Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Free Plastic

This afternoon, Jackson was driving and I was the passenger in the big red penis, coming back from Sandusky, which is the setting of the Chris Farley, smash-hit comedy Tommy Boy; and I saw a sign in the front yard of someone's house. The sign was red-lettered on a white background, not lettered by human hand, but by machine. It announced, FREE PLASTIC.

I know that if my grandfather were alive, he would be right there, getting as much free plastic as he could pack into his white 1972 Pontiac Ventura. Of course, my grandmother drove because she never trusted him behind the wheel, except I think that he just liked being chauffeured around; so, he continued the deception that he was a terrible driver for many years until his death.

Not that my grandfather would have anything in mind for the free plastic. It was the fact that it was free which was the reason for getting the stuff. If toilet paper was on sale, he'd get toilet paper in mass quantities even though he was stocked up for the next century. He'd just pile it on top of the plastic he got for free.

And you would think that he'd be out bright and early for garage sales on Thursday mornings, but you'd be wrong. You see, there was a difference between stuff you could get on sale or free on the one hand and "udder pipple'z kaa-ropp" on the other.

Strange what a stupid sign advertising plastic free for the taking can lead someone to think about. He'd be out in his back yard when I got there, on the paint-stained stepladder, in a white, ribbed tank top against browned skin, dark brown trousers hitched up by leather suspenders, reaching up high, picking peaches, speckled bald pate glistening in the late afternoon sun. He rarely wore a hat. Maybe that's an inherited trait, like the baldness. And maybe not hiding the bald head was inherited, too. And he was strong, even as he reached his 80th birthday, grafting the Delicious apple branch onto the McIntosh tree.

He lay in bed, the body that had been through so much, beating "the" cancer when that was a death sentence, surviving exploding ingots showering molten steel over him at the mill, beating back killers out to break the union on a solidarity march from the mill to Public Square, was failing. He fought, 82 years old, covered with fever blisters, refusing to go with "them," staring with cornflower blue eyes and gasping to his grandson, who hovered over the old man, stroking his grandfather's bespeckled head, "Billy, I'm tired. They want me to come with them, but I'm not ready."

He recovered to be less mobile around the house, unable to get up and down ladders, but able to make an impression upon his first great grandchild, who would end up in his "grandpa's" lap with every visit.

The deterioration was inevitable and steady, until, at age 86, he lay in a hospital bed, eyes blankly looking into space, not speaking, sinking, finally ready to go with "them" on his final journey. And his great grandson, three years old, holding his father's hand, mature well beyond his three years, wanting to say goodbye to his playmate and friend, asked his father to pick him up so that he could see his life-long friend.

"Grandpa, you have blue eyes, just like mine," the little blonde boy pointed out.

His great grandfather turned his face toward the little one and smiled, eyes sparkling. He went with "them" later that night.

Posted by Bill at September 9, 2004 07:57 PM