ARE YOU MY GRANDFATHER?

BY JAMES A. HUIZENGA*

*Finally written down sometime in 1987 after many years of procrastination.

This story is dedicated to my wife Emily,

who has endured my ramblings and story telling

(some several times)

--for so many years.

The writing of this story had its beginnings as a dream I participated in several years ago. In relating this dream I've called upon childhood memories, a vivid imagination and a lot of literary license.

When I was a child, Grandpa had always been a special person to me. Somehow all the tasks he asked me to do seemed more like fun than work. His garage held me enthralled for many hours with all its aging tools -- from special carpentry tools -- to hand gardening tools -- to the old rusting "foot on a post". Well--it almost looked like a foot - without toes. It had been used to repair shoes many years ago when Grandpa and Grandma had been raising my dad, uncle and aunt on the farm. It really was a 'foot'-- to stick inside shoes so that they could be resoled to last until better times would allow new shoes to be purchased. But then only when the old ones could no longer be repaired. I don't think I ever knew its real name, but that didn't make it a less important part of the magic the garage and Grandpa held for me.

Other tools had been used in more recent history, or at least the part I had participated in, to make repairs as the brick wall in the cellar of the house began to bulge (reminding me of my Uncle Orville's stomach) -- or repairs to the old outhouse that hid itself behind the garage -- or to the many things that just seemed to need repair on a daily basis.

Grandpa had retired to town long before my memory of him began, but he always seemed to be very busy in spite of it. Many times I was included in this 'busyness' and loved every minute of it, feeling very important because I was 'helping Grandpa'.

It was not all work with Grandpa though. He'd also do little things to help us play. The old rug hung on the line to air out; was beaten into submission with the rug beater until all the dust and dirt had been released in puffs into the air. It then became, with many convenient and heavy objects to weigh down its edges -- a tent for my sisters and I to camp in as the 'wagon train' stopped for the night. (Just because I was the oldest and the only boy, why did I always have to pull the wagon?)

The garden behind the garage became a jungle where wondrous plants grew. They provided, as we played, hiding places and snacks; grapes and pears and carrots and those cherry tomatoes which later in the play became weapons to use on one another across the garden. Grandpa and Grandma pretended they didn't know of our wars and the weapons we used, but it was hard not to notice that every year volunteer cherry tomato plants continued their advance from one end of the garden to the other.

Those carefree childhood days were many years and many miles away, brought back as memories pulled from deep within my subconscious mind. Their release from that locked storage was triggered by daily sights, sounds and situations.

I often wondered how my grandfather had held such a spell over us and hoped that someday I'd be able to make that same kind of magic for my grandchildren. With my son many years away from puberty, I still had plenty of time to find it for my grandchildren, but wanted before then to be more than a father to my son, wanting that magic to exist between us.

So far I felt I'd somehow come up a little short. Having grown up in a different time and place, I, as I'm sure all fathers do, felt somehow he'd missed some of the essentials, some of the experiences, some of the truths of the world around us. I wanted to make sure he arrived at adulthood with all he needed, to be whatever he would be.

I've since begun to feel that I experienced the essentials and truths I needed to survive in the period I grew up in; and that though different, he would, in spite of me, experience the essential truths he would need to survive in his time and place. I had not yet come to this basic truth and was still trying to help my son learn more about the world around him here on the west coast.

My grandfather had recently died and I had not been able to travel to the Midwest to attend his funeral and it's associated re-acquaintances with relatives; the ones you only see and meet on such occasions. It's a shame that funerals now seem to be the only reason to bring people that share the same ancestry together again, a sad result of our busy spreading world. His passing had triggered my subconscious into releasing a flood of long forgotten memories that simultaneously brought me joy and sadness.

This particular Saturday I'd gotten up early and gone with my son downtown with thoughts of showing him that this world was not as idyllic as he had thus far experienced. There were others less fortunate than we were, who for reasons not necessarily under their control, barely existed in this world. Maybe he'd reach an appreciation of the things he daily took for granted.

Being an inquisitive child he was fascinated with the prospects of our little outing.

By all rights I, as a responsible father, should not have taken my young son into this portion of town, for it was frequented by the less desirables of the civilized world, individuals desperate for just the essentials of life.

