Just Another Old Man

Most youth experience a disconnection with the elderly, even their own grandparents, but disconnection does not determine the strength of love and family.

“You know, this should be considered homicide."

“For God's sake, enough, Sam. You’ve been complaining ever since we got in the car, and that’s been over ten hours ago. It’s Christmas, OK? We haven’t seen your grandfather in three years. With him being sick like he is…it’s just important we do this. Besides, it wouldn’t kill you to spend some time with him. He’s a very interesting man.”

            “The last time we went to visit Gramps, he spent three and half hours talking about ‘the good old days,’ and telling me stupid stories about the war,” I said flatly. “That’s all he talks about!”

            “Oh, he was just making conversation with you,” my mother said in exasperation. “And he likes talking about ‘the good old days’ and telling you stories. If you’d actually listen to what he has to say, you might learn a thing or two.”

            “Yeah, maybe how to address a superior officer,” I muttered, and slouched down in my seat.

            “Sam, don’t be ridiculous,” she scowled, sharply turning into Gramps’s driveway. “Now, I appreciate your testimony, but you’re not getting out of this, so do us both a favor and just get out of the car.”

            I narrowed my eyes. “You’re so mean.”

            “Don’t forget to grab the potatoes.”

            I grumbled and followed her, covered dish in hands, to the front door. This was proof that my mother had it in for me. She took after her old man, of course, because Gramps was just like her, just a little more intimidating. I loved my mom, don’t get me wrong, but Gramps was…well, Gramps was different.

            My grandfather was a World War II veteran, and Mom was right: he was an interesting old man. He watched TV on mute, ate every meal with plastic utensils, woke up at the crack of dawn every morning to watch the sun come up, and refused to call me by my nickname ‘Sam.’ It was always ‘Samuel.’ I was biologically programmed to love Gramps, but we were from two very different worlds. He didn’t have any idea what to talk to me about or how to talk to me. I hadn’t seen him in three years, and truthfully I had barely noticed. No one had really made an effort to get together until now, but that wasn’t too much of a disappointment. Honestly, I didn’t particularly want to see him. In my defense, he didn’t particularly want to see me either.

            But alas, a phone call from Gramps had chipped the thick ice between us. Somehow, a few weeks ago, he’d gotten sick. Cancer sick. Gramps was a dogged old man, which gave me reasonable doubt that the cancer would get the best of him. Mom, however, seemed to think otherwise.

            “Relax, would you,” Mom told me, and nudged my shoulder with hers. She knocked on the door and we waited. “He’s family.”

            Family.

“Yeah, I know. Right, it's just...it's just been a while, you know?”

"Yeah," she said quietly, and cleared her throat. It was hard to believe that she was as nervous as I was. 

The front door of Gramps’s one-story blue country house creaked open on its hinges and there stood Gramps, stooped awkwardly over a wooden cane. I was appalled; last time I’d seen Gramps, he’d been as fit as a fiddle. Now he looked weathered and worn, as though he might fall apart and crumble at any  given moment.

“Hey, Daddy,” Mom said. She rose on her toes and pecked the old man on the cheek.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Gramps said, and hugged her tightly, as if she was going to slip away from him and leave for another three years. Then he reached over and shook my hand firmly. I cringed as his aged and calloused skin pressed against mine, but kept my mouth shut. Gross. “Samuel.”

Here we go.

“Hey, Gramps,” I replied, and followed Mom inside the old home. Everything seemed orderly. The walls had been painted recently, the furniture had been cleaned, and the carpets had been steamed. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

“How are you feeling,” Mom asked the golden question.

He smiled and said, “I’m fine.”

It was a premeditated answer, I sensed. The foreign look in his eyes told me so; the look of confidence was gone and replaced with a weary, broken look that I’d never known him to wear.

Cancer.

I’d never even asked how bad it was. Looking into his eyes, I began to understand.

Mom and Gramps talked a lot while preparing Christmas dinner. I didn’t say a whole lot. I mostly just listened. They talked about politics, the local news, Mom’s work, my school, and Gramps’s hobbies. Not once was the subject of Gramps’s condition brought up, but it was the elephant in the room.

“Out of the kitchen, boys,” Mom said, shooing both Gramps and me out of the room when conversation ran dry. “Woman’s gotta work.”

            I shot her a dirty look and she made a face that just screamed ‘I dare you to argue with me.’ I put my hands up in a surrendering motion and followed Gramps into the living room, then proceeded to lean awkwardly against a wall while my ailing grandfather slouched down in a leather chair. Several minutes of silence ticked by before I finally figured out something worth saying.

            “So, uh, how’re you feeling Gramps?”

            “Oh, fine.”

            “No. I mean…how are you feeling?”

            He was quiet, but held a tired smile. Then he hesitated before saying, “Well, your mother told you, I suppose.”

            “Hard to keep something like that to yourself, Gramps.”

            “I know,” he responded, and leaned his cane against the wall. He looked into the kitchen and dropped his voice. “Well, if she told you, then you know I’m not in too good of shape right now.”

  “I know,” I nodded. “But are you gonna…you know….”

He quieted and sighed deeply. “You know, Samuel, back in the war, I did a lot of fighting. Too much, in my opinion, and I’m sick and tired of it. I’m content with raising the white flag.”

“So, what you’re saying is…you’re giving up?”

He grinned. “There’s never giving up, Samuel. There is just knowing when the war is over. I’ve known for a while now.”

I looked into the kitchen at my mother, who was working tirelessly in the kitchen. “Does Mom?”

“Why do you think you both are here? She’s known. She’s always known.”

  I swallowed, suddenly feeling very small.

“This is going to be my last Christmas, Samuel,” he said quietly. “I accept that. I won’t fight it. I’m ready to go. I need you and your mother to spend it with me.”

I closed my eyes. “Gramps, I’m sorry.”

“No," he said, his voice firm, and he shook his head, "There’s no ‘sorry.’ Now, I know we’re not as close as I would prefer, and I’m truly sorry for that-”

“No, Gramps,” I said, shaking my head, “There’s no ‘sorry.’”

I thought about what he'd said. This would be his last Christmas with us. No more war stories…no more ‘good old days.’ I’d never cared about any of that until now, because I was on the verge of losing it. I’d been so shallow and superficial with my grandfather, who had never been shallow with anyone.

There is just knowing when the war is over.

“OK, boys,” Mom called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!”

I looked at Gramps and he looked at me, and reality came back to both of us.

This is going to be my last Christmas, Samuel.

I got up and handed Gramps his cane, then helped him onto his feet.

“So, Gramps. Tell me another war story, would you?”

Reviews

[SonOfPlunder]

Nicely put together, be interested to see if there is more where this came from

[Kay]

Thank you, I appreciate it! I'm glad I've managed to grab some interest!:)

[SonOfPlunder]

No problem, really enjoyed reading it