GRANDDAD – A Memoir Moment

It’s the summer solstice and my grandmother’s birthday. The connection seems absolutely right, though I know little about her. My mother told me of her love of nature. . . a gift passed down through the generations in our family. Now, as I watch my son till and plant his garden I see the circle of life unfolding.  All of my grandparents died died before I was born except one: Granddad.

CHICKEN COOPS

My grandfather, my mother’s father, lived with us from before I was born until his death. My first memory of “Granddad” was sitting perched upon his shoulders, his hands holding me steady as we walked together to the chicken coop. I was two, but even then I understood that Granddad and the chicken coop were a thing. It was who he was around town. He raised chickens and sold the eggs to the local people for pocket change. That is, until we moved to Maine where there were weather didn’t permit chicken coops.

Instead, during the cold winter days he took to washing dishes after every meal and canning chairs. He showed me exactly how to dry a glass with a towel, but canning chairs was off limits.  Occasionally, he watched over me while my mother was at a church function or visiting friends. He fed me poached eggs with too much salt while I watched TV. We didn’t talk. Granddad was hard of hearing and I didn’t like shouting at him.

DANDELIONS

We moved again shortly before my ninth birthday. The weather was warmer in our new home further south, but still no chicken coops. Instead Granddad spent hours on his knees in the front yard, hunched over, pocket knife in hand digging dandelions out of the grass – in a white shirt and tie. It was what he wore every day. It seems it was always Sunday in his world, and each morning began with the sound of his straight razor against the razor strop that hung from his bedroom door. Once in a while I’d sneak into his room and watch him lather up his shaving brush and paint his face in great dobs of smooth white froth. I so wanted him to dob some on my face too!

Slender and almost 6 feet tall, Granddad was number eight in our family. He made us an even-numbered family. I don’t recall him ever being sick, except one time when I was eleven. He was ninety-two. As I recall, he laid in bed for two weeks with a mysterious illness. The doctor came and went and talked in a conspiratorial whisper with my mother in the kitchen. There was no discussion of what was wrong with Granddad except that he wasn’t feeling well.

TRASH CANS

One night a kerfuffle coming from his bedroom woke me up. Before I could decide whether or not to get up, I heard my mother’s feet scurrying down the hall. Safe beneath my covers, I listened to the activity but learned little before the racket stopped and I fell back asleep. Over breakfast my mother told my Dad how Granddad thought the trash can was on fire. She said she took the trashcan into the bathroom and ran the water to convince him that the fire was out. The trash can wasn’t on fire at all, but Granddad’s imagination was!

Two weeks passed and he finally got out of bed. Dressed in his white shirt and tie, he came down stairs and stretched out on the couch in the living room. I noticed that he was fast asleep as I passed by on the way to the kitchen for breakfast before school. I was encouraged. He was getting well at last. “Granddad’s up!” I said to my mother who was standing at the sink, while I poured cereal into a bowl. “He’s dressed and napping on the couch!”

“He’s not napping, dear,” she said. That afternoon the undertaker came and took him away. Family members leaving was a tradition in our family.

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CARL JUNG’S LIFE REVIEW