Remembering Grandpa Charlie

I save the sounds of you coming home from work. First the screen door creaking open, then the screen door slamming shut. Although I cannot remember them exactly, I save the greetings you call out as you stop in the entryway to remove your worn cowboy hat and turquoise jacket. (Did you yodel at us—or was that later?)

You kiss Grandma on the cheek, sneak a cookie or two from the kitchen, poke at my sister and I playfully, then plop down on the blue couch in your usual spot closest to the TV. Here you’ll remove your cowboy boots. It’s never an easy process, always requiring more than a little grunting and groaning, but when at last you get the darn things off, you set them beside the couch. Lean back. Wiggle your sock-clad toes, sweaty from a day of unsuccessful attempts at car sales.

Once you turn on the basketball game, you settle deeper into your seat, resting your arms over your round belly. I notice then—and this I save—that your feet don’t quite touch the ground. Before the buzzer sounds to end the first quarter, you’ll be asleep—there’s no question. You’ll rest your head in your right hand, elbow propped on the arm of the couch, and begin to snore. “Charlie, you’re snoring,” Grandma will say, and you’ll shake yourself awake. This won’t last long—this I save.

I never knew you back then, when you smoked and drank too much. Still, I’ll save forever the fact that you’ve been sober nearly exactly as long as I’ve been alive. Every year, when we’d visit for Thanksgiving, we’d have your favorite chocolate cake with thick, dark chocolate frosting to celebrate the anniversary. A sobriety birthday celebration. This I will save.

Somewhere in there, though I only remember it from stories I’ve heard, I’ll save all the times I sat at the table in the camper and ate spoonfuls of butter from the dish with you. I’ll save the caffeine-free Diet Coke you drank, the forays into the kitchen for a midnight snack or two. Or three.

Forever I’ll save learning to ride horses, to race barrels, to rope the electric steer that cruised slow circles in your barn. I’ll save watching you rope in real rodeos—though I can’t remember if you were a header or if you went for the calf’s feet. I’ll save the best birthday gift I ever received from you—Gypsy, the first horse that was really, truly my own. I’ll save your belt—not the buckles you won, which will be dispersed among us grandchildren when you truly leave us, but the brown leather back of your belt—that reveals your nickname. Hon Chas. Honest Charles.

The hardest loss of all is when you lose someone who is still here. This, too, I will save. I imagine you every day, sitting in that nursing home. Someday, when we find it, I promise I’ll save your mind for you. I’ll be your memory. I’ll save every moment that you’ll give me. The playful memories of childhood, the hard times, and most of all every second—right down to the butter eating—I was able to share with you.

I wonder every day if you remember me, if you know who I am. This I will not save for long. Only until I have a new memory of you.

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I wrote this a couple of years ago about my grandfather, who passed away this evening. Another thing I'll save? The photo above of him (with me!). Photos and memories of my granddad. Now that is what I will save.