William Coates

Five more hours of sitting, but exciting and hair raising! We had finally arrived at the Grand Canyon, and we were riding mules to Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon, along the Colorado River. The trail is like a shelf just wide enough for a mule and its rider—on one side is the sheer rock wall and on the other side is the drop-off. I held tight.

I have only hazy recollections of my grandfather, William Coates. I remember him as a kindly gentleman who lived in California with his second wife, Bo, who wasn’t a family favorite. Because of the distance, I did not see a lot of Father Coates, as he was called, while growing up, but I do have embarrassing memories of that trip I took with him when I was eight or nine. He took me by train from Kansas City to see the Grand Canyon and I'm surprised he did not kill me on that trip. On reflection, I would not have blamed him if he had.

I remember traveling on the train for hours and Father Coates pointing out the treeless rippling plains and grain elevators, missions and pueblos, mountains and deserts, all of which I did not see as he could not tear me away from my comic book.

The mules delivered us safely to Phantom Ranch where Father Coates had rented a cabin for the night, and while he was reading and having cocktails, I was busy along the river collecting frogs, lots of frogs, which I hid in his bed. Grounds for murder? At least justifiable homicide.

It’s not hard to understand that special connection between grandparents and grandchildren when you see grandparents offering that extra bit of patience for a child bursting with energy. 

In later years I appreciated his patience after I took my grandkids on trips to Disney World, down the Grand Canyon, to Alaska, etc. They were not always perfect, but they looked like saints compared to me.