"Grandpa's Toes"

(I got a face book question from one of my cousins so this story started from the letter I wrote her) Yes. (in rely to her question, if I was one of her forty five cousins, Jerome’s boy?). I just started my chapter in Minnesota in the book I'm writing.  I asked Dad, Jerome Ernst for the listing of who's who of my 16 Aunts and uncles and forty five cousins just last night in an email. I remember a lot. Grandpa's funeral was the last time I was there. I kind of knew then I wouldn't be back for a long time and haven’t been since. The year was 1987. I was 19 and the life of childhood kind of ended with the lowering of him in the grave. Bobbie Ernst and I were both on the ground on our knees with tears streaming from our eyes attempting to fill the void and hole that lay before us. My father stood behind me and Uncle George stood behind Bobbie.  There hands resting on our shoulders in gray understanding in the gravity of our moment, the change that we were weathering and holding us up as long as they could. We were silently, reverently, flowing our grief out long after everyone had left at the side of Grandpa’s grave. I think we both knew something very significant was happening. I had been chosen to be one of the pole bearers and had stopped at the hearse saying, “We can carry him.” breaking the great silence that thundered from the shuffling feet of over a hundred people, punctuated by the sound of someone’s grief in a small cry or loosed whimper, or wail that came from the hearts of the gathering outside the church where Grandpa had played the organ for over forty years. As if by shear will and strength we could hold back my growing up and keep my boyhood summer alive again, forever. The answer given by quiet words and gentle gestures was no, and we loaded Grandpa into the hearse and followed him around the building. I was one of the ones who had place at the funeral, and five other pale bearers my cousin Ritchie beside me with aunt Cathy leading the voice in our hearts as she struggled through tears to speak when her turn came upon the churches pulpit, and Bobbie. Bobbies “Grandpa’s Fingers”or "Grandpa's Toes" was the name he gave to the song or something the like with love written into the title he skillfully picked out on his guitar echoing the laughter and smile in Grandpa’s way and face. We had lived in the world of boys and were stead fast friends on my visits to Uncle George’s farm. Kneeling side by side, hands loosely at our sides while our frames wracked by unanswered grief and sorrow. We shared for the last time, a moment as boys again on the side of Grandpa’s grave. I remembered his laughter, his devotion; I remembered his working hard and his knobby hands. I remembered playing in the back yard on the metal swing set and slide as our parents visited inside making plans before I would be off on some adventure to Aunt Ireans to play with Mark and goof with Mary. I remembered getting in trouble for blowing up eggs with fire crackers and Bobbie and I having to scrub the pole barn clean. I remembered being locked into the washing machine out back of the barn when Ritchie and Mary asked me if I could fit into it. I remembered having to gallop Ginger and Buttercup when Michael and I went riding in the evening to keep the mosquitoes away. I remembered the way Grandma’s apple pie smelled when she had been baking all day. I remembered the great meals and boundless food when we all gathered for reunions filling the house chosen that year with more than people but with laughter and great whoops of joy. I remembered catching a croaker fish, one that voiced its displeasure for being caught with verbosity one cold morning when Grandpa, Dad and I went fishing, and how that was the only fish we caught all day except for a mini perch which Grandpa said was to small. (We took it home and Grandma fried it up anyway.) I remembered the chorus of this song that year that seemed to be repeating itself in my ears with the same chorus line repeating over and over as in some inner mockery. I looked up at my father as he held on for those few more seconds and said through wet checks and blurry eyes if by these words alone I could chase the dread away and repeated the line bright and cheery as I could. One last humongous herculean effort daring anyone to stop our boyhood, I put on my best smile with teeth drawn back and said while turning my head so all could see my defiance and said, “Don’t worry be happy!”

Thor