After waking everyone in our house with their arguing, one parent cries and goes to bed while the other one stays up. That's Dad. A chain smoker, he keeps the dining room light on while he puffs on one Old Gold cigarette after another. Both his hands and fingers are stained brown. Yuck. Some nights, Dad paints oil paintings on canvas. Other nights, he paints on plywood. He paints houses that look like houses. He painted a painting of me. I don't think it looks like me. But Dork says it looks exactly like me. He's such a Dork.
While painting, Dad plays opera music real loud on our RCA radio/phonograph player in the parlor. The phonograph is hidden on one side by a pull down mahogany door. The radio with its knobs and numbers is in plain sight on the other side. If you pull down the phonograph door, shazam, there's the player with its arm and needle that’s ready to ride inside the grooves of a record. All you have to do is turn it on.
Lady opera singers squeal. The men shout. They squeal and shout in either German or Italian. When I'm certain it's Italian, I whisper to Grampa Frank, "What are they saying?"
"I'll-ah tell you in the morning," he whispers back. He never does tell me. Neither of us can sleep because of the clatter. I don't think anyone in our house can sleep. A lot of times, I hear Crazy Annie crying. I think the correct word, though, is whimpering.
As you know, Diary, words are important. See how I used the word house instead of home? Of course you can't, but I'll explain it anyway. "The difference between a house and a home is love," Sister Mary Lawrence, SSND, told our Saturday catechism class. SSND stands for School Sisters of Notre Dame. "A home has love. A house doesn’t. It's just a building, sometimes with people living in it."
Yeah, like ours.
"Sometimes, when homes are put up for sale and the residents move out, those homes change into houses because they're empty of people," added Sister.
Not like ours.
Grampa said more than once that Mother should've kept quiet about Dad's drinking. Her own father said that. I never told Grampa my real feelings about these people who claim they're my parents. And one of them is Grampa's daughter.
Even after Dad turns off the opera music and shuts off the dining room light and goes to bed, Grampa flips and flops on his bed like a freshly caught Wisconsin River carp that's lying on top of the concrete island behind J.C. Penney's. I can't get much sleep either because Grampa's bed springs squeak as if they're singing in their own opera: In spring language, of course. Sometimes, when Grampa can’t sleep, he wants to know what time it is. He doesn't ask me because how would I know? And he doesn't turn on the bedroom light to find out, either. Instead, he reaches in his pants pocket and pulls out his Westclox Bull's Eye pocket watch. Both its hands and numbers glow green in the dark. It's really keen.
I'd been saving money in a green Ball canning jar for a long, long time. For what? I didn't know. Now, I knew. I wanted a pocket watch just like Grampa Frank's. So, I asked him, "How can I get a watch like yours?"
"At a jewelry store or in a catalog."
"What's the best pocket watch?"
"In America?"
"Yeah."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just because."
"Illinois."
I never heard of Illinois watches but I knew there were Elgin watches. "Dad has an Elgin wristwatch. Elgin is a city in Illinois. You mean Elgin, don't you?"
Grampa's head cocked and at the same time he put a hand to one ear as if he didn't hear me correctly. "Did I say Elgin? I'm-ah certain I said Illinois." Grampa doesn't fool around when he thinks I'm acting too smart. Dork always acts smart. I don't.
"I never heard of Illinois watches."
"You're a young boy, Gordy, and haven't heard of a lot of things. So what do you ah-want me to say? That there are no Illinois watches because you haven’t heard of them?"
"Okay, so there are Illinois pocket watches. Why are they the best?"
"Because they keep the best ah-time."
"How come you don't have one?"
Grampa clucked like a hen that just laid a great big egg and was surprised. "You gonna buy me one?"
"If I had the money I would."
He laughed even louder.
"I would, Grampa. Honestly."
He smiled and patted my head and said softly, "You're a good ah-boy. Illinois watches are too expensive for your Grand ah-father. And even you, Mister Smarty Pants, you can't afford an Illinois."
"Someday I'll have one, I'll betcha."
"You better become a doctor or lawyer, then."
"Why?"
"Because a fireman can't afford an Illinois."
That night, after Grampa turned off the bedroom light, he whispered, "Gordy?"
"Yeah?"
"I want you to know I'm ah-leaving you tomorrow. I'm ah-return to your Aunt Florence and Uncle Leo."
"You don't have to go to Oak Park, do you Grampa? You can stay here. Wisconsin Rapids is a lot nicer than Oak Park. Anyway, Oak Park doesn't have a river like we have. You have your own bed here. I'll make your Coffee Royale every morn—"
"But I must go, Gordy. I have the train ticket. I leave on the train at twelve fifteen."
"On the Hiawatha?"
"The what?"
"Are you going to ride on the Hiawatha? It's the only train that takes passengers."
"Yes, I'll be riding on the Hiawatha."
It felt as if I had just swallowed a brick. My stomach ached, and I thought I might upchuck. I had to pee. So, I got up and went to the bathroom. I couldn't puke but I did pee. When I returned to the bedroom, I wiped away the tears. I'm glad Grampa couldn't see them. "I don't want you to leave, Grampa."
