The 2nd Quarter

Okay on to Sophomore year; the start of the second quarter. I don't really remember the specific stuff my teacher was trying to teach me like my freshman year, but I guess I was still trying to improve my writing skills, right? This piece is about my Grandfather passing away and the untraditional ceremony we had for him.

Ashes

          To me his name was Papa Howie; the man who once bought a 1927 Dodge when he was thirteen years old. My Grandpa lives in Pentwater, Michigan in a small, two story cottage that lies on Bass Lake.  The house is painted an ugly brown and yellow, just the way it was painted over 45 years ago when it was first bought. He stays there year long, even though my Grandmother lives here in Chicago. My Grandfather swims in the lustrous waters of Bass Lake whenever he wants, even if it is cold. He goes into the old, wooden shed to type letters to his friends whenever he wants, even if everyone else has moved on past the typewriter. My Grandfather goes to the beach in town and watches the sun set on Lake Michigan whenever he wants, even if it is a cloudy night. He is able to do all of this , yet he is dead.

            It was what he had always wished and desired for; to be in Pentwater forever. He had called this town his home away from home since the 1920’s; every summer for over eighty years. My father would always tell stories about how Papa Howie would walk down to Bass Lake, which outlets into the nearby Lake Michigan, and would backstroke from our side to the other side of the lake almost every day before anyone else had awoken. I also remember that even after his days of swimming in Bass Lake were over, he would always be up at the crack of dawn sitting in his chair, reading the Chicago Tribune that he had purchased that day from The Wishing Well, the gas station store at the end of

South Lake Shore Drive.

           I remember seeing all of this when I just couldn’t sleep for any longer. It would be only six or seven a.m., but I just had to wake up. I would walk downstairs and he would always be there. He would always greet me with the same “Hello, Eric” and he would always hand me the sports section because he knew that was what I wanted.

            Since Pentwater lies right on the west coast of the lower part of Michigan, the sunsets are legendary. As I sat in the sand, watching the array of purple, orange, and yellow sink into the water like a strawberry being dipped into chocolate, he and my grandma would sit in their Buick, in the parking lot of Mears State Park, right by the beach just as they did every night.

            So here I find myself, climbing into our old, blue put-put boat with my sister and my Uncle Todd following me. My dad, Aunt Susie, and Uncle John then all hop aboard the family sailboat. It’s a butterfly and it’s named Sweetie, named after what my Grandmother has called my Grandfather for so long. No one is talking, nobody is making eye contact and my Uncle is holding a small sandwich bag in his hand, carrying it as though if it were dropped it would splatter into oblivion. As we made our way out to the center of Bass Lake I start to think back to last Christmas when things started to slow down for my Grandpa. You could sense that his days were numbered and my Grandpa knew it himself. His hospice caretaker had told us he stayed up late the night before we came, so he could take a bath. He said he wanted to look nice for his family on Christmas day, no matter how sick he was. But when he woke up the next morning, he had reached the point of no return. He was dying and there was no stopping him.

When my family and I arrived to my Grandparent’s home in Glenview, Illinois on Christmas Day, the mood was different than it had been years before. When I stepped inside to the kitchen and walked through the short hallway to the living room, I noticed that my my Aunt Susan wasn’t sitting in the living room laughing with her joyous giggles as she and the rest of my family recalled on old memories. My Uncle John wasn’t sitting on the porch playing his Ukulele like he always did when he came into town. My dad wasn’t going around fixing what ever needed to be fixed around the house like he normally did. They were all in my Grandparent’s bedroom because that was where my Grandfather was. I walked my into the bedroom that night as though I were walking into a terrifying haunted house; I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to make it through to the end. I sat down in a small, wooden chair. I was at the beginning of the house, looking at my ailing Grandpa, who lied in a second bed that had been brought into the room. I began to cry. I was in eighth grade and I hade never experienced anything more than my dog dying.

“You know you can talk to him, if you’d like,” my Aunt Susan said. “He can hear you.”

I stood up and walked upon the soft beige carpet in my Grandparent’s room towards the left side of my Grandpa’s bed. The room was filled with old pictures and small glass figurines that my Grandparents had picked up over the years.

“Hey Papa Howie,” I said in a tender voice, “It’s Eric.”

That was all I could muster. My Grandpa was still conscious, but was almost non-responsive. I stood there wondering if I should touch him or not, but I couldn’t think of where to or if it was even necessary. I ended up not touching him and that was all for me. I walked out of the haunted house feeling distant from my Grandfather; I had never seen him in this way before. I left saddened, figuring I didn’t want to spend too much time in there.

            My Grandpa did die that night, on Christmas night, during Christmas dinner with my aunt and uncles by his bedside, my dad and Grandma doing the same. He knew it was his time to leave. Everyone was there at my Grandparent’s house; there for Christmas, but everyone knew in their mind that they weren’t actually there for Christmas. They were there for Papa Howie; to say goodbye. My relatives went home that chilly night in Glenview, my cousins, aunts, uncles, and my own family. We all knew things were going to be different, different for my Grandma, and we all knew the summers in Pentwater would never be the same again.

My sister shut off the engine of the blue put-put boat as we had arrived to our destination. My uncle was at the front of the boat and I was up near my sister. My dad then pulled up about twenty feet away from us. We were all looking at my Uncle Todd as he was looking at the bag in his hand. A tear or two started to trickle down his cheek. He was holding my Grandfather. He had been cremated shortly after his death in December and we thought that it was only right that some of him should be left in Pentwater. My uncle looked around the lake and at his brother and sister sitting in the sailboat and opened the plastic bag. It was time. My uncle turned the bag upside down and my Grandfather’s ashes trickled out of the bag like dead, autumn leaves falling from an oak tree and settled into the water. My uncle gave the bag one last shake to make sure the ashes were all gone and my Grandpa and Bass Lake were now one. That is where my Uncle Todd, Aunt Susan, and my dad thought he should be; in the lake where he had spent so much of his time before.

Then as a tribute to my Grandfather we all jumped into the lake and swam back into the dock, using the backstroke of course. As I was about to jump into the lake from the put-put boat I yelled to my Uncle John, “Hey! How’s the water feel?”

He couldn’t hear me. He had his earplugs in and my uncle swam on.

“Eric I’m going to push you in,” my sister exclaimed.

“Alright! Fine, Fine! I’m going!”

I jumped in off of the blue metal benches of the put-put boat and the water gave me a startling jolt. It was cold, but that didn’t matter. We all wanted to have one final swim for Papa Howie. I struggled to swim the long distance from the middle of the lake, but I knew I had to make it back. My sister asked me if I wanted to get back on the boat. I declined. No boat was going to help me get back to the dock. Even though I once felt distant from my Grandfather back in December, it was now July and I felt closer than ever.

Okay, not a bad quarter. Not as sloppy as the first. I liked this piece. I think I improved my storytelling skills by not "listing" off events like I did my Freshman year. I think I also improved my use of dialogue with this piece and I improved my description a lot. With my piece from freshman year, I didn't really describe anything. I just told you all what I was doing and that was it. Okay it's halftime. Time to head into the locker room.