The wood stove roared and the smell of burnt wood made everyone sigh. Leaving their coats in the mudroom, Hank, Elle and their clan pounded their boots until most of the snow was cleaned off. Dressed handsomely and smelling of Old Spice, Grampa John was feeding the stove when they all stepped into the parlor. Slamming the wood stove door, he clapped his hands together twice, while a ring of smoke circled his head. For a moment, it sat like a halo. A second later, he was barking out orders. “George, the decorations are in the attic. Hank, this tree’s as crooked as a politician. Why don’t you see if you can’t straighten’ it out. Elle and Tara, the ham’s been in the oven for an hour and I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to finish it. Evan, we need to get the poppin’ corn started if we’re gonna string it tonight.” Everyone had a job and everyone was content with lending a hand. But if Grampa John was an angel, he was a pushy one.
The ham never had a chance. Neither did any of Elle’s homemade pies. Grampa John’s hi-fi alternated between Ernest Tubb’s twangy holiday favorites and Elvis’ “Blue Christmas.” While the family trimmed the tall spruce pine, Grampa John and Hank shared a rare moment of fun, wrestling back and forth with the music. With the exception of Alice, it was the first Christmas that they’d all been together in several years and everyone bathed in the holiday spirit. As an angry wind beat on the windowpanes, just behind the curtain of snow there were the first hints of laughter.
Grampa John teased Hank telling him, “Leave the hi-fi alone.” He then pulled a kitchen chair over to the tree. Pulling the top toward him, he slid on the finishing touch. Everyone giggled and though he tried to hold back, so did he. The treetop was an angel that John had carved out of birch years before. It had the uncanny resemblance to Grandma’s face. Every year that he placed it on top of the tree, it brought a chuckle out of everyone. Only Grampa John’s humor could get away with a tree stuck up Grandma’s backside. She never had any idea it looked like her and always dismissed the strange laughter. The family shared the same laughter this year. Without question, Alice was still with them.
John sat down to join in the conversation and scanned the room. Evan and Tara were emerging from their fogs. Elle and Hank were swimming in each other’s eyes. Looks like my son’s stopped livin’ for the weekends and has decided to live for his wife, John thought, and smiled. Then, he caught George. In a room filled with love and laughter, his eldest grandson sat alone. John could feel a pain pinch his heart when another little pinch caught his leg. It was Lila. “Grampy Joan, can we open presents now?” she asked.
Before he was through the nod, the little girl was tearing through wrapping paper like a twenty-pound shredder. She got everything: a sled, dolls and a bicycle from Hank and Elle. John had to laugh. For hours, she played with a two-dollar rubber ball. It was the least expensive gift under the tree.
Handing out his gifts, Grampa John watched with excitement as they marveled over his workmanship. Everyone got a carving of something. It wasn’t much, but it came from everything inside him. From their reactions, they understood. Elle even cried. “I love my Christmas angel,” she told him.
When it was his time to open presents, the old man took his time, savoring each one. The first was from Hank and Elle. It was a new quilt. “To make the winter nights a little warmer, Pa,” Elle explained. His heart nearly melted at the kind sentiment. Lila stuffed her present in his face next. It was a picture she’d furiously scribbled. John’s eyes filled. This gift also came from the heart. The next was from Tara. It was a studio picture of her and Lila. John studied the photo. They were both glowing. It caused him to do the same. “Beautiful,” he whispered, the tears beginning to mount.
Evan was pacing with anticipation when he handed over his present. John unwrapped it and read:
A Warehouse for Throwaway Kids
by Evan McCarthy
There is a home in every community, an ordinary house where tinted windows and locked doors conceal the cries of tragedy, trauma and pain.
There are children in each community, ordinary kids whose smiles disguise a terrifying past, bleak present and a desperately hopeless future.
Welcome to the cloaked world of residential treatment.