It was winter here, not as unpleasant a place to be as in the Midwest, but nevertheless a place where the warmth of an open fire was something to be grateful for. As we walked along, ahead of us we saw such a life warmer of a fire that appeared to be the nucleus of a circle of men. These men were a destitute lot, with one particular old gentleman appearing to be the leader. We were too far away to hear what was being said but we could see that this man held the attention and respect of all those gathered there.

At a distance -- he had appeared as all the rest. With each step I took though, his appearance seemed to change. As we came closer, the man took on a strange familiarity. --- I knew I'd seen him somewhere before.

It was impossible, how could it be? He looked more and more like my grandfather with each step I took!

I felt myself drawn to him. Common sense should have held me back, but I couldn't stop. Even as I approached close enough to reach out and touch him, I couldn't make out what was being said. The closer I got, the more I knew this had to be my grandfather. I wanted to touch his shoulder, to get his attention -- but could not. Instead I heard myself say to him,

"Are you my grandfather?"

Without a single word for a reply, he stood, folded the little collapsible seat he'd used and placed it into one of the large side pockets of his old worn coat. He didn't appear to know I was even there, yet I knew his actions were in response to my question. As soon as the old man started to rise, all activity in the circle ceased. It was as if they were only cardboard background props for and old stage play, not real. But I know I'd previously seen them move --- and talk --- in response to the old man.

--Or had I?

He began to move away from the group toward an old building which had the outward appearance of being abandoned for many years. I was being drawn after this old man with no thought of the what, the why or the dangerous position I might be placing myself in. I just had to follow this man that looked like my grandfather, wherever he was going.

The old man reached the doorway, opened the deteriorating door and disappeared into the darkness. The open door and its inner darkness pulled me toward it with an eerie friendliness. I couldn't turn back, my mind and body were not mine to control. I stepped into the darkness and the outside cold wind could not stop the warm and friendly feeling that existed there. The door silently closed behind me and consumed by the darkness, I felt a brief moment of sheer panic that the total disorientation of complete darkness can produce. It passed so quickly that I was not sure I'd really felt it. The friendly warmth of the inside of this building again was felt as the darkness lessened it's hold on my vision.

'Was I gradually becoming accustomed to it, was there a light there in the distance or was my mind just creating something for me to hold on to?'

Dimly, shapes and outlines began to form around me. Again the familiarity of these unknown objects (if they were real) gave me a warmth I couldn't understand. No wonder it felt familiar -- this was the kitchen of my grandparents house, the old kitchen before the remodeling had been done.

The remodeling of the house had been a miraculous feat I had witnessed, but with my limited knowledge and experiences could not believe would have been possible. The house as originally built had only a cellar under it; the brick wall of which, had gradually given up it's attempts to keep the shifting earth behind it from invading the cellar. I'd helped my grandfather persuade the wall, brick by brick, to surrender the fight. (As I now remember it, much to the dismay of my mother who just knew the wall was going to give way, all at once, and bury me alive in the rubble -- which, of course, it did not do -- Grandpa knew it wouldn't.) I guess the bulging cellar wall was one of the deciding factors for the remodeling that finally took place.

The whole house had been lifted into the air (it seemed like miles to my small point of reference) and supported there while the dirt from beneath it was dug out to make the new basement and foundation. My uncle had brought one of his tractors from his farm and had used it to drag a huge bucket-like shovel back and forth under the house. The dirt under the house was finally relieved of the responsibility of saving that spot for a basement and was given new responsibilities elsewhere.

Midmorning and afternoon on work days always contained the old country custom of stopping for a little lunch, These normally consisted of sandwiches and cookies for all, tea and coffee for the adults and Kool Aide, with 'tons' of sugar mixed in, for us kids. (That's where I suppose my craving for sweets began.) We had eventually convinced Grandma to let us have tea also, just like the adults. We wanted to be like the adults, but could not quite handle the tea without plenty of milk mixed in -- and again 'tons' of sugar.

'Ahh but that was good tea!'

Well, maybe good and very sweet tea flavored milk. Nevertheless, we had the same lunch as the adults and we weren't being treated differently than the adults --- and that felt good, so grown up!

I could see children there in the kitchen seated around the old round wooden table with its oilcloth covering. They were having lunch -- this time Kool Aide and cookies. There we were, my sisters and I sitting at the table enjoying the drinks and cookies my grandmother had made for us!!

