I only knew my maternal grandparents, who (for absolutely no good reason that I can discern) my brother had nicknamed "Mammy & Daddy Orval" when he was a child. They were a huge part of my world, either going to visit them when we lived in another state, or seeing them almost daily when we lived in the same town. My grandmother was a frail-looking little lady from Kentucky, who took most of the usual descriptions of "Southern Belle" to heart, although she was hardly any of the more negative ones. She was wickedly funny and we had a great deal of fun when I visited, playing games we made up and pretending to be soap opera characters. I remember her teaching me to heat dishwater in the reservoir of her wood stove (even though she had a hot water heater by then) and taking me out to drink ice cold spring water and gather watercress for fancy tea party sandwiches.
My grandfather was quiet, but as sweet-natured as a human could be, and he loved us all in his firm quiet way. My fondest memories are of him wearing grey & white striped "Key" brand overalls. For many years he ran a milk route, and, when he thought he'd safely retired, he was ushered into a new career of town fix-it-man. Apparently he'd helped out an elderly couple a few times, and they told their friends... who begged Daddy to help them, and so on and so on. Before he knew it he had a bustling clientèle of people who wanted him to mow their lawn, fix their gadgets, help them do heavy things they had trouble doing and so on. He loved it, and people could trust him implicitly. Daddy was the kind of man you could hand a thousand dollars cash to and say "Keep this for me." You could go back 30 years later and he'd have it in a box in his shop, waiting for you to come claim it.
I remember my grandfather's gentle presence in my life. I don't think I ever heard him say a harsh word to anyone, human or animal. I've heard him mildly cuss pro-wrestlers, but even that was done with a gentle good humor. Probably my favorite childhood tradition happened every Saturday night that I was at my grandparents' house. This was when "cable" first came into existence - WTBS from Atlanta started being broadcast across the U.S., and we got our first view of Georgia Championship Wrestling. It was funny, the characters were exciting, it was new, and we enjoyed one night a week laughing and playing along with the fun. I have no idea if my grandfather actually *liked* wrestling, but he thought it was fun for us to do together. He would pop a huge bowl of air popcorn (he had a giant stainless bowl that was so huge to my little body that I could barely carry it) and we'd sit on the couch in their old farmhouse and watch. I remember very little of the actual programs, I just remember getting to sit with Daddy. I can almost smell him now - a little sweat, a little gasoline from the mowers he loved to fix in his off times, a little butane from his lighter - he smoked an old pipe, never cigarettes or cigars. I loved that smell - to me it was clean and honest, and quiet just like my grandfather.
Days when I visited were more than fun. I remember loving to poke around the old creek behind the house, and Daddy following me along, making sure I didn't fall in, hearing his "Now, baby..." if I got too close to something dangerous. He helped me build a million dams that were gone the next day, he helped me poke a million futile sticks at a million fast-as-lightning crawdads, and toss a million handfuls of oatmeal at a million red goldfish. He was as constant as the sun to me, and as silent, and I loved him with a fierceness reserved solely for little girls and their grandfathers.
I had the honor of being born on their wedding anniversary, and on their 59th I turned 15. My mother had made cakes for both of us that year, and mine had a little red plastic VW bug on it, because that was the car my Dad bought me as my first car. That was the last part of July, and it was a great day. I never had any clue that my grandfather was sick but apparently he had been, and in December, right before Christmas, the worst happened. All that I remember was a call from my grandmother, saying that my grandfather was sick and would Mother come out to the farmhouse. It's a bit blurry at that point for me, I don't know if I went or not, but I know I ended up at the hospital later that evening. My grandfather, the doctors said, was shutting down - all of his organs were stopping their work, and there wasn't anything that could be done.
At some point I was able to go into his hospital room. I walked in, and my mother, my grandmother and my aunt were gathered on either side of him. I walked toward him, and he had the saddest look on his face. As I told him I loved him, I could see him trying to communicate with me. Trying to place me, trying to remember my name. Trying so hard, and I could see that he felt bad that he just couldn't quite figure things out. He knew he should know me, knew he should love me - but it seemed that he just didn't know how. I took a step closer to him, and everything stopped. The machines went crazy and my mother, grandmother and aunt all gave one collective cry of heartbreak as he left us. I turned and ran, ran out of the hospital room, ran down the hall to the chapel. The most important person in my life to that point was gone, and I had no idea what to do.
That death started a trend in my life, of being The Strong One. I stayed up most of that night making phone call after phone call on an old pay phone, trying to find my sister. She was somewhere in a neighboring state, estranged for some reason from the family for a while. I probably called other people, called even though my confused and hormonal fifteen year old heart was shattered into pieces. That loss left me empty and bereft, and probably set the stage for some of my more fantastic screw ups as I hit my college years. For the better part of my adult life that was the most pivotal event, trumping marriage and divorce and marrying again, trumping high school and college graduations, new jobs and cross-country moves. Little did I know that it would become a pale second to another death that would come a few decades later.
TURNING FROM YOU
"An expression that recalls your face, but can't quite place it."
B.Venker, 1988
I am back again in the room I ran to,
back again to kneel and pray.
I see you as I pause
in this dark wood and velvet chapel,
I stand before you in the ICU
I want to touch you, I want to beg you
to come back outside
back out to the old house
and the smoke-house to sharpen tools
bent studiously over your work; out past the line of
half-fixed lawnmowers to take a walk
beside the creek with me, out nights
on the sagging porch, pipe in hand to watch me
catching fire flies, to watch me free in dark June air
But I only clasp your hand, and
search those eyes that search my face,
that do not know me, cannot place me.
I am not here for you,
I stand only as a shadow, a forgotten name.
When I turn from you, when I turn to run
your last breath will stop me, you will die behind me.
teresa kintner 1989
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