A Sad Story

My grandpa, Adam Miller, was killed when I was a year old; I’ve always known that. [Or wait. Was it Becky that was just over a year old and I was 3 or 4 months? I need to ask Mom.] He was driving a team of horses and a grain wagon down the road not far from his home near Kalona, Iowa, when a young man came roaring up behind him, way too fast, and hit the back of the wagon. Grandpa was thrown out into the ditch and killed instantly.

And that’s about all I remembered. Mom would refer to this incident sometimes but I don’t remember her ever telling it in great detail.

But recently, in the odd way that stories sometimes have of bubbling to the surface after 40-some years, I’ve heard about this from two other perspectives. And found it very interesting, and very sad.

When we were in Iowa in September, Aunt Vina told Rebecca that now that she lives near Harrisonburg, Virginia, she needs to look up Allie.

Allie and her husband Glenn lived down a long lane back somewhere behind Aunt Vina’s and Uncle Mahlon’s houses, as I recall. Glenn passed away a few years ago, and now Allie lives in Virginia and Rebecca needs to look her up, said Vina.

So Rebecca did, and had a wonderful time talking with this very lively and interesting woman. Allie recalled an old photo of all the teachers in the Kalona area, and both she and my dad were on it. And then she told Rebecca how she had been the first on the scene when my grandpa was killed and of course had the task of calling for help, an interesting detail that I had never known and wouldn’t have thought to ask.

Aunt Vina called me this morning to ask about getting some books. She said she had just gotten a letter from Rebecca telling about her visit with Allie. “Rebecca told me about that,” I said, “and how Allie was the first one there when Grandpa was killed.”

Well. That got Vina started, and within five minutes I knew more about that accident than I had known all my life.

It was a load of soybeans that Grandpa was hauling, and it was around suppertime, so I assume he was headed home to eat. (The soybeans spilled all over the road, Vina said, making it as treacherous as ice, so they had to stop all the traffic until it was cleaned up.)

Aunt Clara, Mahlon’s wife, was in the hospital very sick after a hysterectomy, so Art and Vina were going to go visit her. But you couldn’t take children into a hospital so Vina got the boys ready and was going to take them to Grandpa and Grandma’s.

But as she headed toward their house she saw a terrible commotion on the road up ahead. Then she saw Grandpa’s team of horses tied to the fence and sensed what was up. She walked over and found out what had happened and went to the house to tell her mom.

It was in October, and Grandma had just finished making supper, including a batch of late sweet corn from the garden. Vina told her what had happened and Grandma took off out the door and down the lane, [I can just see this] and Vina could hardly keep up.

At the scene, Grandma insisted that she wanted to see her husband, so they allowed her to. And I think what happened next is about the saddest part of this story: Grandma took off her apron and covered Grandpa with it.

Later, my two uncles went to visit the young driver. He was afraid they were going to sue him, but they assured him they only wanted him to mend his ways. I don’t know if he ever served prison time or not. Vina said for a long time afterward he avoided that road, going clear around through Wellman to get to Iowa City. But then one day he did go to Kalona, and he had an accident, and was killed.

A sad story, all around.

I'm so glad I had the chance to know my funny, feisty grandma. I wish I could have known my grandpa. I have a vague conception of a composite of my uncles, but nothing I can really visualize.