Random Pattern Weekly 10/28/2007: Grandpa's Gone Edition
Grandpa
“You’re not putting that thing there?”
Victoria asked me this as we unpacked our new house. She referred to the heavy, neutral colored bayonet I placed halfway under my side of our bed.
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I’d rather have it and not need it; than need it and not have it.”
“But I don’t want it there.”
“My grandpa gave it to me.” I pleaded.
Ten years passed since the last time I’d seen my grandfather. We sat together under a humid Michigan sky in a group of five relatives and friends. By joining the group I figured I could get to know Grandpa. Any conversation between just the two of us always stopped and started like an LP skipping on a turntable.
“So what are you doing with yourself?
“I’m going to community college and working full-time as a camera repair tech.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s a pretty good job.”
“Well good.”
Carrying the conversation like a 60-pound rucksack, both of us lacked the stamina to trudge on for long. Luckily company never sat too far away to distract us. I don’t remember Grandpa and me spending time alone.
“So Darrell, how’s Junior?”
Grandpa’s attention turned to a friend of the family sitting in a green and blue checkered, aluminum, folding lawn chair next to grandpa’s R.V. I focused my attention on airy Michigan pines surrounding my Aunt Sandy’s house as I slowly turned to the past.
“Once upon a time…”
At seven years old, my mom would take me to her parents’ house and I’d play with my cousins. Georgie, Sherman and I had 100-plus acres of Grandpa’s Michigan forest to explore and usually we stayed close to the house. A simple home- off-white exterior, all right angles and boxy- most double-wide trailers took the same form as Grandpa and Grandma’s home. He told stories in that house; southern fables. Briar Rabbit, Briar Fox, the tar baby and creations of Hans Christian Anderson handed down from his mouth to our ears.
“…oh please don’t throw me in the briar patch Briar Fox.”
Grandpa’s voice full of energy, assumed a falsetto worthy of any rabbit.
“…or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.”
His voice also sounded gruff with a playful lilt. Sometimes he’d smile and his face spoke louder than his voice ever could. Always with a group of cousins, I would hear these stories and wonder how he knew them from memory. I never asked that question across the ocean between Grandpa and me.
“…and he punched that little tar baby with all his might…”
Grandpa never directly said anything to me, but I heard stories. Raised in Arkansas in the 20’s and 30’s, Elton had absorbed a definite dichotomy of right and wrong. When my mother decided to have a baby boy with a black man, I imagine the only up side my grandfather saw was my status as an only child. I’m told for the first four years of my life Grandpa disowned my mother and me. Really this should’ve shocked no one; a natural reaction from a white man who grew up in the south. Why would he want one of his daughters spoiled by a black man? Prior to the 1980’s, what good could come from an interracial relationship?
Sitting around Grandpa on his wooden bench of a sofa, embellished with an orange-brown-and-yellow checkered, afghan crocheted by Grandma; Georgie, Sherman, Erin, Julie and I listened to stories engrossed with high pleadings from characters like: Briar Rabbit or the Little Pigs and the gruff insistences of a Briar Bear or the Big Bad Wolf. Any other time the sofa imposed torture on the seated with the malignancy of a wooden bench, but those stories kept us sedate.
The entire couch frame, made of heavy wood, concluded in two sharp-cornered arms exposed without covering. To alleviate discomfort three, thin, floral-patterned cushions covered the straight, wooden back coupled with three, thicker, floral-cushions for the posterior. When the stories ended, I would rub the indentations in my skin from the oak frame. Then we kids evacuated the room. Grandpa would lean an orange-brown-and-yellow checkered afghan covered pillow against a wooden arm and take a nap. Grandma, my aunts and my mom would herd us all outside to leave Grandpa in “peace and quiet,” so they could play Scrabble and he could sleep.
My mom and I visited that farm house in Michigan from when I was between 6-years old to 9-years old. Grandpa had a collection of hunting weapons. Knives, guns, bows, crossbows, slingshots, anything that could kill an animal he had locked up in a large maple cabinet. Every time I went to his house, I admired the “elephant gun” he had hanging on the wall above his television set. This was probably a musket loader, but at the time I didn’t know and Grandpa always chuckled when he called it his “elephant gun.”
