Saturday, December 21, 2013

My Grandfather's Grateful Life



The coldness of the house lingers with me still. For a place that was jokingly referred to as “Herbie's Little Hell,” my grandfather's house on that December night one year ago was bone-chilling cold. The central heat had been supplemented for years by a propane insert in the fireplace. My grandfather kept it cranking because of his nonagenarian circulatory issues, and it seemed at long last the only source of heat in the house was that heating unit. It did nothing to help the back of the house, where Trixie and I had settled in for what would be my first night in many years at the house with no number on the door.

Yes, the house had no number. Years ago, the City of Ava, Missouri created the strangest convolution of numbered avenues and terraces branching off the main thoroughfares emanating from the town square. Washington and Jefferson Streets are the main roads, but my grandfather's house was on what was known as NW 13th Avenue Terrace. Even my Aunt Suzanne, who had spent over fifty years as daughter-in-law to Herb Sanders, did not know the exact physical address of the little house. No one in Ava really did. They just knew it as Herb's House. It was only a year ago, and a call placed to the city deed office, that 1313 NW 13th Avenue Terrace was revealed as the official address of the place my grandfather resided since 1966. It never even had a mailbox. If one wanted to get a piece of mail to my grandparents, my cousin, Mark, or anyone else in my family, it was addressed to the post office box used by the family ready-mix business.

Normally, I would have stayed at my cousin's place, but with my four-legged traveling companion along for the trip, I was bunking at my grandfather's for the night. As I shivered under the thin covers, clutching Trixie for whatever warmth a twenty-six pound dog could provide, I sadly realized this was probably the last night I would ever spend in this house. It would also be the last night I would spend in Ava with my grandfather still on this earth.

My father had been in town the previous week to visit and move my grandfather to the nursing home. Herb had been declining for months, losing weight and losing stamina until one Sunday morning, he found himself unable to get out of his chair and get ready for church. Dad immediately came down and discussed options, and my grandfather stoically decided to check himself into the nursing home where my grandmother had spent her last months five years before. My grandfather had made peace with the decision, but still spoke optimistically about returning home in a few weeks. At the age of 97, my grandfather sadly lamented that he was the “last remaining sonofabitch in Douglas County.” He had outlived his friends. Doc Curry was long gone. Ray Parsley had passed away. My grandmother, Stella, preceded him and the greatest blow was losing my uncle, Herb's firstborn and business partner, two years before. In his mind, Herb Sanders was ready to go, but he sure wasn't going to admit that to anybody, even my dad.

The two of us shared a wonderful visit at the nursing home. This enfeebled man lying there in a hospital bed was a shadow of the man I enjoyed visiting so often for the past forty-plus years. He lay there with a blanket over him, too weak to move much, but taking comfort in having photos of my grandmother looking over him. He knew he would see her soon in heaven. We shared stories I had heard thousands of times before, but gladly took them in again. He spoke of his kind and gentle father, who even though had only a third grade education, made a good living raising cattle on the family property off Cowskin Creek. We laughed about his cantankerous mother, who was the complete opposite of his dad. I was reminded of the time Granddad Aud came close to letting Granny Tracy wear a pan of cream he was preparing on the cream separator but she had the common sense to walk out of the milk house before she said one negative comment too many. Herb recalled how his father loved to brew beer, and would add a potato peeling to the mix to add just a little bit more kick. This home brew was so strong that one time it shattered the bottles in the attic of their house and led to a seeping mess through the ceiling plaster. We avoided talking about Uncle Weldon, for I knew my grandfather's broken heart would not be soothed by talking about losing his son and best friend. He told me how proud he was of my dad, and asked how “Miss Jodie” was doing. He asked if Jodie's dad was “still digging basements.” We talked a little Civil War history. My grandfather's body was physically deteriorating, but his mind was still sharp as ever. That was comforting.

The week before Christmas 2012, my dad returned to Ava and holed up at the Super 8. Having spent four decades as an Episcopal priest and dealing with the end of days for so many parishioners, my dad knew that his father's time was measured in days, not weeks. In the early morning hours of December 20, he received a phone call. My grandfather had died peacefully in his sleep. For my grandfather, the pain had come to an end.

+++++

Approaching 43, I am very blessed to have known my grandparents as well as I did. My mom's father died in 1989 when I was a senior in high school, and Grammy Brown still rolls on at the amazing age of 101. When I moved back to Missouri from the east coast in 1993, I had the chance to spend more time with my paternal grandparents. I sometimes wonder how life would have been different if I was able to find a job back east twenty years ago and not had to make the decision to venture west. I would have missed out on so much time to enjoy my grandparents as an adult. Before I met Jodie, I would decide on a whim to call my grandmother up and just announce I was coming down from Columbia or Kansas City. She would have a massive sandwich prepared and an open invitation to spend the night, knowing I would invariably spend the night at Mark's. My grandfather would be at the gravel plant, holding court in the garage and watching the dust kick up. Weldon would likely be out delivering a load of concrete and Herb would be there to answer the phone and visit with his friends.

“C'mon, Jon!” he would say. “Let's go to Senior Citizens.”

The three of us would go to the senior center for lunch, and he would proudly tell them I was his bodyguard. As far as culinary repasts go, the senior center lunch was on par with some bad school lunches I have had over the years, but the wonderful company made up for it. He would pay full price for my lunch AND his, even though he was eligible for a reduced rate. My granddad always felt someone needed a subsidized meal a lot worse than he did. He never made a big production out of it. I just knew that was how he rolled.

