When It’s My Time To Go, I’m Just Leaving!

When my grandpa died, some people insisted on having a funeral…

Ben Luke was my mother’s father. Unlike my dad’s father — a cantankerous, whiskey-drinking, bare-knuckle coal miner who abused his wife and raised his kids to be just like him — Grandpa Ben raised a normal family. (We won’t talk about the other one. Just Grandpa Ben.)

As the last of their brood, dad put me in the oven in 1951, but I wasn’t done until 1952. Sad to say that by the time I met Grandpa Ben, he could neither walk nor talk due to a stroke. So, I never even heard him speak, and I never saw him walk. He just sat in his old rocking chair staring out the window.

He did seem to love watching baseball, especially the Pittsburgh Pirates! (Saaawing batter!) Whenever something exciting happened at the game, he would look toward Uncle Dave and make grunting noises, and Dave would laugh or comment, or both. (Uncle Dave lived with them and helped care for his dad. He was the only one that could understand Grandpa’s language.)

I was afraid of him. Not Uncle Dave—Grandpa Ben!  Him, his condition, his grunting noises. But that was not the only thing that frightened me about him. He constantly spit brown goo into a coffee-can next to his chair (holy-pig-nasty-of barn smells), and he was constantly drooling brown slime down his chin. It may sound cruel, but being hugged by this odd-smelling, grizzled old man with drool on his chin, and who grunted and squeaked unexpectedly—well, it was just a bit unsettling!

My apologies if that offends anyone, but even today, myself being an old man in good health, I avoid hugging very small children unless they approach me first.

Consequently, when Grandpa Ben died in March of 1965, I was, of course, not happy about it. But…neither was I devastated or distraught over it. You see, ours was never a family full of ‘I love you’s, lots of hugs, and familial bonds.’ (With the exception of a few certain uncles and in-laws that were into that sort of thing—but we learned to avoid them!

Ah! The good-old-days, right!

Where do you go when you die? In this case, to Ashville, PA.

Grandpa Ben’s funeral was set to happen that morning in a town about twenty miles distant. Ashville, Pennsylvania: population 400-425, not counting pets.

The term was, “they live up the mountain.” Which, to our family meant, “The Buckhorn—a 3600 foot Allegheny Mountain peak, just outside and north of Altoona, PA.

(We’z Pennsylvania hillbillies, if yunz are ever to come up that way, give us a call so we ken rid up the house before yenz get here, and we’ll make you a samwhich and some coffee.”)

Mom was never late—unless you told her when to be there!

Grandpa Ben’s eldest child was my mother. She, a loving soul with a habit of getting ready for work (or anything else) five minutes before she was supposed to be there. Often called “Dagwood” (if you know anything about the cartoon) because she was always dashing through the door at the sound of the bell or a bit after.

Also…if you know anything about where apples fall in relation to the tree, then you know about me as well. (Just ask my wife!)

So, there I was watching television when somewhere off in the snowy distance, I heard the honk of a horn. When I peeked out the window, I spotted what looked like a pink, Ford Fairlane, about a half block away, idling in the frosty morning air in front of the synagogue. Apparently they weren’t sure which house was ours.

“Mom, they’re here!” I shouted, and instantly heard feet running through the upstairs hall: BLAM! The bathroom door closed.

AND…THEY’RE OFF! (or) Hurry up, it’s time to be late again!

While the sound of running water emanated from the bathroom, I began searching for the only suit of clothes I ever owned. From the closet I dragged a navy blue jacket with matching trousers; the suit I inherited two years before, when I was eleven. It was, in fact, the same suit I wore while attending Grandpa’s and Grandma’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.

As it hung there, although it grew beautiful dust-epaulettes on the shoulders, it hadn’t lost a single wrinkle or stain.

The cuffs were two inches above my wrists, which was odd because the shoulders were still too wide and the body could accommodate another half of me or better. The matching trousers were similarly two inches short with enough room and another ass and a half! (Noass-a-tol disease.)

It was the mid 60’s … NOBODY gave a rat’s toot about how teens dressed. Beatle-mania started in 1963, and the school dress codes became a thing of the past, along with common sense and dignity.

Satan is behind the wheel! Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!  

After those quick, long minutes of lateness, Mom and I dawned our winter coats and rushed toward the idling car that we’d only assumed was there for us. Although only ten yards away, it was the perfect distance for my flopping shoes to fill with snow! What more could I ask for!

As we approached, the rear passenger door flew open and a grizzly bear, grunting and breathing heavily, struggled from the rear seat. With not so much as a ‘hello beautiful people,’ she stood adjacent to the door like sentry at the Berlin Wall! (Ms. Trunchbull? I thought.)

Stepping behind the bear in a timid attempt at false-gallantry, I offered to hold the door for my mom and the grizzly in hopes of gaining a window seat. However, the bear saw through my ruse and put her fat, sweaty paw on the back of my neck and shoved me in ahead of her.

No greeting, no nice to see you, no “what’s your name,” just an impatient gesture of “GET YOUR ASS IN THE CAR!”

