So my grandfather was more or less a hero of mine. Not sure why he is a
hero, and not just a wonderful man, but he was that to me. Actually
both my grandfathers were. Loved Grandma Dot with all my heart, but he
and I were different. Maybe it was all the time we spent walking those
beaches. And I do mean a LOT of time. We did a ten mile hike from
(aptly named 10 mile beach) back to the fucking house one day. It took
us all day. We started pretty much at dawn, and didn't get back until
dinner. Honestly, that day was one of my best days ever. Like I was 10
or something, and didn't hate myself, or anything for that matter. I
was pure, and innocent, and truly alive. And we walked, and talked, and
found sea shells, and popped seaweed poppers, and skipped rocks. And
every morning, we'd walk the path from the house to the ocean. The one
that to this day I'm thoroughly convinced that only existed because that
man walked it. It's gone now, well gone and incorporated into the
state park "walk". But he and I. Yeah, WE cut that trail. I could
probably do it with my eyes closed if it weren't overgrown by now.
Around Lake Cleone. Where I caught my first fish. And we took it back
to the house, and cooked it. There wasn't a half a bight of meat on
that little sucker, but he pan fried it for me. So that's my grandpa.
My "namesake". THE Jim Fenolio in my eyes.
So he gets sick one year. Alzheimer's takes him. At first it's not
too bad, I mean...just the basics. And some days it's worse than
others. But I remember that my grandmother called me one day when I was
laid off and she told me that there had been a storm in Ft. Bragg, and
some shingles got ripped off. The neighbors told her about it. So she
asked if I could go up and fix it. She'd pay, and buy my gas, etc. So
I'm thinking, hell yeah. No problem. So I drive over to their house to
get the keys and money etc. As I'm walking up to the door, I hear her
yelling at him. I never heard that before. EVER. I learned after the
fact that as a part of his memory going, he would test himself. He
would remember that he would forget things, but not what they were. So
he wanted to prove that he could remember. He'd take something, and
"hide" it so that he could remember later that day and go get it.
Problem is, he'd actually forget where it was. So from her perspective,
in addition to dealing with the bad days that he didn't know who the
fuck she was, or when he'd get angry, etc. He was hiding shit. Like,
the house keys, the car keys, her purse. So I guess the stars aligned
for the storm to necessitate me going up, and me going over there, and
him having just hidden something else, and her losing it as a result. I
knocked, she got quiet, and came to the door. Tears, etc. The whole
nine. She looked spent. The first thing she said was, "Can you please
take him up there with you?" And I knew, it wasn't go spend time with
Pa, or he'd love to go up. It was, get him out of my sight. Thankfully
that day he knew who I was so it wasn't hard to convince him to go. If
there is a God up there....thank you for that at least.
So we set off, he's lost in his thoughts most of the way through the
city and stuff. Finally we get to Cloverdale and we turn into wine
country, and then into the mountains, and finally the redwoods. His
eyes brighten with every passing mile. We pass a stream where he and I
got out to pee one trip. A seemingly trivial moment at the time
suddenly thrust into a grandeur of commonality with a memory
remembered. He smiles the rest of the way up to the house. Getting out
of my old yellow truck, I have to bring his mind back around as he's
lost in thought. "Come on grandpa, we're here" He comes back, and a
little of the twinkle fades from his eyes. There is still recognition
there, and a sense of what I can only call peace, but it was the memory
he savored then, not the reality. Reality sucks because in reality he
can't remember things...and he knows it. But IN the memory, IN the
moment he was washed in the simple perfection of what once was. Or at
least this is how it all seemed to me. We take the bags in, he asks me
where he's sleeping. I take him down the hall to the master bedroom and
it seems like he recognizes it, as well he should. So we get settled,
and I run up to the roof real quick to assess how bad it is, how much we
need to buy, etc. My amateur (aka Jack and Squat) opinion comes up
with a theory and I climb back down to find him in the living room,
looking a little lost. Or maybe just trying to recall a memory in full
that is dancing just out of reach. "Come on Pa, lets head to the
store". It occurs to me as his face screws up to remember what the hell
we needed at the store that he doesn't know. But he knows this game.
