We lived outside Cincinnati, Ohio when I was a kid and my great-grandfather, Howard Sumner Munroe (he always claimed his initials “H. S.” stood for High Speed), used to occasionally stop and stay a few days with us as he’d make his way between Michigan and Florida. My great-grandfather was born in 1878, and I’m thinking now of something that most likely happened in 1968, so he would have been 90 and I was 10.

He came along with us to our Methodist church one Sunday morning. Those were the days when men wore hats, and one of my brothers grabbed my great-grandfather’s hat off the coat rack after the service and wore it outside. My brothers and I beat our parents out of church, and we were standing in front when they emerged along with our great-grandfather, who was wearing a hat.

“What hat is that?” we asked.

“Some S.O.B. stole my hat,” the old man said, “so I took somebody else’s.” (Except he didn’t use the initials S.O.B.)

What were my brothers and I, impressionable lads that we were, supposed to make of that? I don’t remember a Bible verse that says, “if someone steals your hat, take someone else’s.”

When my brother presented himself wearing the hat, my great-grandfather snatched it, and my brother was dispatched back inside the church with the pilfered headgear.

A day or so later, we were walking through our neighborhood and my great-grandfather bet me a dime he could kick a coin off the top of a stop sign. He was, to say the least, limber. What I remember most about this was not his accomplishment (I had imagined him picking the coin clean off the top with the point of his shoe; all he did was kick the sign so it wobbled and the coin fell off) but his insistence that I pay him. (I had to get an advance on my allowance to settle my debt—I didn’t have that kind of money lying around. Every dime I had in those days was used to buy Matchbox cars or baseball cards at Zinnecker’s Pharmacy.)

My great-grandfather had spent his career as a traveling salesman for the Carborundum Company of Niagara Falls, New York. Seeing as how he was 80 when I was born, this is a part of his life I don’t have much insight into. I can only imagine what his life on the road in the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s must have been like. He was born on a farm and married a woman who grew up on a farm (whose father had fought at the Battle of Gettysburg), but my great-grandfather was no farmer. High Speed was always on the move.

He was, as you may have gathered, a character. Here’s another memory: One summer we were at his cottage in Michigan and my brothers and I were riding in the car with him. He said, “Don’t put your feet down too hard back there.” One of my brothers lifted the back seat floor mat and we could see the road passing beneath us. The car’s floor had evidently rusted away. We didn’t stay focused on that too long because there was a man walking along the road and my great-grandfather swerved right at the guy, causing the pedestrian to jump into a ditch.

“I never liked that S.O.B.,” my great-grandfather said as we chugged along. (Once again, he didn’t use initials.)  

We drove on in wide-eyed silence.

My great-grandmother died in the early 1950s and my great-grandfather remarried shortly afterwards. They headed to Hollywood for their honeymoon and got tickets to Art Linkletter’s popular afternoon show House Party. My great-grandfather managed to get himself called on for an audience participation bit and had the chance to win a refrigerator. His chances dwindled when the affable Linkletter asked my great-grandfather what he was doing in California. High Speed heard that question as his invitation to deliver a play-by-play description of his honeymoon that was far too racy for 1950s daytime television. If you’re old enough, you remember that Art Linkletter also hosted a show called Kids Say the Darndest Things. He found out that afternoon that adults say the darndest things too.

All of which brings me back to the Methodist church of my youth. We had a great pastor, who my great-grandfather evidently was impressed with, because he asked my dad after church if he might arrange a meeting between him and our pastor. A couple of days later our pastor came to our house. (This was a big event which involved much cleaning.) Our pastor arrived just after dinner at about 6:30. He and my great-grandfather went into our guest room and closed the door. They came out at 10:30. I was long in bed by then, but my father later told me the pastor had said, “Your grandfather has begun a new life in Jesus Christ.”

What I would give to have been a fly on the wall in that room. Not to hear my great-grandfather’s confession. I actually would rather not know what was on his conscience and what regrets and sins, sordid or otherwise, he brought up. I imagine it was a lot heavier than stealing hats and using his car to scare pedestrians. No, what I want to watch is our pastor. What sort of deft pastoral moves did he make? How did he guide a 90-year-old with lots on his mind into becoming a babe in Christ? That’s what I wish I had seen. That’s where the action was. My great-grandfather may have moved at high speed, but our pastor took his time. I thank God for that and call all who move slowly and wisely among the rambunctious and reckless of our world blessed.