By: Barbra Sue Yurachek

Unprompted. 

Joe Gallegly was my beloved Granddad. Born Oct. 21, 1896 to poor farmers, somewhere near Pocahontas, Arkansas. He was orphaned at an early age and was reared by an older sister and her husband, the Merideths. He never talked much about his family. I learned much later after my own daughter’s birth (Nancy Anne Yurachek) that my great grandmother’s name was also Nancy Anne (Hornbuckle).

My granddad was proud of his family and of the family legend. According to him, a Gallegly had never died without their boots on. Tragically, his father drowned in a nearby river, and his two brothers were on a raft they had supposedly put together when one lost his balance and fell in the same river that took his dad; struggling to stay afloat, his frightened brother, still on the raft, jumped in to attempt a rescue. Since neither brother was comfortable anywhere but on land behind a horse and a plow, the rescue was unsuccessful and both drowned.

Life in the 1800s in the rural South was hard. Some would even say brutal. Granddad lost all his family early. His only surviving sister, Mary, was living alone in a small house with a vine covered porch. She was a well-liked elderly widow. It was 1952 or 1953; my now 71-year-old sister, Paulette, was a baby when my granddad, who lived within walking distance of us, came running down the road screaming and sobbing. He never owned a car and he never drove a car and he never called my dad son (always Willie) except for that day. 

“Son. Son, Sonny, you have to take me all the way to Mary’s in your car. Some no-good god damned son of a bitch has murdered her on her own front porch.”

“Pop! Pop! The sheriff’s on it! He came all this way to tell you- and to drive you, but I will drive you. Jump in the car. You don’t have to go with the sheriff.”

I was 11 or 12 but I will never forget that day or how awful Granddad looked. The sheriff told my mom that they had already arrested a young man who was Aunt Mary’s neighbor. He had also raped her, plus two more younger women the day before.

She was my grandfather’s last living relative. The sister who raised him also died very early but left several children. He grew up a Meredith. Mary had taken care of her mother and married young. The Merediths were very good to little Joe. And little he was. His stature never reached 5 feet.

The love of his life, and my Grandmother, was much taller than him but that made no difference to either of them. In early years he called her Polly. Later Polly became Montie and nobody on God’s earth could have lived a successful married life with Joe Gallegly but Montana Nevada Weaver.

She gave him seven healthy babies. Listened to his rantings about Roosevelt and Truman and whoever else was in office. He did not like Democrat or Republican. Whoever he was talking to “Never had the sense God gave a Goose.” And he never minced words. He loved a good debate and would change sides instantly If it appeared he was losing. 

Granddad loved his beer and would go to the bar almost every day. It was very close by. He would get into arguments and and tell his opponent, “My grandson will be here any minute to knock some sense into you.” 

Montie would take it all in stride and always, always kept an extra plug of chewing tobacco in the second drawer of the chifforobe in her bedroom. She knew that would calm him down.

He was never in a hospital until his seventies, when, on his way home from the bar, he was hit by a Volkswagen van. His leg was broken which required hospitalization. He loved being there. He said he couldn’t believe it. Just touch a button and a pretty lady would bring you whatever you wanted.

His Lovely Montie and soulmate had died of a stroke the year before his accident and all who knew him worried about his well-being. The young doctor who took care of her had asked my granddad “who is your family doctor?” Without a moment’s hesitation, Joe said very confidently “You’ll do!”

That young man took care of both my grandparents for the very short time they had left.

After Grandmother’s death, Joe was quieter. He lived alone with a little dog. His doctor allowed him to stay hospitalized as long as possible after his leg healed. When he came home, he would still make his daily visits to the bar. And one early evening he didn’t come home. He was found in the lane where he had had a fatal heart attack. It was February 22, 1976, in his adopted state of Oregon where they had relocated in their later years.

My children knew him but never met him I am sorry to say. I knew him well, and I will never ever forget the little man who always wore a hat and who never complained about wearing child-size clothes. Could it be that his devoted wife never told him?

I truly loved him with all my heart. And true to legend, he died with his boots on.

He was my granddad.