I never met my grandfather, but my dad worshiped him. His mother, my grandma, was an angry, abusive woman, but my grandfather was a sweet and funny man by all accounts. I only know a few stories about him. He had a horse named Mike. He loved that horse and the horse loved him back; they had a bond. When grandpa left for the Spanish-American war, no-one could touch Mike. For two years, he bucked off anyone who tried to ride him. When grandpa came back from the war the first thing he did was to walk out to the field and whistle for Mike. Mike came running. It was like grandpa never left.
Grandpa was a machinist by trade. He usually worked in the cotton mill that was right down the hill. During the Depression when there was no work at the mill, he tried farming for a year. He leased some land and brought in a cotton crop. My dad remembered riding to the gin with a load of cotton. When granpa pulled the wagon up, the gin foreman turned him away. Said no-one was buying cotton because the price was too low. It made a huge impression on my dad; he told that story many times.
My grandpa raised the best hound dogs in Calhoun County. The best of the best was a dog named Buck, a legendary coon hound. Grandpa used to take rich fellers out hunting sometimes, I guess kind of like a guide. One time a rich Yankee offered him $100 for Buck. $100 was a huge amount of money in the middle of the Depression, especially for a man with seven kids to feed, but grandpa turned him down. When grandma found out, she almost lost her mind. Not long after, Buck got bit by a snake and died.
My dad joined the Navy in 1944 and shipped out to the South Pacific from Treasure Island. After dad left, grandpa caught pneumonia and was hospitalized. He died because some nurse failed to turn him when she was supposed to. He choked to death on his own fluids. My dad's sister Idelle managed to get word to the ship; I guess she sent a telegram. The message came to the captain who called dad in and broke the news. Grandpa was 57 years old, my dad was 17.
My father always said that he would die at age 57 because that's what happened to his father. He told me that often when I was growing up. My dad was a superstitious soul, and he had a strong feeling about that number. As it turns out, he did not die when he was 57, he died when he was 77. But, when he was 57. he had a major health crisis. He was suffering from horrible pain in his feet and had other symptoms that were tell-tale signs of diabetes. It should have been an easy diagnosis, but the quack doctor that he and my mother patronized in Centralia didn't even bother testing him for diabetes. My dad was on the point of having part of his foot amputated before this idiot doctor finally figured out that, duh, maybe he should check my dad's blood sugar. He had to go on insulin immediately and spent the last 20 years of his life in terrible health. His only concessions to his disease were insulin shots and Sweet 'n Low. He didn't exercise, he didn't change his diet, he kept sneaking his cigarettes and, as a result, he suffered terribly. The diabetes spawned heart disease and other debilitating problems. He was in pain, depressed and basically gave up. He became completely dependent on my mom, and she did everything for him: monitored his blood sugar, gave him his shots, took him to the doctor, fixed his meals, sat up with when he had neuropathy pain, jollied him out of his depressions. She even drew his baths and washed his back. She was his 24/7 caregiver. It wore her down.
I turn 57 next month and I have no intention of dying. I know full well that shit happens and a lot of it is out of our control. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, I could receive some terrifying diagnosis. But I'll tell you this much: I ain't going down without a fight. Fuck you 57.
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