A Face Full of Grandpa.

Don't let the title make you run for the hills. It wasn't THAT kind of face full. Though it was almost equally disgusting. But we will get there. Right now, just listen. 

    When I was 16, my grandpa passed away. Well, he wasn't my grandfather by blood. My folks adopted him in their own way. He lived above the pharmacy where my parents worked. To call that place a dump would be an understatement. You know those stories you hear about roaches the size of a finger? Those were the kind of roaches crawling around his place and through no fault of his own. The place was just trashy and not well-kempt by management. So, upon seeing his living conditions, they let him move in with us when I was about four years old. And for 12 great years, this man helped raise me and my sister. 

    Let me tell you a few things about Grandpa. My parents weren't around a lot, so we were left in his care a lot of the time. We were closer to him than his own kids were. The man was maybe five feet tall on a good day. A WW2 veteran, he was drafted when he was sixteen and stationed in Alaska as a medic. He told me a story once; about how his commanding officer had a headache. Not knowing an aspirin from his own ass, Grandpa brought said officer a suppository for aforementioned pain in the cranium. Everyone in his unit got a kick from that, apparently. Divorced twice, his second wife applied Nair to his head while he slept off a drunken bender. The hair never grew back. 

    The man loved baseball, professional wrestling, and coffee. The only person I have ever seen drink blazing hot coffee through a straw. He smoked these tiny and cheap cigars called In Between the Acts. They tasted like sugar. He was also a collector of cacti. All kinds of cacti. In his later years, I had to drag a couple dozen cacti in and out of the house almost every day because he was getting too frail to do so. I can't begin to properly complain or explain the pains those things caused. I think I still have a cactus needle or two in my ass cheek. Most of all though, he was genuinely kind but a witty spitfire. He'd often tell me, "If you had a brain, you would be dangerous." Oh, Grandpa, if you only knew. 

    After taking a fall down the steps, he was never the same. I guess that goes for a lot of people, though. You often hear of how an elderly person change after an injury. Dementia was setting in and he would have these fits of rage. Raging against the dying of the light, I suppose. One night in particular, he was flying off the handle something fierce before taking another tumble. Broken and bruised, he fought my dad, my cousin, and the paramedics every step of the way as they took him to the VA hospital. That is where he remained for the next couple months, which were his last months. What makes me sad the most, looking back, was never getting to go visit him. 

    Needless to say, when he died, I was devastated. I was especially angry with the way I found out. After having a rather strange day at school, (maybe a story for another time), my dad called me up to his room. He's usually the type to yell for you from across the house. This time, though, he came to my door and asked me to come up. I should have known right there that the old man had passed away, but I was admittedly high and not in my right mind. When my dad broke the news, the only thing I remember is walking away and going back to my room. The rest of the night was a blurry haze of smoke and liquor. I was so upset without a way to express it. I stayed in that haze as long as I could. And honestly, some days I revisit that place.  

    Fast forward two years later. 

    I'm out of high school and have my first job as an adult; a night janitor at a local club. A gig I got through my dad. Something to get me out of the house and contribute. Also, I had continued my downward spiral that started with Grandpa's death. I had taken more illicit substances than any 18ish year old should. I had some rougher influences at the time and I just wanted to keep up with the big dogs. Looking back, probably not the best idea. I also lost contact with someone I felt close to, but that is also a story for another time, much further down the road. If we even reach that destination. 

    Grandpa had been cremated and set on the mantle. Kind of watching over the family in a morbid way. He had initially wanted to donate his body to science, but alas, that is not what happened. I guess the morgue was full of donated bodies that day. Having seen me gradually get worse mentally and emotionally, my father and uncle thought it would be in Grandpa's wishes to have his ashes spread over some cacti in Arizona. A road trip. So, pulling some strings, my dad got me a week off of work so I could take this journey and find closure with the pile of ashes that used to be Grandpa.  

    So my uncle and I hit the road, desert skies on our minds. 

    It was a simple, bland journey. This was not a trip for fun. Along the way, we visited my aunt in Colorado. An uneventful visit but a needed one. Then it was just a straight shot toward Arizona.  Somewhere between Phoenix and Tucson, we pulled off the interstate and went down a winding gravel road for several miles. Once we knew we were out in the middle of nowhere, we parked and climbed a sizable hill toward the most regal cactus I had ever seen. It had four arms and had to be fifteen feet tall. A small hole was burrowed into the side, toward the top. I suspect it was a bird’s nest of sorts.  

    My uncle lit a joint and I recounted some tales of Grandpa's life. A few I mentioned above. As the ember went out on our little left-handed cigarette, I reached into the box where Grandpa's ashes resided. Taking a handful, I tossed some around the base of the cactus. Then threw some up around the arms and the nest. That was my mistake. As I threw the last handful of Grandpa into the air, a wild wind pushed up the hill. And directed the last of his ashes into my face. My eyes, my mouth, my nose. I had a face full of Grandpa. At first, I was disgusted, laughing, but disgusted. Was this his final form of discipline on me? Was this Karma? Or was this just bad timing? It took me some years to think that over. Some Aborigines of Australia cover their self with the ashes of the dead. Maybe it was nature's way of forcing me to recognize my ancestors. I try not to think about it too much.  

    The rest of the trip was equally uneventful. After staying the night in Phoenix, we went to Vegas. Which was some bullshit. I was too young to gamble and far too afraid of sex workers to even think about acting on those impulses. We stayed there two nights. The last night we were there, an undercover cop tried to sell us weed outside of the Luxor. Could tell he was a cop by his shoes. Shiny, department issued probably. He was too clean cut. The rest of his outfit said "Broke drug dealer" but his shoes said "I am a cop. And possession in Nevada is 10 years." 

    We drove straight home the next day. 25 hours from Vegas to Omaha. Passing through Salt Lake, up through Wyoming and I-80 the rest of the way. A blizzard descended on Omaha the following day. So.. Just in time.      

    Moral of the story: Watch for the Wind.