Before I could even begin to think about what it meant to be in the same room with myself, from under the chair of the child-me I saw, came the sound of something hitting the floor. As it landed, it immediately began rolling toward the side of the kitchen from which I was viewing this incredible scene. The child-me, as he descended from the chair, did not hesitate for even a second to look for the dropped marble. He knew where it would eventually end up --

--at the side of the kitchen where I now stood -- the low end.

Everything always ended up there.

The kitchen floor sloped that much, I suppose, partly due to the lack of support being given by the bulging brick wall in the cellar below.

He came toward me. I tried to find a place to hide, but couldn't. He picked up the marble and returned to his chair. He hadn't even seen me but I know I was there, I'd felt the marble bounce off my shoe and the sights and smells were just too real. He was there, I was there, but somehow not together.

Lunch finished, my sisters and I disappeared through the door leading to the room that had been used for the dining room. My grandparents didn't really have a living room as such, only a 'front' room where us kids were sent to play while the adults gathered in the dining room. I watched the children and followed as they passed through the dining room--

--around the table past the old hand crank telephone (let's see--was it 1 long and 2 shorts or 3 shorts and 1 long -- a detail long since not needed and as a result forgotten),

--past the doorway to the 'front' room with wonders all its own, like the stereo viewers used to bring other parts and sites of the world right into view and so real too!, the thick carpeting, great for dragging your shoes across in the dry winter to zap your sisters by surprise with the built up static charge (on the ear lobes was always best because you could come from behind and not be seen prior to the surprise attack), and my grandmother's old floor to ceiling pump organ with its endless stops and leaky bellows, requiring one pumper and one player to produce any music,

-- and then out the front door.

The kids disappeared around the side of the house as I stepped into the front yard off the front porch (another friendly appendage to old houses that sadly isn't 'needed' any more).

The two lane highway which shared the small area between the house and the Illinois Central Railroad tracks, as they both split the town in their passage, was as unoccupied with traffic as always in this town of 400. In the distance, a steam locomotives' whistle warned us not to venture in front of it as it sped through a country crossing. I waited for the train to appear in all its glory. The wind was blowing from the East and I wouldn't have to close my eyes to protect them from the cinders accompanying the belching smoke.

'Mom will be able to hang the laundry outside today without being dirtied by the train smoke.', I thought.

I was eager for the train to appear so that I could count the cars as they flew by --

'Maybe it will be a new record!',

--but the sound of playing children broke in and drew me to the backyard instead. As the backyard came into view, I saw my sisters disappear between the outhouse and the garage, with the child-me in hot pursuit.

I quickened my pace, wanting to join in the fun, pausing only briefly to pick a few of the concord grapes that grew next to the outhouse. ----There were never many but they were always so juicy. As usual, when the skin split, the insides popped out and slid around inside my mouth like a little 'eyeball'. ---- I rounded the garage to find a full-scale war being waged. I stepped aside as one round of red ammunition whizzed past my head -- but in the process stepped in front of another which flattened itself against my chest. The red liquid began to run down my shirt. My hand quickly went to it, to wipe off the remains. The children made no sign that I even existed, yet I'd just been hit by a flying tomato.

'Was this just a vivid dream?'

It couldn't be, it felt too real - I was there - and the remains of the tomato I'd removed from my shirt had tasted so good as I'd unconsciously placed it in my mouth. (Not like the cardboard tasting ones you buy now at the local grocery store.)

I reached down to pick a tomato to join the fun -- none were in sight, so I went to my hands and knees searching and hiding low. Finally finding some, I rose to join the battle, but I found myself alone in the garden with no targets in sight. I ate my ammunition, savoring the taste. I wandered between the rows with the long ago sights and smells being reinforced as I went. The pear trees were there, all three of them. I wondered if those winter pears were still hard as rocks and if the cows in the pasture behind the garden still liked those big pears from the last tree? Those cows had to have had some pretty upset stomachs from all those rotten pears my sisters and I had fed them.

I walked past the east side of the garage with a row of hollyhocks standing at attention along the garage wall. I reached down to pick up a wilted hollyhock doll one of my sisters had apparently made earlier in the day.

The garage was a large one with enough room for 3 cars. I really only remember one car at a time being housed in it, one my grandparents had owned and another an old antique my Great Uncle Connie had stored there. All the large doors of the garage were closed.

