My Life On The DD List

I remember when I was younger….how I just loved the idea of Christmas.  The Christmas shows on TV, the Christmas caroles, the decorations and the presents!  I can’t remember when I stopped believing in “you know who”(this is just in case some lil’ tykes who are capable of reading are doing so over your shoulder).  I can’t remember what year Santa brought that pink bike with the basket with little plastic daisies on it.  I can’t even remember which year we got Atari (which for those of you who don’t know what Atari is….it was the X-BOX of today…and thank you, now I’m feeling old.).  I do remember, however, the year my grandfather died.  My grampa, my dad’s dad, passed away on Christmas morning.  It was Christmas, 1981.  I was 12. I remember laying in bed, barely awake, deciding if I wanted to go back to sleep or get up and open presents.  I heard the phone ring, which I thought was odd so early in the morning.   It was the nursing home facility.  They told my mother that my grandfather had…..”expired”.  Expired.  They actually used that word.  As if my grandfather was a warranty or a drivers license.  What happened to ”passed away”?  I don’t know.  It just seemed so….sterile.  I don’t remember my mother telling my father, but I do remember hearing my dad crying.  My dad is a big man.  Never really showed emotion at all when we were young.  Rarely showed anger, sadness..yanno….weakness.  But I remember him crying.  Although I was a youngster myself, I started crying for him.  I think, at the time, I thought I was crying solely because my grampa passed away.  But I think, looking back on it now and how I was feeling, I felt bad for my dad.   It was supposed to be a festive day about family and God.  It was a day of happiness and togetherness.  It was about giving and receiving.  But that day, we lost.  We lost grampa.  My father lost his father.  Grief  and sadness had entered our house.  Opening presents was…..seemed…..unimportant.   We opened presents that day, but all the while, my father was upstairs, with his cousin(who we called Uncle, long story).   Mostly, because he wanted us to try and open presents without sadness, but I know now it was partly because he didn’t want us to see him cry.

I never experienced a death up until that point.  As with tradition, there are traditions when someone dies.  There’s usually one or two days of “viewing” or “wake” which gives people their chance to say good bye.  To give people closure.  I went to the funeral parlor the first day.  Only one time.  I was so nervous because I didn’t know what to expect.  I turned the corner and smelled the sickly sweet smell of all kinds of flowers.   I saw my grandfather and I felt jolted.  Jolted is a good word.  My grampa used to wiggle his ears and make us laugh.  I looked to see if his ears were wiggling.  Needless to say, I didn’t handle the funeral parlor very well, so when it was time to go back for the evening viewing, I was left home with a neighbor.  I can’t remember if all of the kids were left home, but I know I was.  Ever since then, I can’t stand being in a florist shop, being around a lot of fragrant flowers or being around Lillie’s.   The smells remind me of sadness and bring a sickness to my stomach.  

I don’t think so, but maybe the Christmas my grampa died was the year I stopped believing in “you know who”.  I don’t know.  I do know that was the year I grew up and was pulled out of childhood and into young adulthood by getting my first two life lessons.  First, dying is a part of life and second, dad’s do cry.