After he died, my father remarked how his dad embodied this ideal of living with simple means in mind. My grandfather founded a business that for many men could have been run unscrupulously and returned wealth and prosperity. For many in the ready-mix business, fortunes could have been made and passed on to families but my grandfather and uncle were content to support their families and not worry about building empires. He lived in a modest house, put money in savings, drove the same truck for years, and dressed plainly in his uniform of Dickies work shirt and pants. My grandfather was very comfortable in his own little corner of the world, and he was grateful to work hard, fish, hunt arrowheads, and live his simple life. That model is a lesson worth following.

My grandfather lived a grateful life. I am glad he had 97 years on this planet to show the rest of us that valuable example.



Saturday, November 23, 2013

The Lost Notebook of an Inveterate Writer

Last Sunday, my wife and I had the pleasure to travel from Hartford to the lovely Southeastern Connecticut shore to spend a day with an old college friend and his family. We shared a wonderful dinner, filled with hours of storytelling and conversation, and returned to the hotel before midnight only to realize our rental car had been compromised. My two iPads, truck keys, Jodie's laptop, and other things were gone. My planned trip to Vermont took a detour as I drove back to the New London area to file a police report and begin the first step in getting my digital life back in order.

There was one item which, now gone, has struck me as delivering the greatest blow. That is my journal.

Months of writing has vanished. The occasionally profound, at times mundane but altogether important, musings of an inveterate writer. The waiting for the police report and the completed filing of insurance paperwork is drawing every ounce of patience, but the missing writing is my greatest struggle.

When I was six, my parents took Rob and I on our annual pilgrimage east and made a stop in Charlottesville, where I made my first visit to Monticello. I was so inspired by my visit with Thomas Jefferson's home that I wrote my first journal of sorts. It was a simple little homemade folio that Mom put together for me. I remember writing things such as “Thomas Jefferson was a good man. I like him.” and “Jesus was born in a manger. He was a babe.” The undulating handwriting clearly showed the mark of a kid who was not ready for unlined pages. I am sure my mother still has that first tome somewhere in her collection of my childhood memories. It was my first foray into the life of a writer.

For the last twenty years, I have faithfully kept a journal, detailing my daily thoughts and reflections on teaching and life. I am very particular about the type of notebook I keep. Earlier volumes tend to be a larger 8 ½ by 11 inch bound journal, covered in various stickers from my travels. Most of my notebooks are book-sized, black, hardcover notebooks with acid free pages. I prefer unlined pages. For many years, I began a new journal with an inscription and a continuation of page numbers from the previous volume. The new edition was a continuation of thoughts past.

Getting to the final pages of a filled notebook was an occasion. The cover was often scuffed, faded, and ready for the shelf. The book felt heavier, for I know a great deal of ink had been spilled (some literal and others figurative) over those pages. Those pages had travelled with me everywhere – on airplanes, in coffee shops, in classrooms and libraries. As the last page was completed, I capped my pen and thumbed through the completed tome, re-reading entries I had not revisited in many months. Examining the ink (never pencil) I could tell what pen was used. Was it a handy ballpoint or one of my several fountain pens? Each page told a story within a story. The shape of my handwriting was an indication of where I was. I can tell if I was writing on a table or desk, curled up in a chair, or even nestled up against a tree. There was a great sense of finality, and a feeling of pride that I had continued a wonderful habit over many years.

As a school librarian, I always tell people that I am the furthest thing from the Type A librarian. Life is too short to worry about shelving books. I bristle when people say the library is supposed to be a silent place. A library is a gathering place.

I am picky, however, about what I write in. People have given me bound journals because they know I am a writer, and they remain unused or given away. My journal must have a certain feel, be unruled, and well-built to take years of punishment. My notebook should not be “cute.” It needs to be simple, well-bound, and black. Give me my Moleskine and nothing else.

Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote the Little House books in pencil on Big Chief tablets. Some writers can write on any scrap of paper and piece it all together. On the rare occasion when I do not have my notebook and wish to write, I have tried to write down thoughts on paper and copy them to my notebook later. This practice never works for me. I have to have my notebook close at hand to jot down thoughts. There is a fine motor connection between the mind and hands that can not be duplicated on a computer or tablet screen.

During my teaching career, I have noticed that many students get turned off to writing because it is inorganic and forced upon them. Writing from personal experience is often pushed aside to writing for specificity, particularly as short responses to teacher-directed prompts. Kids will ask if they have written enough, and I tell them to let go and just write. I am of the opinion that writing is like carving art from a block of stone, rather than building brick by brick. Writing is a process, and for me, it is a process of shaping a raw mass into a polished piece.

How does one become a better writer? Easy. Write a lot. Read others' writing. Write some more. Getting children to see this process is difficult, but nurturing that creative fire will yield lifetime results.

When children tell me they “hate writing” I tell them they don't hate writing, they hate the fact they have not acquired the tools of writing. A good writer has multiple tools in their toolbox: rich vocabulary, strong verbs, exposition, and dialogue. Once those tools are developed, writing will take you anywhere. My writer's notebook is a continual attempt at refining those tools.


Enough of this blog post. I have a notebook to break in.