June 12, 1984. It was a warm, sunny day in Lebanon, Missouri, with a relatively cool low temperature of 66 and a somewhat toasty high of 85. Our family (Dad, Mom, brother, our collie Jody) and I had just moved from Joplin, and we were settling into yet another fixer-upper my father stumbled across while driving through the countryside in southwest Missouri.
That day started like any other summer day for us. Dan and I slept in and were planning to spend the day like we would do most summer days: riding our BMX bikes, playing baseball in a spacious yard and trying to convince our mother to take us to the swimming pool at Jones Park.
The normalcy ended early in the afternoon with a call from Goodman, Missouri. My mom answered the phone and scrambled to find my father. “Ernie, there’s a call for you. It sounds like your mom is upset.”
The old man was only on the call for a few moments, and I’ll never forget the look on his face when he hung up, stood up and turned around.
“My dad died,” he said quietly. “I need to go.”
“Oh, Ernie, I’m so sorry,” Mom said as she wiped tears from her eyes.
My brother and I both gave dad a hug and said we were sorry. Dad said, “It’s OK,” but I’d never seen him quite like that. He was stunned and hurt, and we could tell he was trying as hard as he could not to cry. He made it through a few minutes of packing and ran to his van without shedding a tear.
“You know, son, I just didn’t cry in front of people then,” he said.
I assume this was a direct result of spending more than 10 years in boys homes, jails and prisons, places where you don’t dare show a hint of weakness.
Dad was gone for about a week, helping my grandmother as much as he could and organizing his father’s service. He was different for weeks afterward, staying mostly to himself, engrossed in his thoughts and processing the grief.
It was during this time that my brother saw the old man cry for the first and only time during our youth. A few weeks after the funeral, Dan was in the shop where my dad made stained glass lamps and leather goods and asked my father a question only the very young can ask: “Dad, why did Grandpa have to die?”
The tears flowed as my father said, “I don’t know, son.”
Several years later, during one of the many long walks my father and I took on his property in Quenemo, Dad told me a story that has stayed with me for more than 30 years now.
“Your grandpa was a good man, but he was solemn and quiet. He didn’t say much,” the old man said. “He was proud of me, even though he didn’t say it often. I remember when you were born, the first time he saw you, you could tell he thought I’d finally made it.
“We got a long really well after I stopped being such a knucklehead. About a week before he died, he called and we talked for a while on the phone. At the end of the call, he said, ‘Ernie, I sure do love you, son.’ That was the first time he’d told me he loved me.”
Dad’s voice trailed off at the end of that story. I could tell he was sad that he didn’t get more time with this father. I also knew then why there was never a shortage of “I love yous,” hugs and afternoons playing catch.
June 1984 was the summer of “Ghostbusters,” “Dallas” and Bruce Springsteen’s iconic album “Born in the U.S.A.” For me, though, it’ll always be the formative moment/month when my grandfather died. It was then that I realized nobody, even your dad, lives forever.
ABOUT MY NEXT BOOK: “THE OLD MAN”
ABOUT MY DEBUT BOOK: “GOODBYE, BUTTERFLY: MURDER, FAITH AND FORGIVENESS IN A SMALL KANSAS TOWN”