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.
If I were a medium, a seer with a proper crystal ball, not a Magic 8-Ball bought at Target for a Halloween costume, would I be able to dialog with you, hear your voice, your laugh, know the endings to the Swedish mysteries we watched, hold your hand and kiss your cheek? Would I be able to locate a thin place or a dream where I could pierce the veil and visit you? Cannot predict now.
I am a little preoccupied with souls. The protagonist of the novel I’m writing is a soul named Alex. Alex, dead from an accidental heroin overdose, has a lot of karma to reconcile as well as a jones to be born again that rivals his heroin addiction. Suddenly life is so very precious.
“They were together in silence like an old married couple wary of life, beyond the pitfalls of passion, beyond the brutal mockery of hope and the phantoms of disillusion; beyond love. For they had lived together long enough to know that love was always love, anytime and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death.” Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
It had been several years since I made my way to the middle of the country in a car, more often looking down on the neatly quilted squares of farmland from 35,000 feet. From the road those squares blurred into a smooth white blanket whose edge began at the nearest rim of vision and extended to an endless horizon. Like most blankets, it was comforting while holding the potential to smother.
Several years ago, I told one of my cousins if I preceded him in death, he should make a beeline to my place and burn any journal he found before anyone else arrived. He said, “I’ll buy you a shredder, and you can take care of that yourself.” And so, he did. And I got busy.
Divine Ready 