By the turn, I had carded five birdies. He looked at me with a wry grin and spoke, “When did you get this good?”
“I don’t know if good’s got anything to do with it, maybe the company is just lucky.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things kid, lucky was never one of them.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“I was thinking, Kevin, now that we have this pause in the action, given anymore thought to picking a school?”
His idea of a pause in the action was the fifty or so yard walk from the ninth green to the tenth tee box.
I smiled at him; “As a matter of fact—”
"Well, come on, boy, spit it out.”
"How’s Stanford sound to you, Pops?”
"It sounds pretty goddamn good, Kevin, pretty goddamn good.”
"I thought you might like that. I was looking at San Jose as well, but you know, Stanford is Stanford, and they have their own golf course right on campus.”
"How about when we get home we’ll place that call, tell them you’re in so we don’t lose the spot.”
"I don’t think anyone is going to be sitting in the office on a Saturday, Pops.”
"It doesn’t hurt to check . . .”
My grandfather had stopped walking.
I turned to see him on his knees, his hands to his chest. I got to him as he was falling to the ground. I asked him what was wrong, but he’d already lost the ability to speak. I ran to the pro shop, told them to call an ambulance, and then ran back to my grandfather. He wasn’t breathing. He had prepared me for everything except this. I held his head in my lap, talked to him, asked him to stay with me.
By the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone.
He was all the family I had left. I didn’t cry sitting there holding him; I was in shock. People were everywhere around us, but I didn’t see them. I heard more than once, “Are you alright?” No, no I wasn’t.
Coping
They took him from me after a while. He was taken to the county coroner’s office for an autopsy, but I was fairly sure what had got him.
He was seventy-one years old, and I’d never seen him sick a day in the whole time I was with him. I drove back to our home alone. I’d never felt so completely alone in my life. I parked the truck, his truck, in its familiar spot. I walked inside the house and called Peter. He was there before I’d had time to do anything, not that there was anything to do. I didn’t hear him knock or enter. I was standing at the kitchen sink staring out the window at the place where my grandfather had chopped wood all those years.
I closed my eyes and I was eleven years old again. There he was, his work shirt laid over the fence, his gray t-shirt soaked with the labor of wood splitting, I, a frightened little kid not knowing what was going to happen next. I saw myself talking to him, he a big man smiling down at my thin frame. The walk to the barn and the first lessons of boxing, or rather my first lessons of life, were all present before me.
Peter caught me then. I was losing my bearing quickly. The tears began to spill with the overwhelming sense of memory lost. The man who had made me a man was no more, and I was drifting further away from everything I knew.
We stayed fixed to that spot for some time, two boys crying over the one man who had taught them so much.
My grandfather had died of a massive heart attack. The coroner released him to me following his findings.
On that same day, I was visited by a lawyer. Walter Moorenger was his name.
He sat with me at the kitchen table where so many happy times had been shared.
He spoke of my grandfather, said he was a strong man, a devoted man with great values and character. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that. He read from a single sheet of paper, and in his words were a list of wishes and directives. My grandfather left me everything he had, this house, the cabin, his truck, and everything inside of all three. His life savings, which amounted to $110,000, was also mine. It didn’t matter that I was still a few months shy of legal adulthood, I was all that left of our bloodline, I was his sole heir.
Before leaving, Mr. Moorenger handed me an envelope. With that he asked if he could be of any further service. When I said he couldn’t, he was gone as swiftly as he had come.
I didn’t know what to expect. I took the envelope to the chair by the fireplace, sat down, and opened it. It was a letter from my grandfather. The date in the top right hand corner was only two weeks old. I traced my fingers over those words prior to reading them.
They were his words, written by his hand, a last trace of the living being.
I read:
Dear Kevin,
If you’re reading this, then the inevitable has happened. I hope my passing was peaceful and your feeling of loss tolerable. I did my very best by you. I hope you know that. You brought back everything I thought was lost to me with the passing of your father. You made every day special, and my heart swelled with pride every time I looked at you.
For my part, it was a selfish quest taking you in. I wanted to feel complete again. I wanted to give to you, my grandson, all of the knowledge and life experience I had never been able to give to your father. If that was wrong, then I apologize. In my time with you I found a happiness I never expected and the fulfillment of my life’s dream for which I almost certainly didn’t deserve. Second chances are rare, Kevin, so rare in fact, we may not even know when they present themselves, but I knew; everyday by your side I knew.
Now remember the old man who loved you and wanted only the best for you. Remember the talks, the rounds of golf, the tea by the fire, and remember this world is what you make of it. Limit your travels into sorrow and maximize the time spent in bliss. You’re one of the good guys, Kevin; always remember that and you’ll be fine.
