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.
