My grandfather, Dr. L.G. Page, had eccentric interests. Papa was a dentist, entrepreneur, amateur inventor, professional whisky drinker, de-segregator, pilot, and from what I can tell, a professional dreamer. Stories about Papa could fill volumes, and even to this day I hear a story about him that is new to me.
One of Papa's interests was in the area of underground dwellings. He built an underground hangar on the airport on our farm in North Carolina. Airplanes have been kept in it for many years. He also built an underground "house" next to his regular house on the family farm. Built into a hillside with concrete walls and ceiling, this underground home was very modern in 1961. It had full plumbing and electricity complete with a living room, two bedrooms and a kitchen. Recently, WRAL TV in Raleigh did a short story on the underground house, with a brief interview with my father.
The link to the video is
here.
Dad, ever the "It's No Big Deal" guy that he is, didn't mention to me that he had done the interview. My aunt sent me the link. During the email exchange, I mentioned one story of Papa which had always stuck in my mind. It seems that Papa once built a bicycle with an alternative form of propulsion. Instead of linking the pedal chain to the back wheel, he linked it to a propeller mounted to the bicycle. Papa would propel himself along on that bike, dressed in his white shirt, tie, and wingtip shoes. I could swear that Dad once told me that Papa drove that bike to Danville, VA once.
Thinking about Papa also brought to mind something that I learned about him just a few years ago. Back when flying lessons were being offered at our airfield (most likely in the late 50s to early 60s) a young black man apparently asked Papa if he could learn to fly. Papa, always more than ready to introduce someone new to the joys of flight, was more than happy to oblige him. Apparently, however, there was a small problem with some of the flight instructors not wanting to teach a "n*****" how to fly. I cannot remember what I was told about how Papa dealt with the flight instructors, but I think it had something to do with telling them they could find somewhere else to ply their trade if they didn't like it, and if he wanted to teach a black man how to fly he would damn well do it. Papa also refused to segregate the waiting room in his dentist office. I know that Papa was very racially progressive for his day, but sometimes I wonder if there wasn't a small part of him that was that way just to piss off the yokels. I learned about this story during my bachelor's party trip to Las Vegas. Dad was with us, and at some point he mentioned that the young man Papa taught to fly went on to become a successful engineer, and that he had a second house in Las Vegas. Dad mentioned that in a recent conversation with the man, he told Dad that anyone who was in the family of Dr. Page was welcome to use his house if they were ever in Vegas.
Papa was also known as a hard drinker. Apparently some of the best stories about Papa revolved around his exploits while having a tipple. In fact, his eulogy involved such a story. Papa had a series of gates down on our farm road by which he could open and close to limit access. Access by whom or to what, I do not know. Maybe people who wanted to fish without paying $1. Anyhow, one day, Papa drove up to one of the gates near the end of the runway to the airstrip and got out of his old 1938 Lincoln to open the gate. he must have forgotten to set the brake, because the old Lincoln began to roll back down the steep hill from whence it had come. Papa took off running after the car, but tripped and struck his head on a rock, knocking him unconscious. The local Methodist parson was taking his daily walk down on the farm and came across Papa who was regaining consciousness. Legend (and the minister who eulogized him) has it that Papa told him, "You know, if I had had just one more highball I would have caught that damned car!" I guess Papa thought he was more functional drunk than sober.
Everyone has a Graham Page story in Yanceyville. Sometimes I wonder if I do not live with the same luxury as they do, recalling and retaining the good, the memorable. My Dad and his siblings may not have this same luxury, but they do not seem the worse for wear. I am sure that there are memories of Papa that my Dad and his siblings might not commonly relate. I can tell that he was famously strict with Dad and his brother John. Some might even say he had a cruel streak when it came to his sons. Dad speaks of him admiringly though, and it seems as though time has accentuated the good in the man while at the same time blurring the less memorable. Ultimately his children seem to have taken from him those qualities that were the stuff of stories instead of those things that would detract from his memory. I imagine that this is the best kind of legacy a man can hope for.
I consider myself fortunate that I actually have a memory of Papa. Of his many grandchildren, I think I am the only one with a conscious memory of him. He died when I was two, but not before I imprinted a memory of him feeding me Cracker Jacks from the box, one by one as I stood in front of him.
There is an old fantasy question that people are sometimes asked, and that is if you could have dinner with just three people, who would they be? My answer has always varied on that subject, but the one person who is always part of that fantasy trifecta is Papa. Time has probably helped to embellish the stories. I would think that I would rather know the real man - not just the good, but the warts, too. When I am home for visits and I run across people who have always lived there, I am more Papa's grandson and my father's son more than I am myself. Just broaching the subject invariably leads to an anecdote, a story, or a comment about how much larger than life he was. As the years go by it is harder to find people who knew the man personally, but maybe that is just as well. I am content to know him through the tales of the many who knew and admired him, and the memory of a two year old boy who only knew at the time that the kind, aged man sitting in the easy chair in the big house was the source of a comfortable lap and Cracker Jacks.
