The day we buried Grandpa, the town flooded. Streams of rain rushed through streets carrying earth stolen from grain roots. We couldn’t hear the preacher’s sermon, and no one cared. Everyone was discussing whether or not the undertaker did a good job on Grandpa’s make up. Did he make him look livelier than when he was dying? They agreed about too much rouge on his cheeks to cover the yellow from the liver, but they loved his gray hair. Grandpa had gotten his hands on hair dye in the nursing home and dyed his hair orange. I thought it moved him up a century, but Grandma was appalled. Matter of fact, she hated my rainbow colored hair too.
Grandpa and I, we’d always stuck together. Same interests. We hunted for morel mushrooms, burned a hole in grandma’s table doing science experiments, and tried to decipher drawings on the walls of river caves. We had a hidden stash of tiger striped ice cream that we’d eat after everyone went to bed.
He’d tell me stories about his family, his love of farming, and his fascination with science. His parents disapproved. Grandpa hadn’t met their expectations of becoming a prestigious minister. When his mother died suddenly at a young age, and his father became angry and distant, Grandpa lost his faith in God. He preferred facts, the straight truth, something reliable, objective. I was sworn to secrecy.
The locals rejected Grandpa’s scientific ways and made fun of him. I’ll admit that asking someone to pass the sodium chloride instead of salt was odd. But on reconsideration, how else would we remember chemistry? He brought it into everyday life. The family considered him foolish, even Grandma. Being unique didn’t count for much. I should know. I’ve always been on the odd side myself.
The service was quick and to the point, a sermon about overcoming evil and focusing on the heavenly life hereafter. As it ended, Grandma took my hand and thanked me for being a pallbearer. I cringed. The grandchildren lined up on either side of the casket—tall kids in the front and short ones behind. We weren’t thinking scientifically because the coffin tilted straight down. We felt Grandpa’s body slide down as we fought for balance. Rolling, thunder and a thud. We jumped.
The trip to the cemetery was twisted , potholed, and full of delays. No one honored funeral flags unless there was drama, a drunk funeral director, family fights. When people arrived, the storm had created havoc. The tent had flipped over, the grave was a pool, and our chairs were sinking through the green turf pitching towards the grave.
Everyone was eager for the “graduation meal” at the Orbit and had no time for a lame gravesite speech from the preacher. The cousins had hidden a keg in the back to ease the pain. The burn and buzz of alcohol, that was heaven.
We caught up on the gossip while we ate fries, and burgers. There was enough alcohol to go around. There wasn’t much talk about Grandpa because he’d been absent for a long time due to dementia. Dad tried to talk about him, but no one listened. He mentioned the stuff everyone appreciated about Grandpa, his deer hunting (the geriatric catches that Grandma had to marinate for weeks), his involvement in Kiwanis, years on the school board, and how he shared his homegrown produce. If someone had a problem with their tractor, he’d share his. Grandpa told me once you had to meet people where they were. He admitted he had to be careful with how much science he discussed or he’d scare people off.
After the meal, we went on our sympathy rounds to the family. We could walk clear around town in under 15 minutes. Hard to see what anyone did to survive. The town was stripped bare except for farming, which was mainly by machines. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Grandma’s uncle was married to Grandpa’s sister which made her both a sister-in-law and an aunt. The twisted genograms represented inbreeding, if not physical than cultural. It explained a lot about people’s behavior.
First, we visited Uncle Luke’s house. He got his farmhouse designated a Century Farm, which is odd since it was condemned as unsafe by the town. He was an accomplished writer publishing his heavily thought out articles in his favorite journal, The Skeptical Inquirer. He made a point of sending me a copy, which I never read. It was too convoluted.
His gunfights with his wife were legendary. You could see the bullet holes in his truck. He was afraid to stay in his house at times and often ate at the Orbit. He showed up in camouflage, which only made him stick out more. For someone so smart, he could be doorknob dumb.
We met his ducks that he bought to cook for Thanksgiving. When the mama duck died, they adopted him, and the Thanksgiving plan was out of the question. They followed him onto the river and then back home. You could see them, Luke bent over, followed by six ducklings. When our dogs chased them, he got mad because they disappeared for a while.
It ended poorly when Luke’s dog, Luke Jr, knocked Dad over. Luke felt that justice had been served since our dogs went after his ducklings.
“Don’t get your pants in a bunch,” Luke said. “Luke Jr was just being friendly.”
Dad didn’t respond. There was no reason to stay. They weren’t speaking before the dog drama.
We zig zagged around roads until we found Uncle Jessie and Aunt Mabel. They were so out of shape that they lived in armchairs that could project them up and out when needed. Jessie raised chickens that laid colored eggs that were low in cholesterol and popular at Easter for those who didn’t like dyeing eggs. Mabel had a flock of peacocks who spread their feathers, shrieked, and chased you.
Mabel had missed the gathering because she was banned from the Orbit. She was a diabetic on insulin and had stabbed Jessie too many times with her needles when he annoyed her. She didn’t care because she came from a city and hated the town. There was nothing to see but corn, soy beans, and wheat. The people were not deserving of her time. Her peacock flock was her salvation. She made jewelry from peacock feathers and sold it in the local pharmacy. People thought they were beautiful, but they tended to fall apart.
Mabel had her licensed practical nurse degree, and had worked at the nursing home until she was fired for spending too much time watching soap operas with patients. She called it quality time and claimed administration just didn’t get the modern concepts of primary care. She remained unconvinced when management pointed out that the patients only watched TV when she was there. Mostly, they slept through the shows. Otherwise they’d be parked in a circle in the rec room for activities time.
“Oh yeah, like bingo.” she’d say. “None of them could understand that game and don’t tell me they didn’t fall asleep during the game.”
I wondered if her attitude about older people reflected our family’s view of Grandpa, especially since his dementia. As if dismissing it made it acceptable. In a way they erased him, I mean the real him. No one had tolerance for out of sync people, or the ins and outs of dying.
We were getting tired. It was time to check into the bed and breakfast run by Grandma’s cousin Dorothy. She gave us homemade pastries and hot chocolate. We hung out with our dogs and watched the sunset. When I went to the guest bathroom, I found an out of order sign on the toilet. Dorothy told me the sign was there to prevent people from using the bathroom because she hated cleaning. She removed the sign, allowing me unlimited use. I was touched by her generosity.
Before we headed back home, we stopped by the cemetery. Adjacent to the graveyard was a pig farm that Grandpa would have appreciated. He’d developed pigs with bleeding disorders and was famous for discovering clotting factors that are still used today to treat people with hemophilia. An achievement that no one mentioned at the service.
Winding down the road from the grave towards the valley of muted greens with its red polka dot orchards, I felt the draw of the earth—a grounding that settled me. Grandpa’s love and respect for this land and his community made sense to me.
I could hear his words of wisdom, the ones that he often shared with us, the ones we took to heart: “ Own your past, honor your heritage, respect your people, and don’t be afraid to go your own way.”
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(Photo: Manhhai/ flickr.com/ CC BY-ND 2.0)
- The Day We Buried Grandpa by Jill Muhrer - June 6, 2024