At eight years old, Grandpa gathered Georgie, Sherman and I around the cabinet withdrawing eight knives. Most of them I don’t even remember, but one stood out from the rest. A forearm long bayonet that attached to the end of a carbine rifle in some war before Vietnam. Encased in a heavy metallic sheath, the bayonet measured at least eight inches longer than any of the other knives. He told us to each pick one a piece until all the knives were gone, and whoever picked the bayonet got only two knives instead of three. I picked last in the first round and grabbed the bayonet. The other knife I got had a rusty blade and a handle made by Grandpa. I no longer have that one, but the bayonet still remains close to me as the only possession I’ve had with me for 27 years.
At ten years old my mom and I moved to Arizona. I didn’t see my Grandpa again for two years. Grandma and Grandpa moved to Pine Island, Florida got into a motorcycle accident, so my mom decided we’d move there in order to help. We lasted in Florida for little over a month, before moving back to Arizona. That time marks the only point in my life where Grandpa and I spent time alone. We did very little when just the two of us occupied a room. A-Team was popular then and I liked to watch that show. Grandpa would comment on that ‘nigger’ being on his T.V. and I would ignore him. I don’t remember having any particular conversations with Grandpa at that time. Nothing from that month in Florida stands out as being good in my life. We lived in a very rural, predominantly-white community and I went to their school for several weeks. In all the times I moved around I’ve never had difficulty making friends except on Pine Island. When we moved back to Arizona, my mother alluded to Grandpa “letting people know” I’m half-black. At one point that fueled hate in my heart, but 14 years later when I saw Grandpa again I know longer cared.
Now I’m 31 years old and I haven’t spoken to Grandpa in a year. No malice resides behind that statement I just don’t have anything to say.
“So when are you gonna come out and see us?”
“I’m not sure Grandpa. I’m going to school and working full-time, so it’s hard to get any free time.”
“Well I’ve got a car here that I want you to have and all you have to do is pick it up.”
That conversation takes place whether I’m on the phone or my mother talks to him. Substitute boat, harmonica or crossbow for car in that statement and there’s always something waiting for me to come out and pick up. Some of my extended family remains hopes he has a lot of money. Some of my extended family wants that money in a bad way. I don’t want anything from my Grandpa. What I want from him I suppose I wanted 20-odd years ago and it’s too late to go back. Aging beyond his ripe years, I imagine, Grandpa wants to make amends with his past. He’s a nice man with a quick, full smile; and I never knew him.
“Grandpa, do you remember when you gave me that bayonet?”
“No.”
“It was over twenty years ago. I just wanted to let you know I still have it. Thank you.”
“You’re not putting that thing there?”
Victoria asked me this as we unpacked our new house. She referred to the heavy, neutral colored bayonet I placed halfway under my side of our bed.
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I’d rather have it and not need it; than need it and not have it.”
“But I don’t want it there.”
“My grandpa gave it to me.” I pleaded.
Ten years passed since the last time I’d seen my grandfather. We sat together under a humid Michigan sky in a group of five relatives and friends. By joining the group I figured I could get to know Grandpa. Any conversation between just the two of us always stopped and started like an LP skipping on a turntable.
“So what are you doing with yourself?
“I’m going to community college and working full-time as a camera repair tech.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s a pretty good job.”
“Well good.”
Carrying the conversation like a 60-pound rucksack, both of us lacked the stamina to trudge on for long. Luckily company never sat too far away to distract us. I don’t remember Grandpa and me spending time alone.
“So Darrell, how’s Junior?”
Grandpa’s attention turned to a friend of the family sitting in a green and blue checkered, aluminum, folding lawn chair next to grandpa’s R.V. I focused my attention on airy Michigan pines surrounding my Aunt Sandy’s house as I slowly turned to the past.
“Once upon a time…”
At seven years old, my mom would take me to her parents’ house and I’d play with my cousins. Georgie, Sherman and I had 100-plus acres of Grandpa’s Michigan forest to explore and usually we stayed close to the house. A simple home- off-white exterior, all right angles and boxy- most double-wide trailers took the same form as Grandpa and Grandma’s home. He told stories in that house; southern fables. Briar Rabbit, Briar Fox, the tar baby and creations of Hans Christian Anderson handed down from his mouth to our ears.
“…oh please don’t throw me in the briar patch Briar Fox.”
Grandpa’s voice full of energy, assumed a falsetto worthy of any rabbit.
“…or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.”
His voice also sounded gruff with a playful lilt. Sometimes he’d smile and his face spoke louder than his voice ever could. Always with a group of cousins, I would hear these stories and wonder how he knew them from memory. I never asked that question across the ocean between Grandpa and me.