"I know. I know," he said, "but after I leave, you'll soon ah-forget me."
"I won't, Grampa. I won't ever forget you."
“We’ll see,” he said. And that was it. Much later, I heard him snore. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want him to go. Maybe, I could talk to Mother or Dad and they'd change Grampa's mind. Finally, I did fall asleep but I got up early the next morning. Mother was in the kitchen, making coffee in the two-piece glass Silex coffee maker that sat above the gas stove burner. "Mother, would you please tell Grampa he can't leave today?"
She laughed. "Do you think your grandfather wants to stay here and have you bothering him all the time?"
"I don't bother him."
She laughed again. "He wants to return to your Aunt Florence's. He wants to be close to my mother."
"Grandma?"
"Yes."
"But Grandma's dead."
"I know. He likes to visit her at the cemetery. Aunt Florence says he talks to mother all the time there. He wants to be buried next to your grandmother when he goes."
"Goes where?"
"To heaven, of course."
"I don't want him to go to heaven. I want him to stay here."
"I'm sorry, Gordy, but you'll have to accept the fact that your grandfather is leaving this afternoon. I'll miss him and your brothers and sister will miss him, too. We'll all miss him."
"No, they won’t and you won’t either. You want him to go. I know that. Then, you and Dad can argue all the time. And you won't have to worry if Grampa hears you."
Quickly, I opened the door that led to the back door. I slammed it shut. Real hard. I got on my Schwinn and rode around town, heading nowhere for a long while. When I returned to the house, I snuck into the kitchen and made a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. I wrapped it up in wax paper and put it in a small paper bag. I put the bag in my handlebar basket. Then, I rode all the way out to Lake Wazeecha. All alone.
Lake Wazeecha has two beaches, the red sand beach and the white sand beach. Both are on hills. The white sand beach is closer. But it's also more popular than the red sand beach. That means there are plenty of people at the white sand beach. A lot of girls lie on the white sand on towels in order to get tans. Sometimes, they undo their suits straps. That’s when I and other guys try to get a peek at you know what. Some people even swim. Mainly guys.
Hardly anyone goes to the red sand beach. That's why I rode there. I sat on the hill's red, warm sand all alone and said, "Goodbye, Grampa, I'll miss you," to the wind. I was blubbering. Grampa wouldn't like it that I cried. I even cried while I ate the sandwich. And afterward. When I returned home later that afternoon, I was all cried out. Or so I thought. Of course, Grampa wasn't there, and Mother was madder than a wet hen. "Your grandfather was upset that you weren't here to say goodbye."
"Yeah, I know."
"You know? How could you know?"
"I just do."
While painting, Dad plays opera music real loud on our RCA radio/phonograph player in the parlor. The phonograph is hidden on one side by a pull down mahogany door. The radio with its knobs and numbers is in plain sight on the other side. If you pull down the phonograph door, shazam, there's the player with its arm and needle that’s ready to ride inside the grooves of a record. All you have to do is turn it on.
Lady opera singers squeal. The men shout. They squeal and shout in either German or Italian. When I'm certain it's Italian, I whisper to Grampa Frank, "What are they saying?"
"I'll-ah tell you in the morning," he whispers back. He never does tell me. Neither of us can sleep because of the clatter. I don't think anyone in our house can sleep. A lot of times, I hear Crazy Annie crying. I think the correct word, though, is whimpering.
As you know, Diary, words are important. See how I used the word house instead of home? Of course you can't, but I'll explain it anyway. "The difference between a house and a home is love," Sister Mary Lawrence, SSND, told our Saturday catechism class. SSND stands for School Sisters of Notre Dame. "A home has love. A house doesn’t. It's just a building, sometimes with people living in it."
Yeah, like ours.
"Sometimes, when homes are put up for sale and the residents move out, those homes change into houses because they're empty of people," added Sister.
Not like ours.
Grampa said more than once that Mother should've kept quiet about Dad's drinking. Her own father said that. I never told Grampa my real feelings about these people who claim they're my parents. And one of them is Grampa's daughter.
Even after Dad turns off the opera music and shuts off the dining room light and goes to bed, Grampa flips and flops on his bed like a freshly caught Wisconsin River carp that's lying on top of the concrete island behind J.C. Penney's. I can't get much sleep either because Grampa's bed springs squeak as if they're singing in their own opera: In spring language, of course. Sometimes, when Grampa can’t sleep, he wants to know what time it is. He doesn't ask me because how would I know? And he doesn't turn on the bedroom light to find out, either. Instead, he reaches in his pants pocket and pulls out his Westclox Bull's Eye pocket watch. Both its hands and numbers glow green in the dark. It's really keen.
I'd been saving money in a green Ball canning jar for a long, long time. For what? I didn't know. Now, I knew. I wanted a pocket watch just like Grampa Frank's. So, I asked him, "How can I get a watch like yours?"
"At a jewelry store or in a catalog."
