Frank
I wanted to write a character study with somebody I loved and knew when I was younger, including a story if you will about someone that was a big part of my life. A true gentleman that left a lifelong impression on me. He was the first African American friend of mine that I ever had. He was a great guy, he went by the name of, “Frank.”
Frank Wilson was from Atlanta, Georgia, and as I said he was African American. He worked for my grandfather, he was my grandfather’s landscaper and gardener. He worked for my grandmother for almost twelve years, from 1960 until 1972 or so. He was someone that our family dearly loved.
I first remember my memories with Frank around when I was three or four. He was a great guy, loomed large as he kept an eye on me, he was big, stocky, maybe 6’2” or so and may have weighed around 220 pounds. He was well built, strong as an ox.
He had started working for my grandfather when I was two years old or so. He was usually found working in my grandmother and grandfather’s yard. He drove a 1958 Ford pick-up, it was dark green and had a big bed to haul things in. He had lawn mowers, wheel barrels, rakes, edgers and trimmers. He had a small trailer at times that he would attach to the hitch of the truck. He wore big leather gloves and would trim all the trees and shrubs on my grandfather’s property. He was a great guy. I always looked forward to seeing Frank. He always spent time with me, showing me how to tie knots or how to trim a branch or how to oil an engine motor with my grandfather’s trusted lawn mower. He showed me how to rake and how to make piles.
Frank looked at me one day, he stood over me, “Grant, we need to rake the leaves from your grandfather’s maple tree, can you help me?” I was around five at the time. I grabbed a rake that my grandfather had and helped him gather in the leaves that found their way wrapped around rose bushes and other plants around the yard.
My grandfather had a nice sized lot, a nice sized backyard and plenty of room for planting. I loved the garden back then.
My grandfather had met Frank back around 1959 or so. There was a statue of St. Francis in the corner of my grandparents’ yard. He got a referral from a business associate with Frank. He started working for my grandfather back in 1960, in the fall. He worked hard.
Frank would trim the sidewalks and mow the yard, trim the Rhododendrons, and other plants around the house, it might take him a couple days to get everything done, he usually would stop in to do work every couple weeks. I’d find his pipe lying on my grandfather’s tool bench in the garage. He’d haul away the trimmings in his truck. If I saw his truck, I knew Frank was around. My grandmother and grandfather would make a list of chores for him to do. I’d always see Frank walking around the house.
He smoked a pipe and wore a big gardening hat with a big visor, he wore green jeans and big brown boots. He wore a big gray sweatshirt and had a mustache tucked under his nose. He had a big brown rain jacket. He had a big grin and a big deep voice. He raked the leaves in the yard, he would stop and talk sports with my grandmother Furio. He liked sports, he especially liked Bill Russel and Willie Mays. Two of my favorites. My grandfather loved the Green Bay Packers, he was a huge Vince Lombardi fan.
He lived with his family in N.E. Portland, he lived in what was then known as the Williams Neighborhood. It was the neighborhood where all the jazz musicians lived and played, back before the urban renewal, back before the Memorial Coliseum and the I-5 freeway were built. Often Duke Ellington and Thelonious Monk or maybe Nat King Cole might be playing at one of the local music halls. Frank had been in the Army, serving in World War II. He was proud to be an American and would often salute my grandfather.
Frank liked my grandfather. He trusted him and worked hard for him. My grandmother was always giving Frank food to take home or baked him a cake or pie. “Thank you Mrs. Furio”, said Frank.
My grandfather was Italian and while living in Vancouver, Washington he had experienced red-lining back in the 1940’s and 1950’s. He tried to live in a newly developed neighborhood just east of Officers Row near Fort Vancouver. My grandfather worked hard, supported his family with his janitorial service, becoming the largest in S.W. Washington. He trusted Frank, he was loved by everyone in our family. I don’t know what we would have done without him.
My grandfather’s office was located on the S.W. corner of his house, near the backyard. The back door was around near his office. Frank would tap on the back door to get a check for work he would do. He’d Park his truck on West Lavina.
Once Frank helped me learn how to trim the yard, soon (by the age of six) I was helping Frank with his chores.
My grandmother would invite Frank in for coffee. He would sit at the dining room table and chat with my grandmother and grandfather, my aunt T.J would visit with Frank.
Racial tensions started to rise around the country during the mid and late 1960’s. Protests were held in downtown Portland. Frank was such a loyal and steady worker for my family. He would help set up my grandfather’s Christmas tree light display. It usually took my grandfather and three or four of his workers at least two weeks to get everything set and ready. It was great fun.
One day Frank brought over his wife and kids, we played in the backyard, we played catch with a football. It must have been around 1966 or so. Everyone showed up to wish Frank off. My grandmother made a spread, it was a great day.
We soon found out about my grandfather’s terminal cancer back in 1967, he died in February of 1968. Frank was there at the hospital the night he died, he had his pipe and hat on, he smiled at me and winked. He was kind, he was at the funeral, so was his family, they wept, Frank came over and gave me a hug. My mother loved Frank.
Frank worked for my grandmother up until I was fourteen or so, he retired and wanted to travel and spend more time with his family.
We gave Frank a party in the backyard, everybody came. Anybody that had known Frank was there to tell him good-bye. I don’t think that there was a dry eye in the house. I soon took over for Frank in helping my grandmother with her yard, I continued to work on it up until her passing of breast cancer back in 1983, back when I was 23 years old. I worked in that yard for about 20 years. I loved working in her yard.
I miss Frank, I think of him from time to time. The memories linger with his kind face and reassuring eyes. He was kind in every way and was glad that my family was all encompassing and accepted all walks of life in their home.
I lost track of Frank when my grandmother died, people moved on and went their ways in life like all people do. He was a saint.