bay. They didn’t havetheir usual glasses of whisky at the table, and the meal passedwithout any of the yelling I had feared.

Mother even tried to be interested in Granddaddy’s chatterabout duck hunting. Yet when she dared make a remark, he glaredat her and bluntly asked, “Say, what happened to that fellow whosehouse your husband filled up with water?”

Mother started to fire right back, but stopped with her mouthopen, unable to yell at my grandfather the way she would withmy father. Instead, she sprang to her feet and retreated into thekitchen. Susan and I exchanged glances, hiding secret smiles. Weknew what had happened.

The previous summer, we had returned from a June vacationto discover that the entire outside of our house had been paintedbright pink. The scale of destructive pranks Dad and Mom playedon their circle of friends had escalated over the past few years.Even though they paid for repairs, their antics had passed thepoint of being funny or clever, becoming more ruinous and grotesque.Dad was furious and stormed around the neighborhood,knocking on doors trying to find out who had painted his house.Eventually, Dad found out the culprit.

In August, the man and his family left town on their ownsummer vacation. The next afternoon, Dad called, “Hersch, comewith me. We’re going to have some fun.”

I followed him to the man’s house. He found a window hecould open, ran a garden hose inside, turned the faucet on fullblast, made sure the room was filling with water, and left. Twoweeks later, the family returned home to find the whole first floorand everything in it floating in three feet of water—all of theirthings had been ruined. The man stormed to our house, waving ashotgun, looking for my dad. My mom called the police, and theyforced the man to give up his shotgun and took him away.

Dad complained that he was “just getting even.” Although hepaid for all the damage, he never apologized, and the episodebecame a story he bragged about to everyone. It was easy for himto lash out, destroy things, because he never had to suffer the consequences.He did have to suffer, however, the humiliation of hisown father calling him out on his vicious prank. That was anotherreason I was dreading going to the Snake River to hunt. The pressureinside my father was building, and just about anything nowwas liable to make him blow up.

We slowly wound down the narrow dirt road toward theSnake River, bounced around by ruts and hairpin turns. Babe,our small chocolate Labrador retriever, rode in the back seat. Eachtime I bumped into Dad, he gave me a shove with his elbow andtold me to watch out. After an extra hard shove, Granddaddycradled his arm around me and pulled me over toward him, andwe bounced together.

“How far to your place?” Granddaddy asked.

My father glanced over at us. “Not that far, but with theseswitchbacks, twenty minutes or so, maybe a little longer.”

Granddaddy responded, “Well, then, take it easy. It’s bumpyas hell. Oh, sorry, Hersch.” He looked down at me, apologizingfor the swear word he’d used. He had to be aware that I heard farworse in my household. He lifted his left arm off my shoulder andunzipped the gun cover he was holding next to his legs. Twin barrelsof a shotgun appeared, and Granddaddy flicked on the dashlight and the overhead. The barrels were nearly black, with a dullsheen finish. He pulled the gun cover down the barrels, revealingthe steel near the trigger guards and part of the stock.

“You sure that’s empty?” Dad asked.

“Sure. I’ll show you.” Granddaddy broke open the barrels andstuck his fingers up inside. “Safe as can be.”

My father had plenty of guns, but he had never shown mehow they worked and I was not allowed anywhere near them. Iwas fascinated to be sitting so close to a real shotgun.

Granddaddy nudged the gun cover toward the floor and therest of the shotgun emerged. It was still broken open where theends of the barrels met the stock. He smiled at me and said proudly,”There you go, Hersch. Twelve-gauge, side-by-side, double triggers,forward and back. Beautiful.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I did notice thatthe whole steel plate above the trigger guard and half of the barrelwas carved with a hunting scene of a small lake, reeds, a hunterholding a gun, birds flying overhead, and engraved words.

In the dim light of the dash, I could read, “Presented to TyCobb” and “City of Detroit.” There was more writing and a date.I knew the words “Ty Cobb”—that was my granddaddy. ButI’d never heard of “City of Detroit” and didn’t know what thatmeant. That didn’t bother me, though, because I was awed thatsomeone was able to carve into steel so beautifully. I touched thebarrel and the side plate, tracing “Ty Cobb” and the hunting scenewith my fingertips.

Granddaddy put his left arm back around my shoulder andheld his shotgun in his right hand, braced against his leg. “I haven’tused this much, Hersch. It’s mostly for show. But I thought I’dbring it along to show you, and maybe test it out.” He turned outthe overhead light but left the dashboard light on. I sat in silence,eyeing his shotgun and looking out the window, hoping to see adeer or some other animal.

Nobody talked for a while, until Granddaddy asked my fatherwhat I liked to do best. “Does little Hersch like to hunt or fishmore?”

“Neither, really. Hasn’t fired a gun yet. Still a sissy, I think. Playswith his stuffed toys.”

Daddy’s voice was muffled, but the gruff answer cut into mythoughts. I was always on alert if he sounded like he was angry.I didn’t know what “sissy” meant, but it was true that I liked mystuffed animals. Granddaddy’s hand squeezed my shoulder andthen patted it. He didn’t say anything but winked at me. I likedthat he thought stuffed animals were just fine.

The deeper we descended into the canyon of the Snake, thedarker it became. I was afraid of the dark because nighttime wasfull of bogeymen, or so Dad told me. He had told me about thebogeyman from the earliest time I could remember. Every time Ididn’t behave or he wanted me to do something, he told me thebogeyman would get me.

