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I’d never met the drunk old man who sat in front of me that morning. I’d only known the sweet, sober guy who played his guitar while I danced, who tied the hook on the end of my line, who helped me with my science fair projects. I didn’t recognize the man who pleaded to stay and drink.
I sat down next to him.
“John, let’s go sleep this off,” my dad told him.
“I’m not a child. You can’t just tell me to go sleep this off,” he said, his eyes wide with determination.
“Come on, gramps, let’s go,” I said.
“I’m your grandpa, you’re not mine,” he growled.
The shots of vodka came around again, and he took one. He fought us. He yelled. He snatched the bottle of Whiskey each time it circled and took a swig. We tried to reason with him, but you can’t reason with a man in relapse. Eventually he got drunk enough to let go of the fight. He folded in front of us, his will too weak to keep going. We pulled him off his chair.
Then we practically carried him out of the breakfast barn and put him to bed. “Just sleep it off, John,” my dad told him. But, moments later, my grandfather and his glazed eyes were back in the barn, back at the table with the day traders. He’d returned for another round.
Grandpa had one more drink, a drink to prove he didn’t need to be coddled by younger men and be put to bed by his grandchildren. I watched him drink it slowly. His lips pursed around the edge of the can and his upper lip vacuumed every last drop of liquid from the aluminum lip. Each swallow seemed practiced and savored. It took him extra time to drink that beer. He knew it would be his last on the trip.
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Shortly after returning from Alaska, grandma died. It was hard on all of us. It was hardest on grandpa. They’d struggled during his drinking days, but they’d made it through. They’d become true partners in their later years. He’d mostly stopped drinking for her.
As grandma was losing her mind to dementia in the last few months of her life, grandpa stuck near her side. But it was booze that gave him his strength. Grandma held her doll in the bedroom. Grandpa held his Coors in the garage. He took care of her needs, and the booze took care of his. It softened the world in which his wife was loosing her sanity.
When she died, there was no reason for grandpa to pretend to be sober anymore. He busted out—a rebellious teenager in the wrinkled skin of an 83-year-old man. He didn’t answer the phone much, and when he showed up at parties, his breath smelled of beer.
He found a senior center where he could dance and hang out with other widowers and widows, mostly widows. He clanged with the band at the evening dance socials. He left family birthdays to go on dates with ladies from the center. It scared the shit out of everyone when he drove out of the driveway. His driving sucked when he was sober, and now we all knew that his coffee mug wasn’t filled with coffee. (I followed him out of a party once during those two years. He drove straight into oncoming traffic before realizing he was going the wrong way. He nearly causes a momentous pile up.)
The family was divided about what to do. Most of us felt that grandpa should live it up if he wanted to. Others felt that we should watch him every moment of the day. But there was no watching over grandpa. He did what he wanted to do.
Every time he went out he wore a blue and white plaid jacket. My grandma had loved it, thought it looked spiffy on him. The tips of the large collar hung so low he could have tucked them into his high-riding belt. He slicked back the thin patch of hairs with cream, combed his dark mustache, and walked out the door resembling the Chicano zoot suiters of the early 20th century.
In the spring of 2003, I told my grandpa that I’d asked Mary to marry me, and that we planned to marry in September of the following year.
“I won’t live that long,” he told me.
“Sure you will,” I replied.
“I’ll be dead by then,” he said again, calmly, as if he was making dinner reservations.
“Grandpa, don’t say those things.”
In July of 2004, my grandfather died at the senior center. Mary and I were in Kansas. I’d left my phone in the car, and when I pulled it from underneath the seat, I saw that my mom and dad had called twenty or so times. I called them back, and, with each ring, I knew grandpa had died. With each pause between rings, I heard him say that he wouldn’t live to make it to my wedding. When my dad picked up, he told me what I already knew. Grandpa had died the night before. His heart had given out. He was not sober.
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Photos courtesy of author
Thank you, both.
When alcohol wasn’t in his blood, you wouldn’t have met a kinder man.
Kase
I truly enjoyed reading your story. How special it was that your grandfather cared for your grandmother during her last days on earth. What a fitting payment for the years of forgiveness and love she gave to him during his struggle with Alcoholism. Thank you for sharing your story. It is very special.
Good story. He was tired and needed to rest. God rest his soul.