My Grandpa

I only have a handful of memories of Martin Klopp, and those dim at best.  We always knew him as Grandpa, even though we later

found out he was really our step-great-grandfather.  This was because Martin and his wife Helen adopted my mother and her brother, 

Uncle Eddie during the Depression when Helen's daughter, their real mom, was financially unable to care for the two of them.  Martin

was of Pennsylvania Dutch heritage and grandma was from Poland.  He was not mom's step-grandfather.

     One of Martin's endearing qualities, to me at least, was that he always carried a pocketful of little, hard, white Chiclets gum.  He not

offered them to my brother, sister and me when we visited, but I was later told he gave them to all the neighborhood kids.  He was a

tool and die maker, whatever that was, and that he had been in the army during World War I and stationed at Camp (later Fort) Dix in

New Jersey.  I received conflicting reports from my mother later as to whether he had stayed state-side during the was or had been in

Europe.  Whichever it was, I was assured, it was because he had a valuable skill.

      I also learned from my mother that during the Depression, Martin would take the streetcar to work in downtown Cleveland, when 

there was work, from our suburb of Garfield Heights, Ohio.  Sometimes he had to take a pale there and wait in line for soup. 

Whenever grandma Helen had the money to buy a soup bone to make her own soup, he would get whatever meat was on it so he 

had strength to work.

     As I say, I had little memory of him outside of the old house where they lived and the (now) antique furniture inside.  But one dark

day I heard something about a stroke, Martin had had a stroke, whatever that was, and it was serious.  He was unable to speak.  I 

vaguely remember being directed into his room to say hello (goodbye) to him shortly after that.  Martin passed away September 10,

1959.

     I was seven years old at the time, my sister four years younger and my brother four older.  I was probably in first grade, but my 

mother pulled my brother and I out of school for the funeral.  She had been Martin's favorite and he hers.  They had to give mom

smelling salts several times during the viewing because she was so faint from crying and grief.

     And this brings me to my final memory of my grandfather/step-great-grandfather.  In those days, everyone passed in front of the 

coffin to view the deceased.  My brother and I were not excepted; my sister was too young.  I looked in the coffin at him, at his still, 

silent, somber face.  Someone, probably my mother, told me to touch Martin's hand.  It was cold.  They said I had to do it so I would

know for certain he was dead.

     Apparently Martin Klopp was a man of his times, nothing unusual, but loved.  He served his country and worked for his family, all 

the best he could.  I wish I had known him personally.