Clifford on My Mind

Happy Father’s Day to all good fathers and grandfathers!

When my Grandpa Wilson—Clifford—comes to mind he arrives like a seductive sax in a jazz riff that rises above the noise during brunch rush. He was always there, but until a minute ago, I didn’t notice him.

My whole world turned upside down when I was seven, and in the turning a new cast of characters entered, including Clifford and Grandma Wilson—Mildred—and their dog C’est La Vie. We moved that year a few blocks away from them and got our own dog, Cooper. Most afternoons Clifford would pick up me and my brothers and Cooper in his white four-door Chevy and take us for walks at Good Templar Park less than a mile away. C’est got pride of place in the passenger seat while the rest of us sat in the back. 

Over time, my brothers dropped out unless there was a big snow and they wanted to sled Dead Man’s Hill. With nothing better to do, I was steadfast. Clifford usually parked in the cemetery where we often walked before or after we set out for the adjacent woods. I learned about different grave markers; an ivy wound tree stump with a child’s winter cap atop and a single blade pair of skates leaning against belonged to a boy who drowned skating. The big armchair where I liked to sit was where Loie and Hal Naylor were laid to rest, the engraving on the back, “Pals.” Clifford showed me where my mother’s grave was, something no other adult had thought to do. 

Most of our time, though, was spent walking in and around the woods. There was a creek that ran cool all year where I wanted to be timed standing in my bare feet to see how long I could take the cold, my version of a polar bear club. From the creek, we climbed a hill that was covered with Lily of the Valley in springtime. When we reached the top, Clifford would find a spot to eat an apple and take a nap in the sun on a slope that faced west with a view of the Fox River. I would climb a favorite tree and survey the meadow and the walnut trees, jumping down when I saw him coming with the dogs.

We didn’t talk much, Clifford and I, but a lot of healing took place on those walks where nature and steady presence were good medicine. They still are and so is a seductive sax that rises above the noise and catches me by surprise.