WHAT THE ??? Seriously, who’s driving this car, SATAN?’ It’s 140° in here!” Sandwiched like a weenie in a bun between Mom and the bear, I found myself unable to move. It was SOOOOO frigging HOT!

How is it possible that the bear, Mom, and the other two in the front wearing full winter regalia, were not also going into instant thermal meltdown? Between the winter coat, the ill-fitting suit, and the extra fourteen pounds of oversized shirt stuffed into my pants and jacket, the was not a single square inch of my body that didn’t immediately begin to sweat.

“Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go”

As we pulled away from the curb, Aunt Grizzly, evidently picking up from where she stopped in mid-conversation began to talk as fast as her mouth could move. It was then, when the driver threw a furtive glance at Grizzly that I realized Auntie Mary Walruspuss was driving! It was not Satan after all! She still hadn’t grown any tusks, but the face was the same! Like the Grizzly, Auntie Walruspuss (to put it politely) was much larger when last we met!

It was impossible to stop watching her floppy jowls and turkey neck jiggling when she moved her head. Fascinating! Her flippers gripped the wheel as she nodded and grunted in recognition of whatever Aunt Grizzly was testifying to.

Finally, as the dissertation ended and Aunt Grizzly finally took a breath, a new face then appeared from the front. Twisting herself to look at us, Aunt Passenger-in-front (likely fearing that Aunt Grizzly would begin talking again and she would miss her opening), turned to us and said,

“Oh, Emma, Is this your youngest? He’s such a handsome boy! I’m so sorry for the loss of your father. Oh, look at his face! “Don’t worry dear, I know you’re sad.” she said directly to me, “We’re here for you!”

“I should have stood in bed,” I thought.

Auntie Walruspuss was a careful driver. So VERY careful. Painfully careful, in fact! My scorching body was losing its life-force with each slow passing mile, and I feared they would throw my dried-up skeleton into the box next to Grandpa Ben by the time we got there.

Aunt Grizzly resumed her speech when (likely because everyone else quit listening to her), she turned and spoke directly into my face, and Holy COFFEE/SMOKE-BREATH, DRAGON BUTT, STINK! Her mouth would gag a maggot! I tried to duck, but it caught me dead on. She thought I was crying and patted my arm.

The Terror In The Fog – aka: A Twofold Density Of Very Thick Proportions

As we ascended what was known as Red Hill, a fog surrounded us. Then, as we dropped into the hollow, it was relatively clear. As we began the ascent toward the Buckhorn, as the grade steepened, the fog quickly thickened, and as the fog thickened, so too did Auntie Walruspuss .

It wasn’t long before both the Walrus (Coo coo ca chew) and the fog were unnervingly synchronized in density, and she obviously had no idea of how to drive through it. I mean, it was blinding, and I watched as her nervous jowls jerked and swayed with the twitching of her head.

We made it as far as the devil’s elbow (a sharp turn in the road) when suddenly, all of the women began helping to drive the car. As Auntie Walruspuss flapped and jiggled, humble Auntie Passenger-up-front released quick screams of terror with each jerk of the wheel.

DAMN THE TORPEDOES! She pushed ahead into the thickening fog, white-knuckled, ferociously gripping the wheel, jerking it side to side and following orders the best she could.

“Avast, me hearties! Hard to larboard!” I fought the desire to shout it out loud. Still, every three or four seconds someone would shout something and our heads would suddenly snap side to side with the maneuver.

Trying her best to figure out which side of the road she was actually on, the Walrus (Coo coo ca chew) would pass within inches of a guardrail on one side, and then suddenly within inches of the rock cliffs and ditches on the other, and with each event, new shouting broke out.

Such good times! Such fond memories! “NOTHING SHALL KEEP US FROM OUR QUEST!”

Let’s all sing together: “I am I Don Quixote the man of La Mancha…” Again I stifled the urge!

Mom, I should mention, was very stoic the entire time. Having never driven a car herself, she had nothing to offer in the way of navigation, nor did she seem to fear that we would find our way into eternity. In fact, she just cracked the window a bit, pull a long Pall Mall cigarette from her purse, and lit up. Likely thinking, “Just one more before I die,”

As for me, my only thought when I saw her lite up was, “Can I have drag?” I watched her enviously.

Back to the fray! Often mistaking the white line on the road’s edge to be the center line —yelps of fear caused the Walruspuss to veer back onto the lane at the last second. She must have been thinking, “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” Never once letting up on the accelerator!

Then, and without warning, Auntie Grizzly grabbed my coat and threw me like a rag doll against the passenger door. She needed room to lean forward and shout instructions directly into the ear of Walruspuss!

Auntie Passenger-in-the-front, suddenly confronted by the evil stink of coffee and smoke from the Grizzly’s throat, covered her nose and mouth with her hands. Poor Walruspuss could not escape and simply had to endure it.

