VOLUME 1, CHRONICLE 8, THURSDAY WITH GRANDDAD, let me tell you a story from the steps: A friend that recently lost her father posted a pic of a cardinal as she parked at work with the simple caption, Dad. Legend has it that a cardinal appearing is a sign from a loved one in the afterlife, a message that a door has swung on its hinges in the great beyond, opened, & they’re around. The Latin root for cardinal, cardo, means hinge.
This afternoon, I had one of those door swinging on its hinges experiences. It wasn’t brought by a cardinal but by a discarded pouch in a parking lot that once held the now renamed Red Man chewing tobacco, my grandfather’s brand.
I stepped over the pouch opening my car door & the past swung open with it. On my way, sights I’d seen multiple times since he passed in October 2002, brought my granddad, your great-great-granddad, the man known as Red, back. The sign for the hardware store where he worked after retiring as a plasterer. The abandoned lot where the schoolhouse we voted in until me & Jules moved in 1991 sat. The house he built with his own hand in 1964 & whose material list still resides in his Bible which I now own. What came back wasn’t pleasant, not the holidays or birthdays, not sitting on his back porch snapping beans or shucking corn grown in his backyard or spitting Red Man juice into a half filled with rocks, metal coffee can that served as a spittoon. It was the two times he spoke firmly to me. Words delivered, not with a raised voice, but with a needle sharp point of stern, serious instruction. A verbal inoculation, an antibiotic for my infection of ignorance & arrogance. Fall 1980, Papa was a college freshman, freshly 18, omnipotent, & the biggest challenge he faced was socks or no socks with his khakis & tassel loafers. By the time this day ended I realized two facts. Red to others, just granddad to me, could have given the Civics teacher at my junior high, Mrs. Hearn, a run for her money & if I had any thoughts of being a defense attorney, lose them. I was eligible to vote for the first time that November. Granddad asked not WHO I was voting for but WAS I voting. My answer was no. My defense was I didn’t make time to register & what did one vote matter. It was here that I realized I was no Perry Mason & your great-great-granddad could have been an educator. I don’t remember the entire lesson but the highlights still stick. A little of the general facts, like, Texas won statehood by one vote. A lot of the familial facts, to paraphrase, “…two of my brothers fought in World War 2, one flew Corsairs in the Slot in the Pacific, the other won a Silver Star in Europe. Your daddy served in Korea, suffering in the hell of winter cold & the hell of combats heat. They went, their buddies went, & some of their buddies that went didn’t come back. They put their tails (he used a different word for effect but since this is a family show, we won’t go there) on the line to make sure you could have a say in how things are run. I suggest you register…” Register I did & I haven’t missed since. On a few occasions, I ran into him on election day. Without fail, he’d beat me to the poll & without fail, he’d proudly throw his arm over my shoulder & introduce me to everyone he knew. He’d be proud that your daddy & uncle vote & he’d be proud your folks take you to the precinct with them. On a side note, in January 1981, all males that shared my birth year were required to register with the Selective Service for a draft that never came. Papa and a couple of friends headed to the downtown post office to register. Out front, a history professor at our college was informing all the young men entering that we didn’t have to sign up. I plagiarized that family Pacific/Europe/Korean theater of service speech, including Red’s word for backside & that day I learned it truly is better to give than receive. As the years rolled on, I paid more attention to the costs of my dad’s service. When he spent too much time in the cold, a spot on his jaw would turn painful, undoubtedly, a Korean winter souvenir. While your great-granddad & Papa watched the opening ceremonies of the Seoul Olympics he mentioned that it looked nothing like it did in 1952. I asked if he’d like to go back & visit. He said yes but not to sightsee. There were a couple of fellows he’d like to see because he never got to say goodbye. That inoculation by Dr. Granddad proved effective. My grandfather could’ve hung out a shingle as a premarital counselor too. In the early 90s, Alzheimers began its ruthless tour de force on my grandmother. Today, I thought about his battle as your great-grandmother was a passenger as I stepped over that tobacco pouch. How he fought so well, so heroically, how I try to be heroic in my fight but often end up Quixotic, tilting like Cervantes paladin, at the wrong enemies. Alzheimer’s turned his once vibrant bride, who he referred to as his “tough ol’ broad”, into a wheelchair ridden woman holding a baby doll in silence staring out a window. Today, terms like “broad” or “dame” or “doll” are often delivered dripping in misogyny. Granddad delivered the term with respect, a warmth that indicated he didn’t consider my grandmother a first mate but a co-captain. Around 1996, I was visiting the house he built in ’64 & watched as he took care of my grandmother. Speaking to her like she understood every word, placing her chair just so at the window, preparing a meal. This day, he was scrambling eggs. I asked, again ignorantly, why he took such time & care when she had little or no clue. I was about to get my second shot. He asked, “How long have you been married?” I answered,  “Almost 10 years”. That was the alcohol swab before the needle. He began, “…you & Julie took the same vows we did in 1928. That for better or worse, in sickness & health part, those aren’t multiple choice, they’re all or nothing. That tough ol’ broad by the window, she stuck with me through the depression, too much month & not enough money, through births & deaths, now it’s my turn & one day you’ll have a turn.”
Those words have come back to me on occasion, a job loss, following an ambulance with a child in it or sifting through charred remains of what used to be a living room & today in a grocery store aisle with your Meemee. Little wonder that when Alzheimers finished its assault on my grandmother in 2001, my grandparents were only 11 days shy of their 73rd wedding anniversary. With a bar set like that, no one in our family will be seeing a divorce lawyer any time soon. One last thing about Red. Christmas Eve, 1985, he put that big arm on my shoulder once again. He pointed at the girl you know as Jules & some know as Miss Julie & unbeknownst to him that I would ask her to a permanent sleepover that night, said, “I really like her”. As you’ll come to find out, your great-great-grandad knew a thing or two about tough ol’ broads…