Love,
Pops
My vision blurred each time I tried to read it. It took me ten tries before the tears subsided enough to get to the last word. When I’d finished, I sat there for a long time remembering everything he’d asked me to do. His request was an easy one to undertake. In my walk through the tunnels and landscapes of my mind, he was everywhere.
Not surprisingly, it was if I had categorized every detail from the moment I arrived here seven years ago. With minimal effort, I could pick from a vast array of memories - one suitable for any situation. He had been that good to me, that complete in his knowledge and understanding of the world and what it took to live in it. I was going to miss him for the rest of my life.
The phone woke me many hours later. I had fallen asleep in my grandfather’s chair, the letter still within my grasp. I wasn’t sure what time it was; it was still light out. Peter asked what time he should be over. I was still foggy, the new formed kink in my neck making it hard to concentrate.
“We have to go to the funeral home today. What time should I pick you up?”
I looked at the clock beside the kitchen phone. It was seven in the morning. I had slept the entire night in grandpa’s chair.
“Give me ten minutes, I just gotta shower.”
I hung up the phone and walked to the bathroom. In the mirror, my face was a mask of sadness. I had slept for fourteen hours and I looked as if I hadn’t slept at all.
I was standing outside as Peter pulled up. Inside the car, we spoke of his final wishes. I read from the list left for me by Mr. Moorenger. When I’d reached the end, I looked to Peter and made a very obvious statement.
“You know Pop’s wasn’t a very religious guy.”
After the transformation of David following some alone time with my grandfather, Peter believed Pops was God, so there was no convincing him of that statement.
“He wanted to be cremated, and that was all.” He didn’t attend church; however, he spoke to God. I admitted to hearing him do so on an occasion or two. His only wish was his ashes be spread over a golf course of my choosing.
“What about a service?”
“You mean like a wake?”
“Sure, you can ask his close friends up
to the house, have some food catered in, you know nothing crazy, the way he would have liked it.”
“I have another idea.”
After meeting with the director of the funeral home and making arrangements, Peter and I drove to San Jose Municipal golf course, the same course where he had taught me to play, the same course where we had played a Saturday match for as long as I had been playing.
I spoke with the head pro, Mike Bertollochi, and explained my desire for a final get together in the clubhouse. It was the only place where my grandfather had spoken to people. Though he might not have been friends with everyone, everyone there knew him. I believed it was what he would have wanted for a last goodbye.
Mike’s agreement came before I had said my final word. He would take care of everything. It would be held Saturday evening, when the final players finished their rounds.
I’d returned home following another emotional day. Peter asked me if I wanted him to stay. I declined respectfully.
Walking through my grandfather’s house, my house now, I tried to clear the fog which found residence within my head. I felt sad and anxious.
There had been decisions to make, arrangements to attend to, all in a span of time when you most felt like crying and nothing more. It was a cruel joke, the end of life. It left the living with responsibility untold and unknown to that point, and then a tiny window of hours to perform what should never have to be performed.
I walked to my grandfather’s study and plopped down in his desk chair. It was large and worn; the leather smelled the way leather did then, real. I looked around the room noticing just how many books he had owned. The collection was impressive.
A stranger would have believed him a scholar, a poet, a bibliophile at least. Nothing about this space truly reflected what the man had been in real life, the things he had seen and done. Perhaps he wanted it that way. He told me once, and only once, of his time in the war. Without fanfare or glorification, he painted the act of men killing other men for what it really was, horror.
“It changes you, Kevin, and the change can’t be washed off or forgotten. It just becomes what it becomes. You can try and convince yourself you’re no different for the act, make believe it was war therefore it will be forgiven, but it won’t. It is what it is and that is that.”
I remember how quiet he was following that talk. We sat there drinking tea, watching the fire, and saying very little. He was a proud man and it was something he was ashamed of. He didn’t say as much, but I could tell.
As I scanned the room it became more obvious. The side of him inherent to those who are trained to fight, taught to kill, was masked. The concealment wasn’t distinct, not to the casual onlooker, but to me it was glaring.
Everything else in his life was an attempt to rectify the past. The physicality of his being, the education of self with books of philosophy, history and poetry, the time and effort spent raising a young lost boy, all an effort at redemption, at peace in a world that seldom lets one forget.
I hoped with my whole heart he was granted that peace.
Hours ticked off the way they always do for the living. Time ceases for no man’s burden. It’s always moving, always traveling onward without reflection or even a second’s pause.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The event held in honor of my grandfather was memorable. Those who called him friend, along with those who didn’t, stopped by to share a story of the quiet giant.
More than once I heard a man, stranger or not, tell me of the pride in my grandfather’s voice when he spoke of me. People I’d never even seen before walked up and shook my hand, explained how they felt like they already knew me. I thanked every one of them for remembering him.
I watched as they trickled in and out. It was the kind of thing he would have been pleased by, the lack of bullshit and the candor of friends. Amongst his peers he was respected.
