Grown-ups Talking

When I was in the eighth grade, I would sometimes be so exhausted after football practice that I didn't feel like walking the twelve blocks, all the way from E. Wilson Avenue to the end of N. Highland Avenue, to get home. Besides the unfavorable prospect of such a long walk after a two-hour football practice, I had these short-ass legs to contend with. I was only about 3 feet tall at the time. Miserable. Trust me.

To avoid the long walk, I would occasionally call my grandfather, who lived about four blocks away on East Main Street, and I would ask him if he was available to give me a ride home.

My grandpa, who went by the name of Sheenie, was well known in the little community of Girard, Ohio. He was a retired city worker, who formerly took care of the parks. He was a friendly man and everyone seemed to love him, except for my grandmother, Ruth, who had divorced him long ago. I never saw the two of them together. She's dead now.

When I would call him for a ride from the football stadium, grandpa always seemed happy to oblige, and in just a few short minutes, he would pull up in his massive white Cadillac. I'd jump in, say hello; he'd ask me how I was doing, how football practice went. We made small talk and chit-chat until he would drop me off at the duplex where I lived with my father, stepmother, younger sister and younger brother. I would thank grandpa, and wave goodbye as he pulled out of my driveway and headed home.

One day, during my eighth-grade year, my grandfather died. He was at bingo at St. Rose, where they said he had a "massive stroke." I had no idea what that meant. I just remember the word "massive." As I recall the way the story was told—not to me, but around me. That's the way I learned about events. Rarely was anything ever told to me directly; I'd just hear the grown-ups talking and, oblivious to my attentive ears, they'd talk about things in very "grown-up" ways and in very "grown-up" terms—when the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital, his last words were, "Find my teeth. Somebody get my teeth." He wore dentures. I assume they fell out of his mouth as he began to have the "massive stroke." Then he died.

The next day was his birthday. I would later hear the story—not directly, of course, but from the grown-ups talking—about how my dad and uncles went to the various places my grandfather visited everyday; Diamond's Diner on Liberty Street was among them—to tell everyone that Sheenie had died. When they arrived at the diner, they found it lavishly decorated for Sheenie's birthday, and the owner and all the regulars had gifts for him. This scene was repeated at various places they went to deliver the tragic news; birthday decorations and gifts for Sheenie, who was no longer with us.

If you're squeamish, skip the next paragraph, and proceed to the one that follows it.

I would also later hear—not directly, of course, but from the grown-ups talking—that his house on Main Street was found in a state of filth and squalor. Apparently, he had been sick for a long time and just never told anyone, evidenced by the buckets of bloody vomit by his bed and bloody bandages strewn about, apparently the former dressings for a wound that wasn't healing properly. How's that for "grown-up" terms. And if memory serves, there was also talk of flies and maggots that had moved in with him, and were keeping a compound eye on the place in his absence.

At my grandfather's calling hours, I found myself completely unprepared for what was about to happen. At age 13, I had never been to the calling hours. I know that sounds odd and sheltered. But I wasn't sheltered. I was a Lordstown Latchkey kid.* And always remarkably "mature for my age." If it still seems odd to you, consider that I never flew in a plane until I was 36 years old. So what. My family didn't travel by plane. We drove everywhere. Get over it. The world doesn't revolve around you.

*In the 70s, the GM assembly plant in Lordstown was notorious for having contributted to the exorbitantly high divorce rate in Trumbull County.

Not only had I never been to a funeral home before, but I had heretofore not faced the notion of never seeing someone ever again because of their death. I don't recall any trepidation or nervousness about seeing my dead grandfather. I just got in line. My father was part of the receiving line, so he wasn't near me. I don't remember where my sister and brother were in all of this. Perhaps they were with my stepmother. Just as I learned about "grown-up" things and heard "grown-up" terms by secretly observing the grown-ups talking, so I heard and learned about calling-hours customs by studying the behavior of these grown-ups as they moved past my grandfather's lifeless carcass. Some would just pause to look at the body and continue walking. Others would kneel, make the sign of the cross, and appear to pray or something. Some would reach into the casket to touch the hand of the corpse, to pat it or something. There were sniffles to be heard between quiet murmurs and the occasionally polite, respectful and unobtrusive chuckle. I'm sure you can imagine the scene.

Occasionally, as I moved along with the line of visitors, I would look through the crowd of tall people—everyone seemed tall to me—at my father and see him shake hands with friends and relatives. He smiled and thanked each person as they each said, "I'm sorry about your dad, Gene. He really looks good."

I would later—in the future—see my father in receiving lines three additional times: at the deaths of his mother, who died from complications related to emphysema, and each of his two younger brothers, who died of a diabetes-related heart attack and emphysema, respectively. At the most recent death, that of Ted, my father's emphysema-stricken brother, he was not standing in the receiving line, but sitting—in a wheel-chair with plastic oxygen tubes in his nose—the result of his own emphysema-ravaged lungs.

By the time it was my turn to look into the casket containing my grandfather's body, I had made a calculation. About three-fourths of the people were going through some form of religious ritual—the kneeling and praying; Girard seems to be predominantly Roman Catholic—and about a quarter of the people did nothing but look and walk on. I decided to emulate the behavior of the latter group. I also would opt not to touch the cadaver.

