Short: Saying Goodbye, Part 1.
Late on a cold February afternoon, my mother told us we’d be going to Pennsylvania to visit grandpa. He was sick and we need to go see him, she said plainly. I thought it was odd timing. Family visits to Pennsylvania were often announced far in advance and occurred during summer or winter breaks. This trip would require a few missed days of school, a welcome prospect to my nine year-old mind.
Early that Thursday morning, we rose early, packed our gray station wagon and started northward up Interstate 77. The road was dark and nearly empty save a few big trucks. The mood in the car was solemn and quiet. And I stretched my neck to gawk at the glittering Charlotte skyline as we passed uptown. A few minutes later, we were beyond the city and the lights, colorful fast food signs giving way to rolling pastures, then foothills rising into mountains. When the sun finally appeared, we were in West Virginia. And the snow mixed with salt and fumes and filth. I thought it was beautiful and preferred to watch it sail by as we motored up route 19. My older sister sat beside me and chattered away as my brother remained silent in the front seat beside our mother. Mom focused on the road, making half replies to the the onslaught of questions and observations made her daughter.
As we neared Grove City, a light snow fell from purple clouds. And finally we left the interstate for good, on our way to the powder blue farm house where my grandparents lived. A mile or so from the house, mom pulled off the road to have a word with my sister and me. “Grandpa is really sick, And I need you to be respectful. No yelling or screaming. No fighting. Understood?” We both nodded, and I believe we both understood, perhaps for the first time, this visit would be different. We weren’t on vacation. We were saying goodbye.
Grandma Lean greeted us on the side porch as the snow began to fall in heavy batches, slanting with the wind. Fido, an asshole of a dog, yipped and barked behind the storm door and high jumped to view the action. My brother bolted into the house first while the rest of us waddled through slick snow to the porch. Once inside, we peeled off layers of jackets and sweaters, and sat around the kitchen table for a spell.
“I didn’t think I’d see you for a few hours yet,” said grandma, which was as close to a compliment she could offer. From my seat, everything about the narrow farmhouse seemed as it always was. Despite being old as dirt, the house was warm and comfortable, especially in the kitchen next to the pot belly stove. The smell of bacon and coffee still lingering from breakfast. “The roads were clear and we missed all the traffic in Charlotte and around Pittsburgh,” mom answered. The reunion had all the hallmarks of normal visit, except for the noticeable absence of grandpa, asleep in his bedroom.
After being warned to be keep quiet, I decided to go play in the den until supper, and pushed my army trucks around on the navy blue shag carpet. Grandma was an excellent cook and we ate sautéed pork chops, lima beans and mashed potatoes. I hated lima beans but scarfed them down anyway. Grandma always made delicious deserts and I would not be held hostage by beans. After I cleared my plate, I patiently waited for the rest of the table to finish the meal. And soon enough, Grandma produced a mouth watering lemon meringue pie.
While we talked about school and finished desert, mom slipped away down the back hallway then reappeared a few minutes later. Her face was puffy, her nose red. “Alright y’all,” my mom ordered in her emerging southern accent, “Get ready for bed.”
* * *
The next few days were a bit of a blur as we shuffled from house to house, town to town, calling on expectant family members from both sides of the family. After the first few stops, each visit became a bit of a routine: the shedding of winter clothes, discussions about the weather, offers of food and coffee, and questions about school. Bombastic uncle Kurt asked me if I had a girlfriend. And when I answered no, he immediately asked if I intended to be an old bachelor. Had I been old enough I would’ve responded, “Not as long as you plan on being a sonofabitch.”
Eventually, each visit included conversations in low, adult tones, just out of ear shot of us kids. And my mother was more tense when visiting my dad’s family yet more at ease when with her sisters. As a nine year-old, I didn’t know or understand why certain dynamics exist or why they continue. I simply noted the difference and amended my behavior accordingly.
All these years later, I recall seeing my grandpa once the entire visit and only for a few minutes. A man I’d come to know as strong and deliberate was laid in his bed and suffering. The cancer left him frail, eating away the life left in him. He moaned a bit as my mother tried to talk to him. But I said nothing as I stared at the bed.
Of all my grandparents and extended family, Grandpa Lean didn’t treat me like a child or make the mistake of expecting me to act like a full grown man. He never asked me to do more than I could and translated confidence without words. And he expressed value for me by including me in his daily routine. We’d march through the snow to milk cows in the barn, dodged flapping hens to collect eggs, picked blackberries, and split wood. But, my favorite is when he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove from field to field on his red tractor. Occasionally, he let me stand between him and the big black steering wheel and I’d pretend to be the driver. I loved spending time with him. And I hate that my last memory of him, of dying on bed, is the last memory I have of my grandpa.