I suddenly felt an all compelling need to go inside and experience its magic once again. The small door which faced the house stood open, inviting me in. I slowly, almost reverently stepped into its cool darkness, it's musty mixture of odors an old friend. As the light responded to the switch's command, I ran into a huge potato sack hung from the rafters, its lumpy outline betraying the walnuts hiding inside. I remembered my stained hands earned by the husking and shelling of those walnuts as requested by Grandma. A hammer, a brick, a bowl and a child desiring cookies with nuts were the only tools required to release the treats inside.

Uncle Connie's car was gone, probably to some kind of old car rally. Uncle Connie and Aunt Bea were such a sight, always driving to those events in duster and goggles.

The old steamer trunk sat there with its treasure of old balding fake furs that my sisters loved to dress up in.

The work benches were in disarray with the old rusting tools dropped in mid project.

My eyes were drawn to the wall above the bench where, hanging on a nail in the last place I'd remembered seeing them, were the wooden sticks and string Grandpa had begun to assemble as the framework of a kite for me! For some reason, that no longer seemed to matter, he had never been able to finish the kite. I'd consciously forgotten of it's existence. Now the excitement I'd felt when he'd begun to make it, came back to me, along with the disappointment of seeing it hang there above the workbench gathering dust and never completed. It had been a thing to look forward to, the flying of that homemade kite. But sadly never experienced.

I reached up and gently, lovingly lifted it from the nail which had held it captive there for so many years. The string outline of the kite had been tied to the end of each stick to keep it in just the right position and to fasten the paper to. The notches had been whittled with Grandpa's pocket knife, but the paper had never been applied.

'Why hadn't it flown?'

Without hearing a sound, I felt someone behind me. Quickly I turned and I saw my Grandfather standing in the doorway I'd just come through. I opened my mouth to ask him that unanswered question, but no sound came from me as he disappeared from the doorway. I wanted to move quickly across the garage, but felt myself go into slow motion. There were so many other things I felt I must ask him. As I finally approached the door, the cold outside air could be felt. In the eternity it took to reach the door, the light inside the garage had faded, bringing the objects around me again to unfamiliar shapes. I ignored the changes that had taken place -- I couldn't let him get away again.

Outside I found myself back in the downtown street. By the time I realized where I was, the old man had resumed his place by the fire and the circles' activity had begun as if he'd never been away. The old man was no longer recognizable to me.

'How could I have thought he was my grandfather? He didn't look anything like him.'

As I stood there confused, I felt someone brush by me as if I weren't there. I was about to say something when I realized this woman's concentration was, as mine had been, upon the old man by the fire and she had indeed not seen me. She approached him slowly and when within arms length reached out to touch him -- to get his attention. She stopped as if an invisible wall existed between them.

Barely discernible from where I was, I heard her ask--

"Are you my grandfather?"

Without replying, he rose, folded his chair, placed it in his pocket and walked toward the old rundown building. She followed as if in a trance.

I wanted to shout out to her -- to warn her, -- but warn her of what? Then I realized that it was no use because I wasn't really a part of what was taking place anyway.

They both disappeared into the darkness of the open doorway.

I suddenly realized I hadn't seen my son or even thought about him for --

'how long had it been since I first walked toward the old man -- one minute -- one hour? Where had he been during this time?'

(To this day he has no recollection of the whole episode.)

I turned and there he was looking around as if nothing had happened, still fascinated by his surroundings. I reached out with my hand to take his and not until then did I realize that I still held the kite frame in it.

I had brought it with me from the garage -- but that was impossible -- I was 2000 miles and 25 years away from that garage and those experiences ------

After convincing myself those sticks and string were indeed those my grandfather had crafted himself, I had taken my son home. I wasn't able to continue that particular educational experience for him, because I'd been so confused and shaken. All the while though I could still feel the comfortable warmth that had surrounded me as I entered my grandparents house that day.

Not knowing really why, over the years I've returned by myself to this area hoping against hope I'd see my grandfather there again, -- knowing deep down, I never would. Renovation of that part of town has now eliminated that old building, but has not been able to completely eliminate those destitute men or the memories of my trip with my grandfather that day.

The tomato stain has never completely faded from the shirt I wore that day and I've kept the kite frame in safe storage for the day that I may try to pass along my grandfathers' magic.