Just go along with it, and everything will be fine. He smiles, and says
"Okay". In town, he's more or less mute as he isn't into rocking the
boat, like maybe he just wants to get this part over with so we can get
back to something familiar and safe.
Arriving back at the house we offload and take the materials and
tools around back. I start humping things up, and I ask him to hold the
ladder for me. He does, and soon I've got everything up. I intended
to take everything to the damaged area, come back down and then get him
situated so I could get this done. On my third trip back to the ladder,
there is a familiar face looking at me from aside the ladder. And
then, the bombshell.
"Can I help?" he asks
I can see his face, every line, every
spot, every detail. I will see it until I die. I can hear his voice.
Small, and weak. And that's the last thing I can remember. Facing my
hero, the man (like my father) who could do anything, an immortal human
testament to capability and more fundamentally a man who I could never
see myself being elevated to THAT level. Him, lost and scared,
helpless and to the core wanting to be the man, not the illness. I'd
like to tell you that I said, "Oh yeah grandpa, come on up", or at least
"No grandpa, lets get something to drink". My last image of that man,
and that trip was this. Period. I don't remember anything past that
point about my grandfather. Not a glimpse of the drive home. No memory
of fixing the roof. You could tell me that I went to a bar and he
fixed the damn thing for all I know. But all these years later I can
feel that instant, and every sensation of it. It is fundamental to who I
am, in a variety of ways. Not the least of which is the realization
that one of two things will happen regarding me, and THAT disease.
Either there will be amazing advances in medical science that will keep
me from ever becoming a prisoner in my own mind, trapped without an
escape. Or I will resurrect Kavorkian and shuffle off this mortal coil a
man clear of mind before the day I can't remember my own children.
I'll fight just about anything else. I WILL NOT fight that disease.
Another change that happened to me that day was that I realized, finally
and to the core, that mortality is less about death in a physical
sense, but for me in the mental sense.
I remember the Colombo that was always in the drawer at the house.
On the back wall of the kitchen, second drawer down right in the
middle. Always on the left side of the drawer. The ritual. "Hi Pa, hi
Grandma Dot" make a b-line to the bread. We'd watch TV, have dinner,
all the routine stuff, and then as the night is winding down, there were
ALWAYS the Flintstone Push Pops. I'd usually be asleep when mom and
dad showed up. Groggy, I'd be led out of the house to the waiting car.
And soon it was another memory. Bookmarked by Colombo and Push Pops.
But it was Fort Bragg where we really came alive. Where the sand, and
the surf, and the grass were paintings of the backdrop of my childhood.
I dream of that walk from ten mile to Ward. Now there's a big ass
river in the way. A river that is in reality probably his fault.
What? A river that is his fault? Yeah. It was once just a trickle
that some days dried up to nothing. And he'd break the dams and let the
water flow. Last I checked it was about thirty feet wide at it's
smallest, and god only knows how deep. I will venture across one day.
Or I'll get swept out to see with the current, but hell. There are
worse ways to die. Being pulled out with the tide that I would
relentlessly throw driftwood into and have my mongrel dog go swim after
until my mom would MAKE me stop because she was about a quarter of a
second from death by drowning. And she would have too. She'd have gone
and gotten that stick if it meant her life. So standing atop Elephant
Rock, I look down the coast. I can see our footprints in the sand. And
in that moment, he's right there with me. Ironically as a memory, and
amazingly, not the man on the ladder, but the man standing on the cliffs
of the Pacific.
I miss you grandpa. I love you and I hope that one day I can fill
the role you did for me with my grandchildren. And to the big man
upstairs, if you're there, fuck you for taking those years from him.
And if that anger, not for me...but for him, condemns me to an eternity
of fire as a result. So be it. As long as I have that memory, of MY
HERO standing at the mouth of the Pacific I will be in heaven. And his
smile. I wish Alex could have known him. And to those of you that did,
you understand. THAT smile.
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