A wave of anxiety overcame me, and I suddenly pleaded,”Hurry up, Daddy. The bogeyman’s out there.” I pointed out thewindows of the car.

“The what?” my grandfather boomed in my ear. “What didyou say? What’s out there?” he was asking my father.

“It’s nothing, Dad. I’ll tell you later,” my father respondedquickly. “Hersch,” he said, “stop your fretting. We’ll be there soonenough.” He gripped the top of the steering wheel with his righthand, curling his shoulder upward, partially shielding his facefrom view.

With the dash light still on, I could see Granddaddy wasexamining his son severely. He’d heard what I’d said. I movedcloser to Granddaddy. His arm wrapped around me, and I relishedthe comfort it provided. My father never held me this way.

Granddaddy didn’t say anything the rest of the way to theboathouse, and I didn’t dare open my mouth. I knew Daddy wasseething because he drove faster, hit the bumps harder, and wrestledthe car sharply around the tight turns. I didn’t know whatscared me more, the bogeymen outside the car or my father inside.

“We’ll be there any moment now,” my father finallyannounced. He rolled down his window, letting cold air and therushing sound of the Snake River fill the car. I breathed in deeply.The air tasted clean and exciting. Even though I knew what waslurking out there in the dark, I loved the excitement of just barelybeing able to see through the trees, and at the same time, beingable to look straight up, overhead, and see millions of stars.

Daddy parked in front of the boathouse, rushed to open thefront door, and yelled back to us, “Wait a minute, I’ll get thelanterns lit.” The boathouse didn’t have electricity, so we usedkerosene lamps for light and a propane stove for cooking. It hadan icebox, but we didn’t bother to bring in any blocks of icebecause we weren’t staying long enough.

Granddaddy opened his door and said, “Come on, Hersch,we’ll unload the trunk.”

I scooted out and stood upright, holding onto the car door.My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark, and I couldn’t see anythingbeyond the car. I felt Granddaddy’s hand take mine and shovesomething heavy into it.

“Here, take this. You hold the light, and I’ll open the trunk.”He led me around to the rear of the car and opened the hatch.Inside lay the shotguns in their cloth cases, resting on top ofsleeping bags, a box of food, and a dozen boxes of shotgun shells.

“Your dad packed enough guns, that’s for sure,” he said almostto himself. “I’ve got my side-by-side up front, my twelve-gaugeover-under here. Really nice gun, Hersch. Bit much for youuntil you’re bigger, though. And I see your dad’s twelve-gauge,a twenty-gauge over-under, and two others.” The sight of themmade him pause. “Wonder what he wants those for? Well, I supposehe wants all of them inside.”

Giving me a job, he moved the guns to one side and handedme the box of food. “Sure hope there’s some ice cream in there,Hersch.” He smiled as he handed the box to me. “Go ahead. Thelight is on inside, so leave the flashlight here.”

Where one of the lanterns in front of the cabin provided afunnel of light, I peeked in the box of food, and sure enough, Isaw a carton of ice cream, marked “chocolate.” It still had thatfrozen hard look. I knew Granddaddy loved ice cream, so I putthe box on the small countertop, took out the ice cream, and putit into the icebox even though we didn’t bring ice.

With my father’s large bulk filling the space, I rememberedhow small the cabin was. The cabin and boathouse were reallyone building, with the cabin erected on the bank of the riverand the boathouse built out over it. The light from the lanternsreflected off the yellow linoleum countertops and the yellowlinoleum floor. Except for a small throw rug, the floors were bare.The small kitchen adjoined a small eating area, which was rightnext to the built-in bunk beds. The bottom bed was larger, andsometimes we used it to sit on while we ate at the table. The toiletwas outside and around the corner, outhouse style. The living andeating areas were close and crowded and not very comfortable,but that wasn’t the purpose of the boathouse. It was supposedto protect Daddy’s new speedboat, moored in the water, alwaysready to go. The doorway down to the boat was right behind me,guarded with a padlock.

Granddaddy walked in, carrying three guns over each shoulder,and nearly shouted, “Well, where is this beauty?” He was talkingabout Daddy’s new Chris-Craft inboard. The speedboat hadarrived in June, and Daddy had showed it off to all his friendsduring the summer. “I want to see where all that money you’remaking is going.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by this, but the tone ofhis voice was more of a demand than a question. Daddy hadbought an airplane a couple of years before, and I overheard himwhen he called Granddaddy to tell him about it. The phone callturned into a shouting match. I could tell Granddaddy wanted toknow why he had bought an expensive airplane because Daddykept yelling louder and louder that he needed it for somethingor other.

“Be right there,” my father said. He was looking over hisshoulder, fiddling with one of the kerosene lamps as he answered.”Got to get this lamp set so it doesn’t fall over. The key to thepadlock is in the drawer, right behind Hersch. Taped to the leftside in the rear.”

I knew what he meant and immediately opened the drawerto look for the key.

“Hersch, leave that alone,” he ordered me, his voice loud andsharp. I could tell that he was close to yelling at me: his eyes andface were rigid, holding back a torrent of anger. I quickly backedaway from the drawer and let my arms hang stiffly at my sides.

Granddaddy set the guns and cases in the corner and walkedover to the drawer. He felt along the left side with his hand. “Hersch,I think I feel it, but my hand’s too big. See what you can do.”

(Continues…)Excerpted from HEART of a TIGER by HERSCHEL COBB. Copyright © 2013 Herschel Cobb. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
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