Junior, Vol. 2

As you might imagine, I've felt a nagging and persistent guilt since posting Vol.1 last week. The basic track of this guilt critiques Vol.1 and its author for the heartlessness and bad taste inherent in speaking ill of the dead. "Come on", the conscience says, "Surely you can think something nice about the man...he was your grandfather, after all." At a time like this, we should concentrate on the good memories (and there have to be good ones), and on forgiving the real or perceived injuries from the past. Right? Plus, since I'm blogging about this, I thought coming back with a sort of "oh...I forgot about the time that....and it makes everything ok" would make a really effective and impressive literary turn. Surely I could come up with something, if only for the literary effect.

Hmm...OK, I'll play along.

We had Junior's funeral this weekend at the farm. In typical...weird...Isbell family fashion, it was a funeral without a body (Had I not watched the man die, I would be screaming conspiracy!). Junior insisted that he be cremated, and that his ashes be spread over his family's old farm in Albany. The ashes weren't ready, but we had the 'funeral' anyway. This I found terribly ridiculous; on the other hand, it would have really irked Junior that he missed his own funeral (plus, the preacher kept referring to him as 'Pops' instead of 'Pop', which would have really set him off), so I kept my objections to myself in favor of the silver lining. At one point in the 'service', the pastor asked if anyone wanted to share some memories. Much to my surprise, several people did have some positive memories to share: My own father talked about how his father made him help with car repairs, how Junior always asked him about reading the Bible, and how those learning experiences were invaluable in years to come. Fair enough. All the aunts contributed written memories, and several cousins and spouses shared some sentiments about: how Junior kept the family together (a 62-year marriage is impressive in any generation), how he always was ready with good advice, how some of them enjoyed his 'softer side' with his great grandchidlren over the last several years, how his legacy was one of the stalwart. Fine. If you say so.

I remained silent. I couldn't very well tell the crowd about my Vol1 blog, or summarize the contents. So I just listened. And what I heard surprised me a little: Many in the family owned, rationalized, or fabricated positive memories of Junior. Or perhaps their manners are just better than mine.

For my part, I've spent the last several days scouring the archives of my history with Junior, searching for some moments I could tap to mitigate the angst from Vol.1, and to reach a kind of peace with the man.

My best memory with Junior? The list is not crowded at the top, but a few finalists did emerge. Each, however, came with the inevitable Junior sucker punch.

Honorable Mention: In my twenties, Junior had several open heart surgeries; it happens sometimes after smoking for sixty-odd years. During one hospital stay, I volunteered to spend nights with him in the hospital. On the third night/morning, somewhere around 2:00 or 3:00, a new nurse came to the room to administer medicine. When I asked this nurse, as I did all of them, what he was giving my grandfather, it became clear that he was unsure. Since Junior had nearly died during a previous hospital stay as the result of incorrect medication (it was why the family insisted that someone stay with him at all times), I pressed the nurse for clarification, which made him defensive and dismissive. I "invited" the nurse into the hall for a conversation in which I "shared the love of the Lord" with persuasive articulation. We ultimately woke Junior's doctor at home for verification, and determined that, in fact, the medication and dosage the nurse had intended to give were incorrect. When the correct medicine was finally administered, and the nurse skulked away in chagrin, Junior cursed me for more than an hour because I had been so loud during the hallway altercation with the nurse that it kept him awake.

Second runner-up: For twenty years, Junior was truly a big deal in the honey bee world. He had bees everywhere - from his backyard in Odessa, to hives all over our farm, to Lake Brownwood, etc. He collected and bottled the honey right from the hives, and it was delicious. To this day, I can barely eat "store-bought" honey, after all those years of an abundant supply of the "real" thing. It's like settling for J&B after years of an unlimited Glenfiddich supply. I used to love to help Junior harvest the honey from the hives, and sometimes he'd cut a section of honeycomb for me to eat. Junior, however, always ended up wanting to use the bees to teach me to be tough. Invariably, he'd get irritated that I couldn't hold the hive open, or keep a firm hand on the comb, or hold the jar or bag open wide enough while wearing the thick, oversized beekeeper's gloves. Invariably, he'd curse me and call me a sissy, until finally yanking the gloves off my hands. As the bees began stinging me and I began crying, he'd reiterate that I was a sissy, and insist that I had to get tough if I was going to make it. I'd spend the rest of the day with tweezers, plucking stingers out of my swollen hands. He'd spend the rest of the day chuckling at me. In my first memory of this scene, I'm six. You'd think I'd have just quit going to the hives with him, but in those days I still cared what Junior thought, so I reenacted this scene with him for years; it was not unlike Bart Simpson's "Ow..quit it" sketches.

