our
days before entering McCracken and Son’s as a pallbearer for
the funeral, I saw my father in his F150 pickup, slowing down on Highway
51 for the stop sign that allowed entrance to my hometown of Pana,
Illinois. I was headed towards our farmhouse. He turned on his right
blinker and stopped his gray truck at the sign. I drove by and waved.
I knew he wouldn’t turn left and follow me home. If there is
one word that describes my father, it’s routine, and Routine
doesn’t go directly home after work. Ever since Grandpa retired
from the railroad, over fifteen years ago, my father has stopped at
that sign and headed for Grandpa’s house for coffee. I turned
my car around and followed.
Inside the house, Grandpa was sitting at the kitchen table with a
cup of coffee, reading. He didn’t even look up from the newspaper
when we came in. My father, who still worked at the railroad, walked
to the counter and poured the bottom of the pot into a cup. Grandpa
always had a cup waiting for him. Dad was wearing his normal—work
boots, blue jeans, and flannel. That day’s flannel was blue,
with a stiff and faded collar. And, as always, he wore his pliers
in the holder that hooked onto his belt. He joined my grandfather
at the table. They shared the paper and drank coffee without saying
more than a handful of words. These visits weren’t about talking
or catching up on news. They were about a son visiting his father.
I never joined them at the table.
Grandpa was also wearing his normal—tan slacks with a plain
white T-shirt. The shirts were always tight on his trim, fit body.
He mumbled something to my father about Harry Carey’s death
as I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a pop. I leaned against the
counter and thought how simple my life would be if I could be more
like them. I wished I could be more concrete, never missing a hard
day’s work and sticking to a routine, but I’m not.
Two days later, grandpa died of a stroke. At the visitation I couldn’t
stop staring into his casket. They had him dressed in a maroon suit,
and I was pissed because he wasn’t wearing his slacks and white
T-shirt. Why maroon? He never wore maroon. The more I thought about
it the more I knew that I would no longer remember him wearing slacks
and a shirt, only that damn suit. I touched his hands folded over
his chest. They were cold like an uncooked steak. His cheeks too.
I gently squeezed his earlobe and he turned into my father.
I wasn’t sad about my grandpa’s death. He was 81 years
old and had many friends and siblings, and as far as I could tell,
he worked hard and respected people, and people respected him. I was
sad because I had never seen my father take anything so hard. I was
sure he had cried around me before, but I couldn’t recall it.
He was wearing new jeans, a dress-up flannel, and, of course, his
pliers. I wrapped my arms around him from behind and squeezed. He
patted my shoulder as if he were patting himself on the back.
After
the visitation, we grandsons slid the casket into the hearse, then
slid it out at the cemetery. We place it in the grave as if we were
just moving furniture around. During the twenty-one gun salute,
all I could think about was how my father was going to feel at the
stop sign on Highway 51 the first day he had to drive home from
work.
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