The Escort

If ya have a hankerin’ for some spooky reads this month, run on over to Moxie’s place.  She’s got tricks and treats in store for us this month of the supernatural variety.

It got me thinking.

I didn’t realize what an influence my grandparents really had on me until I started writing this blog.  I’ve written about them a lot and I didn’t expect that to happen.  It’s been a happy accident, thank you Bob Ross, that I’ve journaled about Granny and Grandpa.

I gave Moxie a little yarn about Prissy and her ‘sight’.  I call it a bunch of hog wash, but this time of year it surely is fun to believe a little.

According to Prissy, this is just this kind of attitude that will ever prevent me from ‘seeing’ anything.

Well, thank Jesus!  I’ll leave the otherworld in the other world.

Anyhoo, my Bub is intrigued by the whole thing and has stories of his own.  One of which I will tell here. 

It involves our Grandpa.

But first, if you haven’t been with me long, go read about Dad and Gramps.  It won’t take you long, and I’d like you to get to know them.  They were fantabulous men and if my boys turn out half as well, I will be living large indeed.

If you’ve already read these two posts you are acquainted with Steve and Lester and can come on along.

Ahem.  ...and so we begin.

It was a dark and stormy night.

No joking.

The year was 1995.  Grandpa had cancer.  I could go into detail, but anyone who has ever dealt with this demonic disease knows that watching someone waste away from it is the very vision of hell.  Granny called and told us that the time had come. We’d better get on the road to Arkansas.

Big and Little were both little.  They were already in bed and the weather sucked.  I told Granny we’d come down first thing in the morning.

We didn’t make it.  And of course I'll regret it all of my days.

He had already passed.

I grabbed Bubby and we went outside so he could grab a smoke and fill me in.

Well, Sis.  Uncle Hippy kept begging him to hang on and not to go.  Prissy was on the other side of him telling him she knew he was tired and to feel free to go.  Granny sat at the end of the bed and cried and rocked and moaned.

Good times.

I got tired of standing there and walked over toward the bathroom and leaned against the sink.  And the weirdest thing happened.  I smelled smoke.  I looked all over, up and down the hall, and couldn’t find anyone smoking.  I knew it wasn't smoke lingering on me, because the smell wasn't right.  I stood there a moment longer and then the scent came on stronger and just knocked me over.  It was pipe tobacco.  It was Captain Black.  And Sugar, I swear to God the instant that smoke started to subside, Grandpa died.

Of course.

I knew what he was telling me. 

My mother and my uncle played tug of war over their father-the same old dance that estranged them then and keeps them estranged to this day.  While they carried out their drama, our Dad quietly and peacefully sneaked our Grandpa out the back door.

Hogwash? 

Probably.

But it sure is comforting.