First runner-up: I remember that for many years, Junior kept a travel trailer on an RV lot at Lake Brownwood. In the summers, we often spent weekends there - fishing in the lake, swimming at the pool, exploring in the woods. Those were good times, and I can still recall the excitement of going to the lake, catching what my memory tells me were big fish with my dad, and the smell of the bacon and biscuits my grandmother always made for breakfast. One visit stands out vividly from the rest: Junior was moving rocks, and I got the bright idea to help. He was digging rocks from around and under the trailer and putting them in a wheel barrow so he could use them to line his walkway and make a border for his garden. I watched as Junior (as tall then as I am now) strained to reach under the low clearance of the trailer to pull out the rocks. It wasn't going well, and he finally stormed, cursing, inside for a cold Budweiser. I was sure I'd impress him this time as I pretended not to be afraid of the rattlesnakes and copperheads that were abundant in those parts, and slid head first under the trailer to drag out rock after rock. While he was inside, I made a huge pile of rocks next to the wheel barrow; the farther under the trailer I dared without wetting myself for fear of snakes, and the larger the pile grew, the more certain I became that Junior would be proud. The thought gave me so much courage that when I did see a snake - it was a grass snake, but at the time I was sure it was a rattlesnake/anaconda hybrid - I kept going anyway. When he came out of the trailer, I was loading rocks from my pile into the wheel barrow. Junior stared for a minute before launching into a cursing tirade about how stupid it was to make a pile of rocks first and then load them into the wheel barrow: Why had I not put them in it in the first place? Why did I always do things the hard way? Why did I always have my head up my a#$? I could still hear him cursing after me as I ran crying into the woods near his lot. When I came back several hours later for supper, Junior provided the dinner entertainment: another rendition of his "don't be a sissy" lecture. Oh...I was nine.

And the winner is...: By the time I met and married Sara, I'd long since cut any emotional ties I once had - or tried to have - with Junior. I would shake his hand on my infrequent appearances at family gatherings, and sit and watch football with him until he started getting ugly. Then I'd just leave. But once, a few years ago, he did tell me...in his way... sort of...that he was proud of me. It was at the farm, shortly after I'd been promoted to principal. Tucker was almost three and Elizabeth almost one. After spending the day watching me be a father, and listening to me talk about my work in Oak Cliff, Junior actually asked me to drive him out to look at the cows. Existentially, it was a big moment. At the barn, as I poured cow cubes into a bucket small enough for him to carry, Junior offered what passed for his 'blessing': "James, you're finally becoming the grandson I always hoped you'd be." I laughed and replied, "Well thanks, Pop. I'm glad you...." As I tried to thank him, a few cubes I was pouring from bag to bucket fell to the ground. Junior interrupted, "Goddammit! You're wasting the cubes! Why don't you pay attention to what you're doing?"

As awful as it sounds...as derisive as he was even in what passed for a compliment, and as stubborn as he was in his terminal undermining of the best any of us could ever do...this was, without a doubt, the best thing Junior ever said to me.

As you might imagine, I did not share my best (or any) memory of Junior at the funeral. Instead, I held my daughter as she reluctantly surrendered the spotlight for a few moments, did my best to placate my son as he asked repeatedly, "Daddy, when will this be over?", and smiled a wry and caustic smile at the thought that, no matter what mistakes I might make, my children and grandchildren will never know the sting of comprehensive rejection that is Junior's ultimate legacy.