saturday evening with mr. t

time again for our weekly feature"saturday evening with mr. t.". tonights subject is our grandfather Floyd Allen . and now ladies and gentlemen , mr.t...

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A story about our Grandfather, Floyd Allen, as I heard it told to me a couple of times from my Dad's perspective, anyway. (Dorothy Allen said my Dad was a great story teller - truth and fibs! My mom verified this one though). This narration may become a book. I like to write from the heart and tend to be somewhat descriptive, and lengthy. I hope it is worth your time
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Floyd, Allen was my grandfather. I never really knew him only through pictures, home movies, and stories told to me by relatives and his in laws, such as Paul Timlin, my father. In his retirement, he lived at 7860 S. Clare Avenue, ("Old 27") Clare, MI. He died on December 11, 1958, nine days before my brother, Dan Timlin, was born. It is odd that history repeats itself, because my son Nathan, was born about 4 1/2 months after Floyd's daughter, Loree Allen Timlin, (my mother) died. It is just life, yet, weird in a way. Not good or bad karma...just...karma.

The Bull Story:This happened around 1954-55: Floyd Allen went fishing in the creek (remember Sanford Creek?) near his house. Like most people born and raised in the country before automobiles, at the end of the 19th century (he was born in 1887) and during the turn of the 20th century, he fished out of necessity, and for recreation. Fishing was not a sport so much as it was a way to have food on the table in those days. The socializing and camaraderie of the community included the activity of fishing. It was easier than tilling the weeds in the garden and a way to get away from the wife for a few hours, I bet! Sanford Creek ran from south of Beaverton Road (which ran East and West) to North through the Clare County roadside park across 27 from his house. It then wound it's way west across 27 (north of Floyd's house about 300 feet) and into his neighbor's cow pasture.

Paul Noss, a farmer, was Floyd Allen's neighbor. He was a great guy, too. I always liked him, and now I love his memory. He gave me rides on his tractor several times, so it was like him filling in for my missing grandfather as I was growing up. He and his wife Rose were always very kind to my grandmother and my family. I regret not attending his funeral to be able to tell his family this very same thing. The cows used to graze there and drink from Sanford Creek. I can still see the whole beautiful childhood scenery, the green house, with the white trim. The half tractor wheels painted white by Floyd at the end of the driveway, with the mailbox on the South side of the driveway in the ditch. The awnings on the green asphalt siding over the windows. Grandma waving goodbye through the window every time us kids were leaving to go back to Lansing on a late Sunday afternoon. Boy, I sure miss that. we did not know how good we had it. We all should have bought the damn place outright when she died rather than sell it. And golf course right up the road.

One day Floyd was out fishing in the creek with his pole and his tackle box. Probably some bait in a coffee can or something. Margaret Allen was in the house.

There was a bull with other cows in the pasture grazing. As they meandered closer, the bull noticed Floyd. He started snorting and bellowing, enough fortunately, for Floyd to notice something was wrong. I can see Floyd in his hat. I wonder if he had hip boots on?

Floyd decided it was time to get out of there. There was a fence between the garden just north of his house and the pasture. The bull decided to charge Floyd, and I don't mean with a credit card. Floyd dropped his pole and tackle box and sprinted, no, flew for the fence, and just made it over - yes, he jumped - when the bull reached the fence. Granny Clampett did not have anything on this old man. He was wheezing and coughing when Margaret came out of the house. I don't know what she said but I bet she had her hands on her hips, standing on the front porch in her famous apron. And that look...