Evan’s gift proved to be the truest test of Grampa John’s mask. He nearly burst into tears when he read it. My chores are already startin’ to pay off, he realized, and looked up to find Evan in his ear. “It’s all I’ve written so far, Grampa John, but …”
The old man grabbed his hand. “One word at a time, my boy. One word at a time.”
“Even if it only helps the kids a little …” Evan added.
“There ain’t no such thing as a little touch,” Grampa John told him. “Every time you touch someone, there’s an effect … positive or negative. It just depends on what they choose to do with it.” He nodded. “But make no mistake, boy, you have the power to change someone else’s world. Don’t you ever doubt it.”
Once the old man finished his quiet lesson with Evan, George walked over from his corner of the room and held out his gift. “Grampa John,” he said, solemnly, “I want you to have this.”
A sick feeling traveled through Grampa John’s bloodstream. For a second, he dreaded opening it, but with George hovering over him he knew there was no choice.
It was an ordinary drab green box and when John lifted the cover, it nearly pulled the plug on his bottled emotions. It was a gold medal that shined like a diamond in a heap of coal. With sorrow, John read the inscription: Afghanistan Campaign. He looked up at his grandson and shook his head. “I can’t take it,” he said, but George reached over and closed the old man’s fingers around it.
“I want you to have it,” George whispered, his voice laden in anguish.
Amid the inquiries into George’s secret gift, John managed to tuck the box away and successfully change the subject.
The conversation drifted from politics to religion to “the days back when.” For whatever reason, the last topic stuck. The kids took over and the rest of the glorious night was spent reminiscing. Searching their memories, they returned back to their childhoods of lazy weekends and hot summer suns.
Evan said, “I remember on Sundays, after church, Grampa John used to sit in his old rockin’ chair, while we sat around him in a circle and hung on to his every word. He told the funniest stories about his childhood or made up others if it suited him. Either way, I loved those days. I still remember most of those stories.” Evan’s eyes were entranced in the pictures his mind painted.
John laughed. Evan’s still a dreamer, he thought. And he certainly has the mind of a writer. He don’t forget a detail. John recalled those days as well. They were some of the best. He’d call them his “merry band of injuns,” while Alice would shoot him a sharp look. She was a mixed breed but prided herself on the Sioux blood that pumped through her veins.
Tara jumped in, separating her grandfather from his eternal love. “That’s not how I remember it.” She giggled. “I remember always complaining that there was nothing to do. Grandma used to get after me to get out of the house. ‘There’s plenty to do outside’ she’d say and send me with a slap on my rear end.” Her eyes drifted away. “That’s how I discovered the shapes of clouds, the feel of grass on my bare feet … all the good things in life.” The giggles turned serious. “When I think about it, I learned everything I needed to know on the days there was nothing to do.”
George listened to his brother and sister and though he said nothing, he remembered too. He remembered when Grampa John would take him on their little Sunday adventures. Together, they would search the boundaries of the farm. There was always a lesson to be learned. Grampa John introduced Mother Nature’s perfumes of lilac and honeysuckle. He pointed out the small animals foraging for food, working as a team, always taking care of each other. He showed how the birds fed their young before themselves and went without if need be; how the trees and wind made their own music, while the grass and wildflowers danced to the tune; how the sun melted the snow
caps on the mountains, watering the thirsty valley below; and how animals killed only to eat, respecting the lives of other species. The lessons went on. The memories were so strong that George was removed from Christmas Eve and sent back to a time that was warm and peaceful and kind.
Hank listened closely and regretted that he’d missed so much. He remembered those warm Sundays sitting alone with the company of blue-green flies and an AM/FM radio. It was so hot back then that when you walked, you could feel yourself moving through the air. The rain would actually dry before it hit the parched earth. It was a good thing for the cold beer. He’d sit on his porch drinking and catch his caged rabbits watching the wild ones running around in the fields. It seemed so cruel, but he understood only too well. If he’d set them free, they’d have had no idea how to act or even survive. They were institutionalized and with a half-hearted wisdom, he knew that he was, too. Pushing the memory as far from his mind as possible, Hank returned to the present festivities. He didn’t share the joyous memories his children did. The truth made him feel bad. He grabbed Elle for a hug. Fortunately, she’d also returned to Christmas present and was only too willing.
