My Grandpa Lambson

To begin with, it is not clear what his full name was or is.  To us, he went by Byron.  On his marriage license it says “Palos Bee”.  In our family tree on LDS familysearch.org he is identified as “Apolos or Paulus Byron”.  On his draft registration card “Palous B”.  I guess  if there is a final judgment, it might be his death certificate, which has him as ”Paulas Byron”.

His was not an easy life.  His mother died in July of 1902, when he was 4.  His father died seven months later in February, 1903, less than a month after his 5^th birthday, leaving him an orphan.  He went to live with his Aunt Mary (Stradling, his mother’s sister) and Uncle George Cook.  He was married to Myrle Nelson in 1917at the age of 19, she only 18.  She died less than five years later a month after giving birth to their third child, my Uncle Bill, who in 1943 was shot down flying a mission over France, and was never found.

When I was younger, I never connected these dots that formed the harsh outline of my Grandfather’s life.  If I had, I might have cut him a little slack.  He married my Mom’s mom Gertrude after her husband passed away in 1939.  It didn’t last too long (probably because of his drinking), but long enough for Mom (Iola) to become pen–pals with Dad (Virg), which led eventually to their marriage (tender mercies)…and to make our family tree more interesting.

He lived with us for several of my formative years, in the unfinished part of our basement in Orem.  His living there was in part a result of an accident he had while intoxicated, running his vehicle into the Provo River. 

He ate meals with us, but otherwise kept pretty much to himself.  My father would drive him places, and even take him fishing with him from time to time, but there was always an undercurrent of left-over resentment that, after the death of his wife, Byron left the three children in the care of friends and relatives and became a wanderer…so that they were, in effect, orphans as well.

What I came to appreciate later is how loyal he was.  He always came to our little-league baseball games.  He stood by himself, off to the side of the bleachers, but according to Mom, he would tell anyone who approached him and would listen what terrific players we were…in some detail. 

Besides fishing, another passion he and my father shared was watching boxing matches.  I can remember them both glued to the old black and white T.V. for the Gillette Friday Night Fights…usually a double-header.  I never heard of most of the boxers, and didn’t care much for the sport, but watching Grandpa was entertainment enough.  When he would get really excited, he would come out of his chair and imitate the punches and moves that he thought the guy he was rooting for would or should make.

I sat next to him at the table, and he always made his coffee really strong.  We kids would joke that you could make a spoon stand upright in it.  I later gave it credit for insuring that I would never be tempted in the least to drink coffee.

Grandpa moved into his own place in Provo sometime during my high school years.  I didn’t see him much between then and my mission.  He died in the summer of 1976 while I was away at ROTC camp; but I am grateful that he lived long enough that Jeanne and I were able to have him over to our BYU trailer to dinner a few times, and get to know him better. Love you,  Grandpa.