Every Sunday brought an invitation to the Pastor and family to usually a chicken dinner.  A wonderful departure from the depression dinner fare of a bowl of bread and milk my little brother and I became used to. For breakfast we did have eggs, Grandpa could eat a dozen at a time, he needed the protein to follow horses and plow around the fields of his 80 acre lease-farm.  It killed him, however at age 67.

In 1941, with cars whizzing by we went to church in a horse and wagon driving on the side of a narrow road.

Grandpa, who earlier liked to visit with drivers in cars going by, distracted, ran up across a wooden sidewalk into a store window one day.  Grandma forbid him to ever drive a car again.

He was man of his time.