The weathered wooden sign hangs in the poker room at home, the
room my wife Jenny lovingly built for my 50th birthday. On one line
it reads, in script carved into the wood, The Ed Derrys.
The weathered wooden sign hangs in the poker room at home, the room my wife Jenny lovingly built for my 50th birthday. On one line it reads, in script carved into the wood, The Ed Derrys. On another: 52 Isabella Ave. That covers the who and the where, but it’s the what – what the family behind the sign stood for and what it represented to me – that counts.
The fond memories from Ed and Helen Derry’s place at 52 Isabella endure. They are snapshots and internal highlight videos stored deep within me. They are my Camelot. They are my emotional rocks of Gibraltar. They are as real as the blood coursing through me, and became part of me slowly over years. It’s an absorbed reality – taken in over time the way one listens to the spreading staccato rhythm which pulses from a train rolling steadily down the tracks.
Close my eyes and I am 12 back in the field next to the house munching on the spring greens we called Indian grass or talking with Nana on the back porch with a view of her beloved hydrangeas or winding up a forehand smash easily whizzing past the onrushing Uncle Dan on the rickety pebble-dimpled tennis court or enjoying a peek inside the small entryway closet where Uncle Jimmy stored his golf clubs. I can hear Christmas with the bells jingling on the front door as family and friends came and went – 52 Isabella, a joyous Yuletide subway station.
The warm memories, like the sign, are a comfort to me. They are my friends. They are my roots. They are ever-present reminders of who I am and where I came from.
That’s important now. My life cycle is about to come full circle. I will be thrust into the the role my grandparents so ably filled and embraced. Time will soon usher a new boy into the family, the first great, great grandson of Helen and Ed Derry. I will miraculously be “Gramps,” or preferably, “Pops” – and people tell me the fun will then begin.
When it all seems strange and overwhelming, I go to the memories and smile. My grandparents on both sides were wonderful and warm and present in my daily life.
For this I am often thankful. Ed and Helen Derry gave me roots, the kind that run deep and keep you upright through life’s challenges, great and small.
The Derrys at 52 Isabella were solid folks. They did not think about nor concern themselves with “smooth” or “fancy” or “flashy.” Eighteen or so years ago, someone described my father-in-law to me. “He has a heart of gold,” my friend said in a quick summation of Lorens Midtgaard. The words immediately resonated, striking a deep chord. That’s exactly what someone would have said about my grandfather. I understood.
Hearts of gold like that come from the simple things … hard work, raising a family, a simple and steady approach to business dealings. In baseball terms, my grandfather hit for average, not for show.
He went to work every day except Sunday at Derry’s Feed and Fuel, a sturdy office flanked by a creaky warehouse where you could purchase hay, wood, food for the rabbits and various items for rural life. The wood yard was a few blocks away. There were aging workhorse trucks, a big old safe and a mechanical cash register that sang “ca-ching” when you pushed the buttons after writing up a ticket. Gramps saved money, bought some land – “God isn’t making any more of it” – and steadily built a nice life for his family. He stayed true to himself, and through all the years, he played cards once a week at least with his pals at the Palo Alto Elks Club.
That’s the background for the happy juxtaposition I found myself in last week. Jenny insisted over my repeated protests that I wear a tie when we were headed out to dinner for our anniversary. We turned into the Elks parking lot off Hecker Pass and I had no idea what was going on. My daughters, parents in law and Aunt Claire greeted me … “ah, dinner at the Elks with everyone for our anniversary – now that’s romantic,” I thought.
Later Grand Exalted Ruler (now, that’s got to be the best title in all of Gilroy) Art Gillespie presented me with the Distinguished Citizenship of the Year honor for helping Gilroy organizations publicize their events.
That’s a simple service, really. It’s straightforward and not fraught with controversy like so many things a newspaper editor deals with. Lending a hand to help the many groups that do wonderful work in our town is an enjoyable task.
As events at the Elks unfolded, I, the grandfather-to-be, thought of the grandfather I knew. I recalled the times I would tag along to the Elks to play basketball or racquetball or swim in the pool. I keenly remember taking in the impressive Elks logo with the kingly elk head and the letters B.P.O.E. below cradling the sketch. When I asked my grandfather what the B.P.O.E. stood for, he relished passing on the correct answer. I think he knew it would stick with me as it had with him. “Best People on Earth,” he said with a twinkle in his Irish eyes.
The wooden sign that hung on the oak tree at Gramps and Nana’s house has stuck with me, too – from the thousand times I pedaled past on my way to St. Joseph’s Elementary School until now. The B.P.O.E. story is one in a treasure chest of fond memories.
My grandparents’ lives defined them – hard work, faith and raising a family. Those are good roots to pass on to a grandson. Soon, that will be my job and I’ve been thinking that Gramps has sent me a message. Maybe I’m ready to join the B.P.O.E.
Reach editor Mark Derry at ed****@****ic.com.
