Grandad Was Dead (But He Didn't Mind)

         Grandad was dead.

         It didn't bother him none, and only slowed him down a little. When he complained about his creaking joints, he wasn't kidding any, either.

         Y'see, Grandad had died almost 15 years ago, when I was about 6 years old. Cancer. Had stayed in our house, rather than a hospice for the last 6 months of his life. He was livelier, now, than he was back then.

         We didn't know, until a couple weeks after his funeral. One night, there was a knocking at the door, Mum went to answer it, and fainted dead away (pardon the pun-but not too much). 'Course, since Grams had passed years before, when it was clear he wasn't going back to his home of 30 years, we'd sold the place, and he had nowhere to go. So he came here. Sill had a bit of mud smeared on his suit, and stuck in his hair, of course (it was raining. I imagine if it had been a dry, sunny day, this wouldn't have been the case), with Mum being so fastidious it might have been the dirt stains that did it. I mean she hollered and howled over grass stains and mud on our weekend jeans, and here he was in his best Sunday go-to-meetin' clothes all mud-caked and stained.

         Mum and Dad had several bangin' arguments, after we'd been put to bed, and they thought we were asleep, but the end result was Mum saying "if it stays, I GO!" and Dad answering "I can't well kick my own father out in the rain, can I?", "Well, then kick him back into his grave!" she retorted. When we came home from school the next day, her car was gone, and a bunch of her "precious knick-knacks" told us it was a permanent type gone, not a "ran to the store", or even an "I'm going to stay with mother!" gone.

         Honestly, though, we got the better end of the deal. Grandad, when alive, had had a sparkle in his eye, and a sense of humor, right up until the last. He said often that he "wished he'd be around to see us grow into big, strong, successful lads", while Mum spent much of the time berating us about the messiness of our rooms if a school napsack was thrown haphazardly, constantly berated us about tucked in shirttails, proper posture, and manners...how important manners were, to be a "fit" member of society.

         I suspect she hoped teaching us good manners would result in marrying rich, and getting her in with "High Class people" of the sort that pay $25,000 for a 3 course dinner, to support a campaign for a candidate they don't particularly care for. I believe this because the neighborhood we lived in cheered football, basketball, and baseball, in season. It had noisy, loosely organized barbecues any weekend it was vaguely warm enough, and not pouring down rain, and had a younger demographic of children more likely to be picking their noses than a hanky that matched their jacket. Who would be riding their bikes up and down at top speed, yelling, making skidmarks on the pavement, and building ramps out of lengths of board and luggage or milk crates, regardless of the hanky-picking dilemma.

         Anyhow, back to Grandad. Even if his knees were too knobby, and it took us months to find a maid service that would work for us, rather than running, screaming, and his hugs were, though warm and loving, similar to hugging a xylophone wrapped in an expensive suit jacket, he was a grand, understanding, patient, and funny man. And ALL the other kids in the neighborhood were jealous. Any relatives they had, who had died, stayed dead.

         So the maid service would dust him, along with the rest of the house twice a week, and we would Febreez him every day, and things went along fine. I mean he still had a bit of the cough that had been so cruel to him, in the end, but instead of being paralyzing and torturous to him, as it had been, it simply caused a puff of musty dust. We never did figure out where he got so much dust, either.

         As well as being a doting grandfather, and having a great sense of humor (once he hid himself in the broom closet, and stood on his head, very still, until one of the maids grabbed him, mistaking him for a mop, and dunked his head into a bucket of Pine-Sol and water, much to the maid's horror. But the horror of the type of a mother finding their son piddling against a tree in the backyard, rather than having come inside, not the scared type of horror), he was also a very helpful person, wanting to "pay back all the trouble and cost" he'd been, while sick, all those years.

         The third time we had to recover his foot and shin from the lawnmower bags, he was banned from trying to mow. The fifth time we were called out to help find his toes, after a weed-whacker incident, he was told "Wear heavy boots, or find them yer damn self!", but aside from that sort of thing, he was a great gardener. He'd loved to putter in his, back when Grams was still alive, and he was relatively healthy. And we had an amazingly weed-free garden. He swore he glared at 'em, and they sucked back into the ground, and tunneled away. Might've been being honest, too. You never knew, with him. I mean, he'd fooled the doctor into believing he was dead, and the funeral director into burying him, right?

         Another problem was solved by him stepping into the shower, unclothed, and spraying himself with bitter apple spray. kept neighborhood dogs from biting away at what flesh was left, or stealing his long bones, and burying them in hard to locate spots.

         By the time I was in high school, I did have a hard time finding girls who would date me any longer, after being brought home to meet the family. Of course some people are just plain necrophobes...prejudice! Another word for ignorance. Just because somebody's dead doesn't make them any less of a person! I found a couple who could manage it, but in the end, they turned out to be too weird for me.

         I had some hopes for this Thanksgiving, though. I'd been dating a pre-med student, so cadavers should hold no mysteries for her, beyond why this one was still walking around, and carving the turkey this year.

         So we went home for Thanksgiving break, Sheila riding shotgun in my beat up, always-in-the-process-of-being-restored (according to me, anyhow. I don't think I'd actually done more than an oil change since high school...but I always was going to restore it to it's 1959 show floor beauty from.)Chevy Pick-'em-up. A nice long drive, during which we chatted aimlessly, sang along with some of the music on my CDs,  and I tried to figure out how to explain Grandad to her. I was still trying to figure out how to approach the subject when we pulled into the driveway.

         I tried to drag my feet, some, and stall, trying to figure out what to say to her, when Grandad came walking around the corner of the garage/shed with his left arm in his right hand, muttering to himself about needing to use heavier grease to lubricate his joints.

         Oh, God! The moment of truth! I squeezed my eyes shut, and wished I could turn into something small with wings, to get the hell out of here, when his eyes came up from staring at his detached shoulder joint.

         "Stevie!" he exclaimed, "Glad you made it in so early...forecast says snow tonight, and my bum knee agrees! I take it this is your young lady?...", he trailed off, clearly expecting an introduction, though I was still in my frozen state of abject fear.

         Sheila saved me, God bless her soul! "You must be Steve's grandfather! He's told me so much about you!"

         "Not everything, evidently." Grandad said levelly, looking at me

         "Well, mostly the good parts, though he missed some, I'm sure!"

         "Well, kids, let's get inside before we catch our death of cold. Well, until you do, anyhow." He shrugged with one shoulder and a mild rattle.

         I was still so careful, on tenterhooks all evening, watching every movement she made, how she interacted with Grandad,. But she was so natural and graceful, just as she was with all the people we dealt with on a daily basis, that I started to relax.

         Just as I was coming to terms with things, and letting go of the rest of my fears regarding her running screaming into the night, when her nerve gave out, right about the time Grandad was easing into his evening cigar, I almost choked when Sheila said to him, "Is there a Mrs. Woodson, if you don't mind my asking?" "Oh, no, dear, she passed well before I, and it appears she was willing to leave it that way."

         "I think she lost out on a very good thing, if you don't mind my saying so, Sir."

         "Mighty kind of you to say so, miss."

         "In fact, I think, if you wouldn't mind, that next time we come calling for the holidays, or you could come calling on my family, either works, I'd like to introduce you to my great-grandmother." Well Grandad's eyes can't get any wider, but mine damn near shot out of my skull!

         "Unless, of course, you are averse to meeting a banshee?"