The stories went on and many memories were shared, but the night was growing late and so was Grampa John. After exchanging hugs with Elle and each of the kids, Grampa John turned to find Hank waiting at the end of the line. For an awkward moment, they just stood there, unsure of what to do next. The old man wanted to pull his grown son into his arms and squeeze him tight. From the look in Hank’s eyes, he may have been thinking the same thing. But they couldn’t do it. For a long list of foolish reasons, they just couldn’t do it. Grampa John extended his hand and Hank accepted it for a firm shake. “All the best in the new year, Hank,” the old man told him.
“And the same to you, Pa,” Hank replied, before stepping onto the porch to head back over the creek bridge.
Days turned into weeks, while Montana witnessed one the harshest winters it had endured in years. There wasn’t much to do but batten down the hatches and wait it out. In the meantime, time worked slowly on closing the open wounds. Evan and Tara trudged through the deep snow whenever they needed an answer that couldn’t possibly be found on the Internet, while George kept to himself. He was still wondering how to forgive himself and questioning Grampa John’s ideas about time. And Grampa John, well, he did what all grandfathers do: he asked for truths, answered questions and remembered the days when he had to walk up hill both ways to get anywhere.
Hank and Elle also made good use of the time and worked on renewing their love. Toward the end of the challenging winter, just when all the snow had thawed to nothing more than a skim coat, Hank asked Elle, “How ’bout I take you out on a proper date?” He grinned. “It’s been too long.”
She accepted—excitedly.
It was their first date in years and, even though she pled with him, Hank refused to tell Elle where they were going. They drove into town and then straight through it. She looked over at him, curious. He grinned.
Three miles outside the town’s limits, Hank steered a left into the old drive-in movie theatre. Past the boarded ticket booth, the bumpy, gravel drive opened up to islands of hearty weeds and briars that had grown up out of the buckled concrete and survived the raw winter. The giant movie screen was missing half of its faded panels, revealing a rotted wood skeleton beneath. Hank parked the clunker in the middle of the abandoned field and turned off the ignition. Elle looked around and sighed. The last time they had been at the drive-in, she was two weeks late for her period. She took a closer look around; the world was now frozen, the windows no more than blocks of ice.
She shifted her body to face him completely. “So this a proper date?” she teased. To most people, this would have been a ridiculous place to go but—given all the good memories they’d shared here—it was the most romantic gesture Hank had ever offered her.
She slid toward him and wrapped her arms around him.
They sat quietly, holding each other for five solid minutes.
Elle broke the embrace and looked into his eyes. “Do you remember the last time we came here?” she asked, smirking.
“How could I forget?”
“Is that right? Then what movie was playing?”
“How the heck should I know?” He laughed. “From what I recall, there was no movie.”
She climbed onto his lap and kissed him gently. He returned the kiss, pushing harder on her mouth. While the car windows steamed up, creating a veil of unneeded privacy, they made out like teenagers. Amid the moans and groans, Hank shifted under Elle’s weight and managed to kick off his shoes. She dove back for his mouth. He pushed her back just enough to see her face. “Wanna get in the back,” he asked, “like the old days?”
She looked at the backseat and laughed. “I’m not sure I’m flexible enough any more.”
He nibbled on her neck. “Only one way to find out.”
With the same love she had always felt for him, Elle stared into his eyes and smiled. “Okay,” she whispered.
It was almost ten o’clock before they came up for air. Exhausted and covered in sweat, Elle discovered that they had completely turned the blocks of ice back into windows. Giggling, she climbed over the front seat and tried to fix her hair in the rear-view mirror. It was no use. She laughed at her appearance. Hank struggled to climb out of the back seat and cursed under his breath. Elle looked back at him and teased, “You still have enough energy to be angry?”