It wasn't until I actually looked at the make-up covered skin that I realized that I had been avoiding looking at my grandfather's former head. What I saw was a poor attempt to recapture his personality and natural look. I guess they never found his teeth. Seeing that pseudo-expression had a sudden and unexpected effect on me. In that moment, I didn't want to see what I was seeing. I didn't want to believe that that had ever been my grandfather. I found myself wishing that I could see him the way he looked when he would pick me up from football practice, hearing the way his voice sounded as he came through the front door of our duplex—without knocking—to have dinner with us on Sunday afternoons. I was no longer looking at the pale corpse, but looking past it, traveling back in time, seeing inside my mind the way he and my dad would both fall asleep on the recliner and sofa, sitting up, heads thrown back, snoring like a pair of engine-braking tractor-trailers while watching football after Sunday dinner.

Seconds later, when I snapped back to the present and again focused on that artificially propped head, the heaviness of loss, of losing my grandpa, suddenly overwhelmed me. "I'll never see him again," I remember thinking. Just then, the memories I had just moments before came rushing back, saying to me, "Yes, this stuff; you don't get to see this stuff anymore. He's not going to pick you up from practice anymore. He's not going to have Sunday dinner with you anymore. He's not going to fall asleep watching the Browns and snore like a truck on your sofa anymore." It was more than I could handle. No one had prepared me for this. Not only had I not been told what to expect or what was expected of me at the funeral home, I had no warning of what was about to happen to me emotionally. I found myself sobbing. The last time I cried like that was probably before I even started kindergarten, nearly a decade earlier. The crying came on suddenly as a sputter, then it was like a heaving, almost hyperventilating, rhythm. I had to get out of there. I was sad beyond comprehension, and quickly becoming embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to see me crying like this, most of all, my friends and cousins, who had all come with their parents to pay their respects.

I wanted to run out of the room, but there were so many people. I pushed my way through, bypassing the receiving line and my father—I don't think he even saw me—navigating the maze of people, desperately making my way toward the exit. I wasn't sure where I was going; I didn't have a plan. I just knew that I didn't want anyone to see me. I remember trying to put my sadness out of my mind, but the more I tried to push it out, the more sad I became. I found an area where coats were hanging, near the entrance, and sort of sank myself into that alcove and tried to disappear. Still heaving, suddenly realizing that I had trouble seeing because I needed to wipe tears out of my eyes and off my face, I looked out from the coats and saw the crowd of people who had paid their respects, and just beyond was the line of people who had not gone through yet. It struck me that there were all these people, yet I had never felt so alone, so absolutely and utterly without anyone to commiserate with. I would not go to my father. I was supposed to be remarkably "mature for my age." He was busy and I didn't want him to see me sobbing. I was astonished by how completely ill-equipped I was in dealing with that experience. I had no one to talk to, and had no idea what I would say even if I did. It didn't seem right. Did other people, kids my age, feel like this when a loved one died? Did they have anyone to talk to? Did their parents comfort them, hug them and explain that this is one of those difficult things in life that everyone goes through? Or did other parents leave their kids to fend for themselves, to work it all out in their own minds, to make sense of their own emotions and reactions to such a profound event?

Whatever the case, I stood there, trying to be invisible amid the coats. I happened to notice the priest standing alone in the middle of the crowd. At the moment, no one was talking to him or looking at him. I found this strange. I remember thinking that he looked unusually young for a priest. He stood quietly in his black outfit and clerical collar, hands together in prayer formation, with his index fingers touching his lips. I couldn't tell if he was actually praying, because people who are deep in thought can also hold their hands that way. But I assumed he must've been praying; he was a priest, after all. And that's what priests presumably do right? Pray and stuff?

I immediately and insatiably wanted to know what he was doing, what secret knowledge he had, and if he could help me. I wanted to know what he was praying, if anything, and what good was it supposed to do, because it sure as hell was not doing much for me in that moment. What if I said the magic words myself? Occasionally, he would look up and smile and someone would say to him, "Hello, Father," and "How are you, Father," and "Good to see you, Father." It seemed odd that this young man was being addressed as "Father" by men more than twice his age. I knew that I would never be able to work up the nerve to approach him, so I didn't. I just watched him. At any rate, it seemed to sufficiently distract me, and I was able finally to compose myself.

I don't remember much beyond that point, except later, from the backseat of my dad's car, I heard the grown-ups in the front seat talking. My father said to my stepmother, "I wish I had brought a camera. I would like to remember how he looked today." My stepmother responded, "I don't think that would have been appropriate." I had no idea why she thought that. Or why my dad would want such an awful picture.

I did not know if I could or would ever adequately describe that experience to anyone and have them understand. No one was going to explain it or make sense of it for me. And just as I learned "grown-up" stuff, not by being told directly, but by hearing the grown-ups talking, apparently they would have to learn about me the same way. Don't tell them anything directly; don't talk about my feelings, my questions, my confusion, my awkwardness, my hopes and disappointments. But it seemed that understanding one's children, at least in that generation, was not a priority. I realized that I had to work it all out myself, and came to the conclusion that I was alone.

I would eventually, about a decade later, arrive at a rational understanding of the experience and discover for myself the role of faith and the place of God and man in the Big Scheme of Things. I now see that experience of emptiness, loss and loneliness I felt was merely one of myriad factors that led me to a broader, rational understanding of life, faith, death and grief that continues to grow to this day. And, interestingly, nothing much has changed since my adolescent years, to wit, much of what I learn still doesn't come from being told directly, but from hearing the grown-ups talking.