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Travels With Grandpaw


By David Davis

Copyright David Davis 2011


Smashwords Edition

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Preface



He was the best man I ever knew.

My first memory of Grandpaw Lacy is riding with him on his tractor. I was about three-and-a-half. Grandpaw held me close and let me pretend I was steering. His laughter boomed over the engine noise. The East Texas sun burned hot, and the smell of sweat, oil, and cut hay tickled my nose. It was 1951.

Raymond Lacy’s raw-boned and lanky frame stood six feet tall. Something about his manner reminded you of Gary Cooper. Some folks said Grandpaw was born too late. He should have roamed the frontier in buckskins exploring the wilderness. Grandpaw certainly had the hunting skills. He shot a pistol well, could knock a leaping squirrel out of the top of a tree with a rifle, and was the best wing shot I ever saw with a shotgun.

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