Ch. 265; Vol. 10

I was waiting in the car for Bær to bring Puck back from Sunday School, holding one of those weedy cat tails against a blue sky.

I got a text from Rose.

“Dad just went to the hospital.”

We knew it was the end.

We stopped for eggs for Carrie, and an apple juice for me. While Bær went into the store, I explained to Puck what was happening. He paused for a moment…

“What is Grandpa in?”

“What is Grandpa in? You mean, like which car is he driving?”

“No. I mean, is he in tears?”

When we all slowly started trickling back to the house from church, Dad was one of the first…

“Grandma died this morning… Uncle Clarence and Aunt Galena were there when she went… It was peaceful.”

That’s all you can ask. Two months before her 85th birthday. In the end, you could say it was unexpected. When the year started, no one would have guessed it. But there’s only so much pain a little body can handle, after all. I wondered to myself if Grandma was already preparing a canvas to paint and meeting old friends for puzzles, fully healthy, chuckling – Grandma always chuckled – with Great Uncle Clyde about old times as kids. Maybe that sort of thing doesn’t happen until the New Heavens and the New Earth. But days like this it doesn’t seem so important to quibble over theology.

Carrie served up a French dish of stew and olives over mashed potatoes, with bread.

“Oh. Hobo stew?” Mom asked.

I guess when there’s really nothing else left to do, you laugh.

Maybe it was ironic, but we all ended up taking turns reading our blood pressure after lunch. For fun. Joe and Francis argued over who was more healthy. Then we decided to keep with the original plan of apple picking. Grandma would want it, I’m sure.

“Rose,” Carrie walked over to the love seat. “It’s a day for hugs.”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not!… You can hug my knees.”

Old Shelley was fired up for the occasion. The boys shared personal ratings on favorites from the Waffle House menu…

“If you try such-n-such, it has the slightest trace of dish detergent.”

Thierbach Farms, just like last year.

It never takes long. Forty-five minutes to an hour total. Board the hayless hay wagon rumbling over to the orchards while the boys body slam each other – and sisters – going up and down the hills.

Then there’s the apple core throwing. Joe toned it down some, because Jaya was there. I got one lobbed at my new moccasins by – who else – Francis, who thought it was pretty hilarious.

And then back to the store for cold apple cider slushes for all.

Five-buck pizzas per Dad’s request.

Then we sat around the television to watch an interview Dad had arranged with Grandma Snicketts back in 1994 about growing up on a farm in the Depression, the life in town, and after.

Mom made popcorn, Francis and Puck built up a bonfire – small one this time – and Amanda called for Dad. Mom asked the boys to bring the picnic table over to the fire, so Joe decided to drag it single-handed. Francis just laughed at him…

“Jaya, look, look! He’s trying to impress you!”

One star was out, so it was still light enough for the boys to play what they call “Long Range Tennis”, which was basically standing at opposite sides of the lawn pounding tennis ball back and forth, barely missing the fire a few times. And then the laser pointers in the fire smoke: Francis on green, Joe on red, and Carrie on violet. Threatening to shine in the neighbor’s windows.

“Don’t do it,” Dad warned. “I won’t bail you out of jail if you get in trouble.”

Giggling.