Aunt Alberta awoke early Sunday morning to cook breakfast for everyone. It's hard to cook when you're an 83-year-old woman. Well, her strength failed early that Sunday morning, and it just so happens that it was while she was handling a pan full of bacon grease. As the flames took to the countertop and the floor Aunt Alberta's mind failed her as well--she threw water on the grease fire. Her brother's great three-story house, filled with precious artifacts, went up in a blaze.
Finding Family in Fire
The call went out. Grandfather was in need of help. All five sons and their sons were to come down to southern Indiana, in addition to their five brother-in-laws. We were going to sift through the wreckage of what was once a house, but now nothing more than a pile of misery. Thankfully, the stand-alone garage and the old red barn remained unscathed and would be a small respite from the harsh summer sun. It, still, was not a pleasing prospect.
Father and I were to set out as soon as possible, but not a moment before we got a chance to find out what my seventh grade homework would be for the week or two that I would be gone. This trip was already shaping up to be a painful time for me.
My largest assignment was to write a short report on the Wright Brothers. Father, having a tendency towards the grandiose, decided that it would add points for effort if we were to stop on the way to Blocher, Indiana at the Wright Brothers museum in southwest Ohio. Of course, this proved to be a much longer route than we would normally have taken and we arrived last of the ten crews.
Father had it tough as a child. He was the seventh child of eleven, one of which died at a young age. Grandfather had no problems with using brute force to uphold his law. This was the way of his childhood as well. Naturally, this caused a good deal of conflict within the family. If at some point there wasn't some kind of feud between Grandfather and one of his children then their pet 150-pound pig, Sam, could fly. I assure you, this wasn't the case.
As we pulled up to tract of land upon which used to stand the pride of Grandfather, the pride of Blocher, Grandfather was standing there, shotgun in hand. He fired into the air to show his disapproval at our tardiness. This only proved to enrage Father. He was ready to turn right around and forsake Grandfather's need for his family.
Luckily for me, I have inherited my mother's propensity for consoling and compromise. As a young man who never knew his grandfather past the yearly Christmas party, I was intrigued. I wanted to find out what made this man, who was by all accounts an exaggerated Kentucky hillbilly come to life. So I convinced Father to stay, if not for Grandfather, then for my sake. I wanted to know Grandfather.
The salvage process went equally as well as Grandfather's greeting. The fire had burned so hot, so complete, that nothing escaped its fury. The only things that managed to be saved were the old coat of arms, although it needed a new wooden base, an old brass spittoon, and a brass statue that reminded me of Don Quixote. Grandfather cherishes these items to this day.
When the remainder of the rubble was cleared away, a local builder assessed the foundation. He found that it was cracked beyond repair and would need to be completely reconstructed. Grandfather didn't have the money to do that, so he decided to turn what remained of the basement into a pond and build anew next to the stand-alone garage. Of course, this only served to heighten the already sour mood that everyone was in.
As we began filling the basement with water, Grandfather asked me to get in his shabby, old pickup and we headed to the hardware store. Here was my chance to really get to know the man beyond the permanent scowl; the man I had convinced Father was our reason for being here. As we started down the gravel drive way in silence, I thought about what I should say to him. Where would I start? I barely know the man. Luckily, he started talking. He asked me if I had a girlfriend. He asked me if I had been intimate with her, although Grandfather was rarely as polite as that. He went on to tell me of his first experiences with intimacy--the babysitter. At the tender age of eleven, his babysitter asked him to go take the garbage out and he'd get himself a treat. He really liked that story.
He continued to relate his sexual (mis) adventures throughout his career as a trucker, including the time with the one-legged hooker. We arrived at the store, bought our tools and parts, and continued back on the road. Grandfather continued to tell his stories, and I was more than happy to listen. He told of encounters with a 300-pound mass of muscle that happened to be a homosexual (he regretted teasing that man). He told me his reasons for believing in reincarnation, and all his conspiracy theories involving oil. He told me every story I needed to hear. And then we got back.
They say that moods are contagious. It's true. I was in such a good mood upon our arrival that it instantly put Father in a good mood. This, in turn, put his brothers in a good mood, and before you knew it, we were all drunk. It was easier to sleep that night than I had ever remembered.
There's a cliché for every situation. The situation I happened to awaken to could have been classified as, "All good things come to an end." There had been a storm of words between Father and Grandfather, a drunken storm. I found myself being dragged out of bed before the sun had risen. Before I could wipe the sleep from my eyes a thousand thoughts hit me. I was disappointed that I couldn't continue to grow my relationship with Grandfather. The constant bickering in my family frustrated me. I was tired. I was fed up. Most of all, I felt sorry for Father. I felt sorry that he couldn't share the same close relationship with his father as I did mine.
I was thrown into the car, snuggled up, and fell fast asleep. The last thought I had was, "At least I got to know my Grandfather..."
