A Life Lived

One week ago at 10:30 pm my great grandfather died. We were visiting my grandparents, finishing up a night of Thanksgiving festivities, when we received the call informing us he had taken a fatal fall out of bed. Even at age 94, his death was a shock (my grandma hates the phrase "passing on" because it's a weak attempt to avoid saying that they died. "When I die, don't tell everyone I 'passed'. Just cut to the point and tell them I died.").

Frankly, he had too many incredible years to waste time talking about a funeral. He did not exist; he lived. Even when he was put in assisted living (eventually a nursing home, though it didn't smell or look like the stereotypical places of horror), he remained full of spirit, rebellion, and stories.

By spirit, he would grumble about the overbearing majority of women in the home, not to mention his disgust for the "old codgers" he had to put up with on a daily basis.

By rebellion, he would try the nurses' patience by ignoring their suggestion to keep his scooter on the 'tortoise' setting, much preferring the 'hare' speed (eventually his deteriorating ability to drive the contraption would force them to ban it from the dining area- too many close calls of almost running down the codgers trying to enjoy their lunch).

But by far, his stories were my favorite. He would tell of his unsatisfactory 'U's' in high school, his days playing on the defensive line in football, and how he lucked out in the draft. We learned more than thought possible about meat from his 30 years of experience working for Swift Processed Meat Company, not to mention a history of the days in his two-bedroom house.

The list goes on and on, and there are too many to count. One story in particular, though, sticks out. It was the second to last time I ever saw him that I asked: how had he and my great-grandmother met? I had never thought to ask and found I was curious. It is one of my favorites: not only because of the story itself, but it reminds me of a man who was there until the end.

I cannot tell it like he could, but I'll do my best to tell it like I see it in my mind:

Once upon a time there was a country boy, a city girl, and a bus.

The boy drove the neighborhood bus, the same route every day. On this route, this girl in particular caught his eye. He liked her, but there were obstacles. She was out of his league, the lady and the tramp, and, even more problematic, she was Catholic and he was a Baptist. Still, he would not be easily discouraged, and, one Friday afternoon gathered up his courage to ask her out on a date.

She turned him down flat.

It's hard to say whether he was surprised by this; he must have been expecting it somewhere in the back of his mind. Still, he wanted to know the reasons for her quick rejection. Was it because he too poor? His religion? Not her type? He wanted answers.

Conveniently, he knew the girl's sister, to whom he took his questions. He found her one day and asked, "What's up with your sister? I asked Agnes on a date and she turned me down."

To which Agnes's sister replied, "What day did you ask her?"

"Just this Friday."

The girl's sister laughed. "You fool!" she ranted. "You can't ask Agnes out at the end of the week. She already has a date by then! You have to ask her out at the start of the week!"

And so, with a renewed sense of hope, the boy waited until Monday. When he saw her on the bus and asked her again.

She accepted.

The rest is history.


James Hatfield (1914-2008)