He chuckled. “I guess I’m gettin’ too old for this.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said.
He finally unfolded his body and stepped out. He slammed the back door, opened the driver’s side door and quickly jumped back into the car. “Don’t be sorry about nothin’,” he replied with a kiss on her mouth. “If it took me a week to get out of there, it would’ve still been worth it.”
She grabbed his face. It had been so long since he’d expressed his love for her so purely. “I love you,” she told him.
“And I love you, darlin’.” He pulled her into an embrace that said all that was left to be said. In time, he whispered in her ear. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” she admitted.
“How ’bout Almac’s Diner?”
She jerked back and looked up at him. “Are you crazy? Just look at me. I can’t be seen in public like this!”
He shrugged. “We could go home, get cleaned up and then head back out. It’s not like we gotta be home by any certain time.” A grin overtook his face. “We can get somethin’ to eat and then go back to the house to finish up what you started here.”
“Well, we do need to end this date proper, right?” she teased.
Nodding and grinning—all at the same time—he fired up the clunker and barreled out of the abandoned drive-in, while she laughed at his urgency.
On the way home, Hank turned to her. “Kiddin’ aside, Elle,” he whispered, “that was real nice back there.”
Elle grabbed his arm. “Sure was,” she agreed. “I just hope …”
“Just hope?” he interrupted, concerned.
She squeezed his arm. “I just hope it’s not the last time we wrestle in a back seat.”
“Can’t see why it would be,” he said, and searched her eyes. “Unless you got other plans in mind.”
“Nope. No other plans.” She slid closer to him. “Through better or worse, Hank. In sickness and in health.” She kissed his cheek. “There’s nothing that could ever change that.”
Hank’s smile lit the car’s interior all the way back to the house.
CHAPTER 17
It was nippy, but the real sting of winter had already passed. Spring chose to arrive early and suffering from an acute case of cabin fever, George decided to explore the farm.
The pond had its share of seasonal ducks and a creek that ran down, through and out of the land. As he recalled, after church on Sundays was always a good time to fish for rainbow or speckled trout, throwing back the babies but keeping th
e big catch for Ma’s cast-iron skillet. From there, his pa would order him off to the small orchard at the north side of the house. It was his and Evan’s job to pick the apples for Ma’s famous pies. And though his father insisted, “Sunday’s the Lord’s Day and no decent man should work,” George remembered feeling just as tired after all the fishing and apple picking.
Returning to the farmyard, George spotted Grampa John. “Would you mind if I borrowed the pick-up?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting to take Three Speed on a canoe trip for some time now.”
The old man flipped him the keys.
The sun had just stretched out when George and the dog slid the long canoe into the water. Drawing in a deep breath, George opened his eyes to inhale with the rest of his senses.
It was as if he and the dog sat at the end of the world. A steady rhythm of icy water marked time. Quietly bubbling and gurgling, the morning steam rose like a mysterious but calming fog. Birds squawked and sang, boldly calling out to each other. Groves of pine, peppered with birch, decorated the river’s wide corridor. Blue sky, streaked white, mixed with the warming glow of the rising sun. Insects buzzed, seducing spawning trout. The water—one massive sheet of glass—was clear to the pebbled floor. But from time to time, it would ripple in the massaging breeze. The dried banks—high and lonely—waited to be quenched as the uneven horizon filled with ribbons of fringed earth stretched out to infinity. All at once, the sun’s powerful rays bounced off of the shimmering waves, sparkling like a million rhinestones. After this first look, George dipped his oar into the water. The trip had begun.
Trees intertwined—much like all living things—holding the hands of each other. The thick wood line offered safety but could not conceal the thirst of those that dwelled within. Large and awkward moose trampled over rotted tree stumps while several deer daintily stepped through the thick greenery. For a moment, their white tails stood frozen—almost intrigued by a human presence—but they were frightened and rightly so. George didn’t blame them.
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