“…and he punched that little tar baby with all his might…”
Grandpa never directly said anything to me, but I heard stories. Raised in Arkansas in the 20’s and 30’s, Elton had absorbed a definite dichotomy of right and wrong. When my mother decided to have a baby boy with a black man, I imagine the only up side my grandfather saw was my status as an only child. I’m told for the first four years of my life Grandpa disowned my mother and me. Really this should’ve shocked no one; a natural reaction from a white man who grew up in the south. Why would he want one of his daughters spoiled by a black man? Prior to the 1980’s, what good could come from an interracial relationship?
Sitting around Grandpa on his wooden bench of a sofa, embellished with an orange-brown-and-yellow checkered, afghan crocheted by Grandma; Georgie, Sherman, Erin, Julie and I listened to stories engrossed with high pleadings from characters like: Briar Rabbit or the Little Pigs and the gruff insistences of a Briar Bear or the Big Bad Wolf. Any other time the sofa imposed torture on the seated with the malignancy of a wooden bench, but those stories kept us sedate.
The entire couch frame, made of heavy wood, concluded in two sharp-cornered arms exposed without covering. To alleviate discomfort three, thin, floral-patterned cushions covered the straight, wooden back coupled with three, thicker, floral-cushions for the posterior. When the stories ended, I would rub the indentations in my skin from the oak frame. Then we kids evacuated the room. Grandpa would lean an orange-brown-and-yellow checkered afghan covered pillow against a wooden arm and take a nap. Grandma, my aunts and my mom would herd us all outside to leave Grandpa in “peace and quiet,” so they could play Scrabble and he could sleep.
My mom and I visited that farm house in Michigan from when I was between 6-years old to 9-years old. Grandpa had a collection of hunting weapons. Knives, guns, bows, crossbows, slingshots, anything that could kill an animal he had locked up in a large maple cabinet. Every time I went to his house, I admired the “elephant gun” he had hanging on the wall above his television set. This was probably a musket loader, but at the time I didn’t know and Grandpa always chuckled when he called it his “elephant gun.”
At eight years old, Grandpa gathered Georgie, Sherman and I around the cabinet withdrawing eight knives. Most of them I don’t even remember, but one stood out from the rest. A forearm long bayonet that attached to the end of a carbine rifle in some war before Vietnam. Encased in a heavy metallic sheath, the bayonet measured at least eight inches longer than any of the other knives. He told us to each pick one a piece until all the knives were gone, and whoever picked the bayonet got only two knives instead of three. I picked last in the first round and grabbed the bayonet. The other knife I got had a rusty blade and a handle made by Grandpa. I no longer have that one, but the bayonet still remains close to me as the only possession I’ve had with me for 27 years.
At ten years old my mom and I moved to Arizona. I didn’t see my Grandpa again for two years. Grandma and Grandpa moved to Pine Island, Florida got into a motorcycle accident, so my mom decided we’d move there in order to help. We lasted in Florida for little over a month, before moving back to Arizona. That time marks the only point in my life where Grandpa and I spent time alone. We did very little when just the two of us occupied a room. A-Team was popular then and I liked to watch that show. Grandpa would comment on that ‘nigger’ being on his T.V. and I would ignore him. I don’t remember having any particular conversations with Grandpa at that time. Nothing from that month in Florida stands out as being good in my life. We lived in a very rural, predominantly-white community and I went to their school for several weeks. In all the times I moved around I’ve never had difficulty making friends except on Pine Island. When we moved back to Arizona, my mother alluded to Grandpa “letting people know” I’m half-black. At one point that fueled hate in my heart, but 14 years later when I saw Grandpa again I know longer cared.
Now I’m 31 years old and I haven’t spoken to Grandpa in a year. No malice resides behind that statement I just don’t have anything to say.
“So when are you gonna come out and see us?”
“I’m not sure Grandpa. I’m going to school and working full-time, so it’s hard to get any free time.”
“Well I’ve got a car here that I want you to have and all you have to do is pick it up.”
That conversation takes place whether I’m on the phone or my mother talks to him. Substitute boat, harmonica or crossbow for car in that statement and there’s always something waiting for me to come out and pick up. Some of my extended family remains hopes he has a lot of money. Some of my extended family wants that money in a bad way. I don’t want anything from my Grandpa. What I want from him I suppose I wanted 20-odd years ago and it’s too late to go back. Aging beyond his ripe years, I imagine, Grandpa wants to make amends with his past. He’s a nice man with a quick, full smile; and I never knew him.
“Grandpa, do you remember when you gave me that bayonet?”
“No.”
“It was over twenty years ago. I just wanted to let you know I still have it. Thank you.”
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