"What's the best pocket watch?"
"In America?"
"Yeah."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just because."
"Illinois."
I never heard of Illinois watches but I knew there were Elgin watches. "Dad has an Elgin wristwatch. Elgin is a city in Illinois. You mean Elgin, don't you?"
Grampa's head cocked and at the same time he put a hand to one ear as if he didn't hear me correctly. "Did I say Elgin? I'm-ah certain I said Illinois." Grampa doesn't fool around when he thinks I'm acting too smart. Dork always acts smart. I don't.
"I never heard of Illinois watches."
"You're a young boy, Gordy, and haven't heard of a lot of things. So what do you ah-want me to say? That there are no Illinois watches because you haven’t heard of them?"
"Okay, so there are Illinois pocket watches. Why are they the best?"
"Because they keep the best ah-time."
"How come you don't have one?"
Grampa clucked like a hen that just laid a great big egg and was surprised. "You gonna buy me one?"
"If I had the money I would."
He laughed even louder.
"I would, Grampa. Honestly."
He smiled and patted my head and said softly, "You're a good ah-boy. Illinois watches are too expensive for your Grand ah-father. And even you, Mister Smarty Pants, you can't afford an Illinois."
"Someday I'll have one, I'll betcha."
"You better become a doctor or lawyer, then."
"Why?"
"Because a fireman can't afford an Illinois."
That night, after Grampa turned off the bedroom light, he whispered, "Gordy?"
"Yeah?"
"I want you to know I'm ah-leaving you tomorrow. I'm ah-return to your Aunt Florence and Uncle Leo."
"You don't have to go to Oak Park, do you Grampa? You can stay here. Wisconsin Rapids is a lot nicer than Oak Park. Anyway, Oak Park doesn't have a river like we have. You have your own bed here. I'll make your Coffee Royale every morn—"
"But I must go, Gordy. I have the train ticket. I leave on the train at twelve fifteen."
"On the Hiawatha?"
"The what?"
"Are you going to ride on the Hiawatha? It's the only train that takes passengers."
"Yes, I'll be riding on the Hiawatha."
It felt as if I had just swallowed a brick. My stomach ached, and I thought I might upchuck. I had to pee. So, I got up and went to the bathroom. I couldn't puke but I did pee. When I returned to the bedroom, I wiped away the tears. I'm glad Grampa couldn't see them. "I don't want you to leave, Grampa."
"I know. I know," he said, "but after I leave, you'll soon ah-forget me."
"I won't, Grampa. I won't ever forget you."
“We’ll see,” he said. And that was it. Much later, I heard him snore. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want him to go. Maybe, I could talk to Mother or Dad and they'd change Grampa's mind. Finally, I did fall asleep but I got up early the next morning. Mother was in the kitchen, making coffee in the two-piece glass Silex coffee maker that sat above the gas stove burner. "Mother, would you please tell Grampa he can't leave today?"
She laughed. "Do you think your grandfather wants to stay here and have you bothering him all the time?"
"I don't bother him."
She laughed again. "He wants to return to your Aunt Florence's. He wants to be close to my mother."
"Grandma?"
"Yes."
"But Grandma's dead."
"I know. He likes to visit her at the cemetery. Aunt Florence says he talks to mother all the time there. He wants to be buried next to your grandmother when he goes."
"Goes where?"
"To heaven, of course."
"I don't want him to go to heaven. I want him to stay here."
"I'm sorry, Gordy, but you'll have to accept the fact that your grandfather is leaving this afternoon. I'll miss him and your brothers and sister will miss him, too. We'll all miss him."
"No, they won’t and you won’t either. You want him to go. I know that. Then, you and Dad can argue all the time. And you won't have to worry if Grampa hears you."
Quickly, I opened the door that led to the back door. I slammed it shut. Real hard. I got on my Schwinn and rode around town, heading nowhere for a long while. When I returned to the house, I snuck into the kitchen and made a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. I wrapped it up in wax paper and put it in a small paper bag. I put the bag in my handlebar basket. Then, I rode all the way out to Lake Wazeecha. All alone.
Lake Wazeecha has two beaches, the red sand beach and the white sand beach. Both are on hills. The white sand beach is closer. But it's also more popular than the red sand beach. That means there are plenty of people at the white sand beach. A lot of girls lie on the white sand on towels in order to get tans. Sometimes, they undo their suits straps. That’s when I and other guys try to get a peek at you know what. Some people even swim. Mainly guys.
Hardly anyone goes to the red sand beach. That's why I rode there. I sat on the hill's red, warm sand all alone and said, "Goodbye, Grampa, I'll miss you," to the wind. I was blubbering. Grampa wouldn't like it that I cried. I even cried while I ate the sandwich. And afterward. When I returned home later that afternoon, I was all cried out. Or so I thought. Of course, Grampa wasn't there, and Mother was madder than a wet hen. "Your grandfather was upset that you weren't here to say goodbye."
"Yeah, I know."
"You know? How could you know?"
"I just do."
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