Chapter 2.2 – SH

It is funny how death and time skew our memories, and allow us to create qualities in those we didn’t know well. When I was seventeen, my grandfather, Pap, died. For most of my life I had seen him as a crotchety old man, never happy, always bitter. He often complained about how unfair life was, and how it didn’t offer many fair shakes. At the same time, he seemed to shake life as hard as he could. 

            In the two plus years I had worked for him I found him to be more than what I had thought he was. He was the caretaker of the Berwick cemetery, Mt. Hope – I thought it was strange to have the word ‘hope’ in the name of a place holding such sadness. When he passed – an ugly death caused by the two-pack a day unfiltered Camel habit he had never attempted to kick – I was devastated, or at least that’s how I thought I was supposed to feel. In reality, I didn’t feel much, and that concerned me.

            When a family member passes – one who wasn’t abusive or cruel – you should feel sad. I was sad, or so I thought, but my grandfather hadn’t loved me. For the bulk of my life I felt like a burden to him, and though he viewed me as a mistake. At best, I think he saw me as a piece of ammunition he could use against my mother. This brought him great joy due to the constant battle being fought between the two; it’s cause rooted in some piece of history I was not privy too.

            I was the trump card he played when he was down, which was not infrequent. His eyes would sparkle with mean mirth when he would say something to the effect of “the boy is evidence of your inability to make good decisions,” which would cause my mother’s eyes to flash with anger, as my grandmother would tell him to hush and my face would burn with embarrassment. Before we lived with my grandparents, if we were visiting, we would leave right after that jibe.

            As time has subsided, I’ve forgotten most of the hostility and resentment surrounding my grandfather. He’s been dead almost 25 years and my mind doesn’t have the room to carry anger for someone so long past. Death and time: the perfect combination for forgetting.

            I remember more the two plus years I spent working for him. They are happier memories, which no doubt confuses the memory of how I felt at his death. I will always see the mirth in his eyes as he sat smoking in the backhoe asking how the view was every time I was six feet down in a grave, and I can still hear the scratchy laughter as he said it was a preview of what was to come.

He still carried bitterness and anger, but when I do remember them, I hear them in the context of the lessons he imparted. Though I don’t think they were intentional, they were well learned. 

            He taught me hard work, stubbornness, tough love (yes, love) and the importance of doing good work. I learned how to swear and how to blend in as one of the guys. The two-and-a-half summers I worked for him were the best summers of my life.