I returned home that night to find the place as I’d left it. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I was alone now, and he wasn’t coming back. I left everything the way he had lived it. I wouldn’t be moving things or buying new things; it was perfect in its original form.
I put the pot on to boil and walked out into the living area. I built the fire and returned when the tea pot whistled. Cup in hand, I made my way back to find the fire hadn’t caught.
I wadded up old newspaper for kindling and started again.
I sat still then and listened to the house. It was late summer, so there was no creaking from expansion or contraction. The cold was months away. The fire was never a necessity during this time of year, only a remedy for the soul. My eyes closed and I thought of him. I was far from being a child, but that didn’t stop me from wishing or imagining.
Once more; isn’t that what everyone says? One more day, one more hour to sit and look and talk and say all of the words that matter. It wasn’t such a burden really, not for him and me. His natural disposition may have leaned toward stoicness, but his ready association with tranquility didn’t interfere with his saying what was on his mind. He never failed me in that regard and I hoped now that I didn’t fail him.
I opened my eyes and looked across at his chair. I told him how much I missed him then, how hard it was being without him. I was crying again, but they were easy tears. They were not like the first day, never again like the first day.
“What do I do now?” I spoke to the stillness surrounding me. I waited for an answer; however, none came. It was late. I was tired but not sleepy. I grabbed my flashlight and headed for the barn. As I pushed the sliding door east on its track, I was hit with the familiar smell of work and dirt. How many hours had I spent with my grandfather inside this handmade gym? How many conversations occurred that had everything to do with fighting, but more to do with life? I hit the aging, heavy bag; the length of cord and rope holding it creaked along the high beam with the force of my effort.
He was there behind it, holding it steady and looking around it to offer instruction and inspiration. He was in every drop of sweat and tired piece of equipment. For me, he would be, always.
I said my goodbyes and walked back inside.
The fire was barely an ember now. It didn’t matter; I sat there staring into it, trying to feel something close to warmth. How much longer would I feel this way? My grandfather would be ashamed right now. He would question my intention, my actual process of grieving.
Was I feeling sad for the loss of him, ‘cause if that was the case, I needed to shrug it off and get on with it, or was I just feeling sorry for myself, missing what he brought to the table, the load he made seem indescribably lighter?
A little of both, I supposed.
I washed out my cup and placed it near the sink. It was late now. I felt as if I might be able to get a little sleep. Laying there, resting on my back, my eyes looking straight above me, I couldn’t turn off my thoughts - all kinds of thoughts, infuriating in their randomness and insequential order. Him, school, golf, Peter, the Marines ---
The Marines? Where had that come from? It became obvious then, maybe because I wasn’t quite eighteen yet, and many stupid ideas and beliefs seem good at that age, but I made a gut decision; one of many I would make for the remainder of my life. I would honor him as my father had. It made perfect sense. The men in my family served their country. They placed themselves in harm’s way to protect others, and why not? I was young, strong, and as capable as any. It was the first thing I had gotten right in a long time. Tomorrow morning I would drive to the recruiter’s office and sign up.
Goodbye
Morning came and I was on my way. It felt good to have conviction, to believe something was right, or at the very least could be made right. It was something I could do for him, something I could do for my father.
Anderson is a very common name, the recruiter asked anyway. When I told him the names of the men in my family who had severed before me he smiled and spoke with reverence. That was it then, I would be leaving for San Diego the day after graduation.
I had earned enough credits to graduate early. The ceremony didn’t matter to me. Who would take pictures and greet me after the hats had been tossed into the air?
No one. I received my diploma in the mail in a large manila envelope. I opened it and looked at it. It wasn’t much of a document for the 3 ½ years I had put in to get it.
In my last weeks I made the final arrangements for the ranch. It was a lot of work. I wouldn’t be here again for five months, and then it would only be for a week or so. I worked daily to keep my mind clear. I emptied it as I did the pantry of perishable goods.
Peter came around from time to time and helped. He was still my best friend. He still cared as he had when we were young, but it was I who had changed. I looked at him, at life differently now.
Everything was finished -- there were new locks to replace old, the windows had been covered, the barn and shed secured against any form of infestation, the grounds mowed and swept. All that was left was me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Two nights before my departure I had Peter over one last time. It was in that space of minutes that I realized something curious about life and time. Time is only a non-issue when you’re a kid. School days seem to pass with the patience of the gods. It isn’t until you’re near the end of these blessed days that you understand how valuable they really were.
It was like most childhood friendships. At some point they all end. That last night brought two friends to an unusual place. Each had history beyond their years.
We shared conversation into the late hours; we walked the places we walked as kids and spoke of the man who made us better. The time would not hold still. Like all moments this one was sure to pass.
“Bit of a stretch, isn’t it Kev?”
OBLIGATION Page 8