Those we leave behind

My grandmother is dying. Have I told you that?

Don't worry. I've made my peace with it. She is old, turned 90 this year. She has had a good life; she'd tell you that herself. Her father died when she was only a small child; she lived through the depression; and she literally nursed her husband through fifteen years of deteriorating health and dialysis after he suffered complete kidney failure. But she was happy. I seldom recall her without a twinkle in her eye and a song in her voice. And now her own health has been declining. She is weak, can hardly hear, and her mind is... what is the term... going? She's scarcely been cognizant of the realities of the outside world for at least two years. My memories of my father's mother are of a robust and opinionated woman who loved God, her family, and her home. She was simple, faithful, strong. This... shell... this mortal coil that remains is not my grandmother. It is not even a shadow of her; I do not recognize it. She deserves better than this shallow existence, confined to a bed, undressing herself in the middle of a crowded living room on the rare occasions when she rises, and she, the most prudish person I've ever known. She used to stitch extra lace or a bit of fabric into the necks of her dresses to avoid showing skin below the chin. That proud and happy woman has been gone for some time, and I have mourned her already. I honestly pray daily for her release.

But recently her worsening condition required my father, sister, and I to travel down to the farm house in northeastern Mississippi to make some arrangements with my aunt and clean up a few things. It felt weird going back. I haven't lived in the South for six years, haven't set foot in it at all for nearly two, and haven't been to the farm in over three. Those who read this blog know how much that farm means to me, but I am a stranger to it now. I once thought I would always be Southern no matter where I lived, no matter who else I became, but I confess I had almost forgotten what it was like. Living amongst the palm trees of California, it is Boston that my heart longs for. The South had been relegated to the past along with other ephemeral dreams of boyhood.

But oh, how the smell of the place stirred the echoes, like summer's cast off leaves caught in autumn's chill winds, dead but still resplendent, moving and palpable, their vibrant colors belying their lack of vitality. I expected the trip would allow me to take my leave of the farm, say goodbye to my grandmother and my childhood, but I found myself again and again searching for signs of my grandfather about the place, pushing through the accumulation of decades to find an article of clothing, his handwriting in a Bible. He is the one the farm conjures for me most vividly, despite the intervening years since his death, and I realized as we drove back to Tennessee listening to my father's tales of his childhood that it is for my grandfather I have wept when I have seen the utter disrepair of the place. It is because of my grandfather that I have refused to relinquish my hold on it... or it on me. He died in September of1985, but even after twenty three years, it is my grandfather I have not ceased to mourn.

He was an extraordinary person. I know many people believe this about their parents or grandparents, and I certainly know he had his fault, like any man. But my grandfather has always been a sort of hero to me. I have always wished to be more like him. He was quiet for the most part, seldom speaking, but speaking with authority and assurance when he spoke. He was smart and prudent, always making the right moves to keep the farm prosperous. He was firm with his rules, but kind in his consequences. He guided and taught with a light hand and never minded when we made mistakes. And best of all, we never knew exactly when his boyish penchant for mischief would break out from his dour countenance with a sly grin as we passed him in the hallway or on the front porch. Then would come the sudden lurch, a pinched buttock, a child's gleeful squirm and wriggle of escape, and then a rapid return in the hopes that we would be seized again. When I was a child, people said I looked like him, and with a boy's vanity, I was overly pleased with the observation. At his funeral, people packed the small country church sanctuary, spilled out to fill the hallway outside, and covered the sidewalk beyond the building's front doors. My grandfather in his quiet way loved deeply and encouraged an abiding love in others.

Of course, I didn't think of all this at the time. It seemed natural that being on the farm would make me think of him... would make all of us think of him. It was only upon returning to California that it hit me. It was my grandfather I was letting go of when I bid farewell to my grandmother and her home... my home, the home of my family for generations beyond memory. Its people and landscape have been my ties to him for my entire life, distant but comforting in their solidity.

Goodbye, Granddaddy. We will miss you. I... miss you.