Grandpa Jack's New Car

According to my aunt Donna, the older my dad gets, the more he resembles his grandfather, Jack. Jack—otherwise known as John Caleb Loomis—was born in 1885, in Macon, Illinois. He was, in his early adulthood, a club fighter. Not quite bare-knuckled, but nevertheless a thin and scrappy, take-on-all-comers, club fighter. Dad remembers him with heavy eyebrows, a “pug” nose—meaning broken and battered from his pugilistic efforts—cauliflower ears, false teeth to fill in the gaps from the ones that had been knocked out. 

Tony, looking more like Jack every day.

After he’d been knocked around enough, Jack moved on to the carnie, helping raise and lower the tents with a team of horses. That gave him experience enough to work on construction sites, using a team of horses to raise construction materials to upper floors. After horses were phased out, he changed over to iron and steel work.

It was at this point in his working life that World War II broke out. He was now too old for duty (and probably too beat up), and was at any rate needed at the big Ford factory to carry on the war effort. Because of the war, security at the plant was heightened. As you drove off the lot, you would have to stop and let the guards inspect your vehicle for any suspicious items, or scrap metal you were trying to sneak off with—every piece of scrap was needed, after all, for planes and munitions and armor and the general war effort.

After one long day at work at the plant in 1942, the line of cars waiting to be inspected before they could head home was enormous, and growing by the second. This plant, like others, was no longer making cars, but war machinery. Grandpa Jack had bought a brand new car just before the U.S. joined the Allies, and was proud of how well he was keeping it maintained.

As they inched along, car length by car length, tempers smoldered. The car ahead of Jack moved, but Jack didn’t immediately put his foot to the gas, and the car behind him bumped into him, just a little. Irritated, Jack just moved his car forward the few feet available to him, and waited. Another car finished inspection, and the line moved forward, and once again, the car behind him bumped into him. Jack put the car in park, and walked back to talk to his fellow plant worker.

Attempting to be reasonable, Grandpa Jack (who at this point was indeed a grandfather of three whoops--two. Thanks, Aunt Donna!) explained that as this car was fairly new, and there would be no new cars until after the war, and goodness only knew when that would be, so he would like to keep this one in good shape. And would the gentleman mind, please, not hitting it?

The gentleman did mind. He was so irritated by this, he hopped out of his car to stare down Jack. Well, hopped isn’t quite the word. Unfolded, maybe. He pulled his 6-foot-2-inch, well-muscled 230 lbs. frame out of car, and stared down at little Jack, who was maybe 5’7”, maybe 125 lbs.

Just to the side of the roadway was a little rise of land. Jack turned his back to the hill, and continued to argue his point. With every exchange of words, the electrician would take a menacing step towards Jack, and Jack would back a step up the hill. Finally, when Jack could look the man in the eye, he hauled back and gave him a black eye, hitting him so hard it knocked him head over heels, back down the hill. Jack watched him go, them trotted back down to his car, got in, and drove home, problem solved.

The next day, when Jack clocked in, there was a message waiting for him, to go and see one of the big bosses. Already dressed for his tasks, he dropped off his lunch pail, and headed to the plant’s office. Now, you need to understand something about Jack’s work clothes. When you worked with the iron crew, you wore a particular outfit. It had to be trimmed to fit you, so that nothing would get caught in the works. Instead of boxy tops and wide legged pants over low-topped shoes, the pants were slim fit, and cuffs rolled up to hit the tops of calf-high lace-up boots. Instead of heavy, boxy shirts, the tops were nipped in to follow the outline of your body, so much so, that if they didn’t fit right, it was off to the tailor for a custom fit. Anything else could be hazardous.

As Jack stepped in to the waiting area, the boss was informed that Loomis was reporting as ordered. Jack knew he hadn’t been summoned to be granted a day’s holiday. No, instead, inside was the man he had knocked down the hill. He had gone with his black eye and his complaint, to try and get Jack labelled a problem, and out of a job. “That’s him! That’s him!” he cried, pointing to Jack.

Of course, once the manager saw who it was this giant guy was filing a complaint against, he started to laugh. “That’s him?” he scoffed.

“Yeah! That’s the one!”

“You let this little guy get the best of you? He’s the one that knocked you stiff? That little guy did something to you, and you want me to do something to him? Get out! Get out of my office right now! Don’t you ever let me hear anything so stupid again!”  And laughing, the manager showed the giant the door. “And you,” he said, pointing to Jack, “get back to work.”

Jack, hat in hand, just bowed his way out the door, never having said a word. When he got home that night, he shared the tale, acting it out for the pleasure of his grandkids, with a bump here, and a swing there, and a foreman and a laugh. Never mess with a former boxer, children. Even a featherweight can bring down a giant, if he has no fear, a hill at his back, and a smart right jab.