The real personality of well-known people is often masked behind praise and admiration. This is true of my grandfather, Chattanooga author and naturalist Robert Sparks Walker. While the glowing commentary about him is factual, the man I knew and loved is hidden among descriptions of his many accomplishments.
I remember a man who laughed more than most people, tipped his hat to dogs, spoke to wildlife and came from a long line of practical jokers.
By the time I was in junior high, he had become a syndicated columnist and popular lecturer, sought by garden and writing clubs. But instead of self-importance, this popularity increased his inclination to surprise listeners. I recall an incident with a ladies’ club, which took place in his parlor.
The room was filled with well-dressed ladies perched on his uncomfortable sofa, chairs and one remaining rocker. (We had wrecked the second one playing a game.) I was bored, and snuck out to poke around his dining room, whose table and sideboard sported fascinating bowls of bird eggs, wasp nests, stacks of nature magazines and books, and great piles of dried leaves in elegant silver serving pieces.
Suddenly he appeared to join me in this bleak netherworld of the dining room where all pretext of civilization ended — having slipped from his guests through the single pair of heavy dark green portieres dividing the two opposing worlds of sociable parlor and no man’s land.