UNLEASH THE HOUNDS OF HELL…

In the midst of my prayers for deliverance, and more-so for one of Mom’s Pall-Mall cigarettes, suddenly (as the saying goes), ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE!

The car stopped dead! Walruspuss froze! (And was most likely peeing on the driver’s seat), as the headlights of an oncoming car were headed directly for us.

Silence fell! The ladies clenched! I reached for mom’s purse to find the cigarettes! At the same time, Auntie Passenger-up-front let out a little scream and covered her face, Grizzly grabbed my head and pulled it deeply into her moth-balled fur, and Mom braced both arms against the back of the seat in front of her as the Pall Mall cigarette dangled from her lips.

Blinded by fake fur, I heard the blare of a horn as a car passed us on the passenger side.

Suddenly broken, the silence was followed by a hard jerk and the feel the G-forces. Her driving skills now piqued by panic and near-death experience: Walruspuss stomped the accelerator, pulled the tiller hard to starboard, and quicker than we could process it, the car leapt forward crossed the highway —

ONE LANE -TWO LANES — then—NO MORE LANES — and over we went!

Out of the death lane and into the pit

With the dreadful sound of scrunching metal and snapping twigs, the car tipped over onto its side in a snow-laden ditch, and slid to an abrupt, but gentle stop.

Silence reigned for one-two-three seconds, and then the flailing began! Arms and legs were everywhere as the ladies struggled to bring themselves into some form of an upright position. Of course my body was crushed against the rear passenger door by a giant Grizzly ass that weighed so much that I was barely able to breathe.

Fortunately, we found ourselves at the intersection of Skyline Drive and route 36, directly in front of Smithmeyer’s Restaurant. The last one-hundred yards of acceleration delivered us directly into a ditch just deep enough for Auntie Walruspuss to park her car in, sideways.

I had no idea what was happening, pinned as I was by that big furry ass. Does grizzly bear ass actually smell like mothballs?

The 57 Ford Fairlane, Seatbelts Optional…

Restaurant patrons who’d watched Walruspuss park the car came running to help. A rush of cold air flooded the car from above and the huge, furry, mothball smelling bottom began to levitate off of me.

Whatever lifted it, the force was strong with that one. As I watched, giant white panties beneath a cloud of nylon hose, followed by chubby orthopedic shoes were pulled by unseen forces toward the cold, gray sky above. Before I knew it, both Mom and the Grizzly exited the car as my grateful, burning lungs, sucked in the cool fresh air.

Before I could get to my feet, however; both doors mercilessly slammed shut, leaving me to devise my own escape. My sweated body began to chill as the now dead car was drained of life. Left to die alone, it was a simple task to get to my feet and reach the door handle. As I stretched my hand toward it, the door opened before my outstretched arm could reach it. Apparently the force was strong with me, too!

Then, over the edge of the opened door, a head appeared. It was a bearded man with a munchkin-like head stuffed into a plaid hat with furry ear flaps, “Don’t worry Nell, I’ll rescue you!” The image of Sergeant Preston of the Mounties came to mind. He reached in and grabbed my wrists.

“So, there you are!” he said. “Yer mother said she might’ve forgot somethin’!”

After having hoisted the Walrus and the others, extracting me was as easy as an umbrella. He lifted me above his head and set me gently down next to the highway where my shoes, once again, immediately filled with snow.

Escorting me into the restaurant, Sergeant Preston delivered me to Mom who immediately began readjusting my clothing. People began to questioning whether they found me under the car, or somewhere else in the ditch.

We were treated to coffee and donuts, and after a brief wait, a more comfortably airconditioned car arrived and carried Mom and me the last few miles to the funeral home. The Walrus, the Grizzly, and the Passenger-up-front, made their own arrangements.

Grandpa Ben looked waxy and swollen, nearly unrecognizable, in fact. There were smudges and smears of cosmetics, and I think they even put lipstick on him. Then, too, it was the first time I’d ever seen him clean-shaven and without brown drool on his chin, so maybe he was perfectly normal. Still, I remained remorseless. “Goodbye,” was all I could think, being at a loss for never having truly known him.

Rather than mourning his passing, even at that age, I rather reflected on what it must have been like for him to sit in that chair day after day all those years — just chewing tobacco, grunting for food, unable to walk or even wipe his own butt. That, to be completely honest, made me more sad to think of than his death.

The fog burned off and the graveside service was conducted under a hazy, gray sky. The silent sun hung behind the wax paper sky like a specter whose outline was barely discernible, which allowed the cold to remain.

Presumably, all funerals are somber occasions, but at this one, I found myself rejoicing all the more when it was over. Thankful to still be among the living, and even more thankful that the number of grandparents I had were limited to these few.

As the others stood chatting, I swiped one of Mom’s Pall Mall smokes and slipped away to mourn my wasted youth. Being the youngest of the family also means being the one who knows the least about anyone that came before you. At that age, the only one I really knew was me.

Lessons learned: To attend any more funerals after this one, especially should three fat old ladies offer me a ride, I will respectfully decline, and either walk, or call an Uber!

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