My grandfather, Milo Peck, was an Egremont legend—a man of integrity, character, and wit; a World War II veteran, a farmer, a construction business owner, an outdoorsman, an avid gardener and hunter.
I often think about my grandfather, especially this time of year. It not only marks his birthday (October 2, 1919), but also the day he died (October 6, 1994). Twenty-three years later, I recall that day with great clarity. It was one of the most profound moments in my life.
I was working at the Windflower Inn when I received the call from my mom. “Grandpa’s in the hospital again. He’s had another bleeder. You might want to come up to Fairview and see him,” she intoned.
My grandfather was a big burly man, usually clad in his ubiquitous white overalls and chamois shirts, smelling of fermentation, tobacco, sweat, and earth. He had the swagger of Redd Foxx, the rustic ruggedness of John Wayne, and a low gravelly drawl like Johnny Cash. I was used to seeing him that way, not as the tired figure I now saw in a flimsy hospital gown lying on the gurney bed hooked up like a giant puppet to various tubes and wires connected to machines that flashed and beeped.
He turned his head toward me when I came in, his eyes dilated and deep red where the whites had been. He gave a half-smile to my “Hi, Grandpa” salutation, as my mom’s eyes met mine before she exited the room, leaving us alone.
I went to his bedside and held his hand. It seemed natural at the time, but it immediately occurred to me I’d never done this before, save for the time he took my hands in his when teaching me how to fish at Prospect Lake with a branch, a string, and a hook. His palm was like an old baseball mitt—rough, callous, seasoned from decades of work on the farm, in the fields, and digging dirt.
“How do you feel?” I asked, breaking the awkward silence. “Miserable,” he gurgled with a slight smirk, as if amused by either my obtuse question or his painfully wry reply. His words were muddled since he didn’t have his teeth in. “I can’t work,” he grumbled, “I can’t…”
There was a stark heaviness to his strained words, so I tried to comfort him, telling him to “Get some rest. You’ve worked your whole life.” He gave another slight smile, gazed upon me for a moment lost in thought, then turned his head and closed his eyes.
I tapped the top of his hand, not realizing these would be the last words we’d speak to each other.
The next day, with a strange feeling of urgency, I hurried through my tasks at work and returned to Fairview Hospital, where I met my aunts, Shirley and Loretta, and my Uncle Paul. We took turns tending to Grandpa, who bellowed a rhythmic snore that seemed to rouse his whole body, his cheeks and lips flapping with each great gusts of air he draw in and out.
Throughout the afternoon, we watched over him, never leaving him alone until around 5:30pm. Paul and I were briefly chatting in between our shifts when a nurse interrupted our conversation to announce, “He’s going.” The four of us stood there, not fully processing her words, until it collectively hit us at once. We rushed into his room.
He lay there, still and peaceful. My Aunt Loretta, a former nurse, touched him and declared, “He’s gone.” My Aunt Shirley uttered a forlorn “Oh, no,” while Paul comforted her.
I took my Grandfather’s hand again. I’d never been with someone at the moment of death before. As I stood motionless in a state of incredulity, something strange happened. I watched intently as a pale wave of light began slowly moving up his arm, to his shoulder, traveling up his face and out the top of his head.
Suddenly, as I held on, I perceived a pull, not a physical tug, but an ethereal draw on the very fiber of my being. I felt my own life essence shift from me as if fused by some unseen energy force. Frightened by the sensation, I let go my grip and watched my grandfather’s lifeless hand drop on the bed.
I consider myself to be a rational, learned, pragmatic person, but I cannot put this experience into proper words. I’ve chalked it up to being overwhelmed by the intense magnitude of the event, but I know something changed in me from that point on. I emerged from this event a different person.
In the days that followed, I helped carry his casket at the South Egremont Congregational Church and the Egremont Cemetery, I composed a short eulogy for his service, and I collected dirt from Grandpa’s Hill, Green River, and Mt. Washington—three places where I feel his spirit resides—to consecrate his coffin before it was lowered in the ground.
I visit his grave a few times a year, to mark his birthday or to commemorate the Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day observances. Still, I don’t need to see his stone to feel his presence.
There is no fully getting over a loved one’s death. We only learn how to travel alongside it as we carry on living. The parting gift my grandfather gave me in his final moment was the realization that when someone we love dies, though a part of us dies with that person, a part of that person is born within us at the same time.
My grandfather has remained with me since that day, along with an acknowledgement of the soul, a stronger belief in the human spirit, and further faith that love, which transcends death, can drive out any burden of darkness that threatens to consume our well being.
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