Death.

A seminal event, the dictionary says, is one, after which nothing remains the same. Mine occurred one Saturday morning in November of 1949.

Grandpa died.

It was not that this man was an indulgent grandfather or one who played childish games with us. He tended to be serious. Even stern. When he gave candy it was horehound drops he kept in a white sack in his medicine cabinet. Horehound is a bitter herb that even mixed into hard sugar candy is rather nasty tasting—but thought (by Grandpa at least) to be good for a cough. We used to cough quite dramatically to get a horehound drop from Grandpa. His other special treat was a fig newton. He’d buy a package and eat one, and the rest would languish until they were quite stale. The brown soft cookie wrap around fig jam was unappealing. The jam had tiny seeds in it, which made a crunch. Bonnie told me these were due to tiny bugs. I hated fig newtons.

Grandpa was an institution who had acquired this farm 40 years before, and kept it pristine all of those years. Daddy had bought more farm and put it together with Grandpa’s and they worked together. Lately, however, Grandpa had become forgetful. Sometimes he wandered a bit. Sometimes he was suspicious, or just not as social as he used to be. Bonnie and I were consulted to tell Momma and Daddy if his behaviors seemed dangerous. Was he driving the pick-up? Was he climbing up into the hay loft to work? Was he taking out his gun to hunt? And then came this Saturday morning.

I was awake in the upstairs room where the rain pattered on the roof and on the north window. I was planning rainy day activities that a 9 year old girl might do. I well recall that I’d determined to organize my paper dolls so that they would stay “nice.” A very little girl plan of rainy day action. Downstairs I could hear through the floor register the murmuring of my parents as they ate their breakfast. I could hear the radio playing softly. It was getting light outside. All was comfortable. All was well. Then the phone rang!

When you lived in the country, you were on a party line. Eight households were on ours. The switchboard operator, “Central,” lived in a house with the switchboard. Because we respected her privacy, it was an unwritten rule that we did not use the phone between 7 P.M. and 7 A.M. Any call sounded on every phone on the line. So a call before 7 A.M. would be certain to strike fear into each household. Everyone would rush to the phone to listen to the conversation. It was expected. We were miles from medical help, emergency services or police. Reliance on each other was just a fact. Technology to reach help hadn’t been developed. Etiquette and good sense was how it all worked.

I heard the chair shrink back as Mom got up to answer the phone—our ring, three shorts. I heard her say loudly, “We are on our way! Yes, we will be right there!”

She and Daddy spoke briefly as they rushed about getting on their coats. Daddy shouted upstairs at us, “Grandpa has fainted dead-away! Grandma needs us to come help her get him in the house and get him to a doctor!” Then silence. Then the sound of the pick-up starting and roaring over the mud road to Grandma’s house just next door.

The phone finally rang again, this time for Central. I heard Momma’s artificial, formal voice saying, “I wish to place a person to person call to Dr. McKinley Bunch in Shenandoah, please.”

Central did not ask for a specific number or reason. She just answered, “Yes, ma’am.” I heard her connect to the Shenandoah central who sang out, “Number please?”

There were no numbers exchanged. Gladys (our central) simply said she wished to place a person to person call to Dr. Bunch. Immediately, the Shenandoah lady merely replied, “Yes, Ma’am!” Then two rings heard and Dr. Bunch was on the line.

Momma used a particularly artificial voice now. She explained to the doctor who she was and where she was and that Grandpa had fainted dead-away. She needed the doctor to come and see the man at once. Dr. Bunch patiently listened and at last asked Momma, “Jean, is the man breathing?” and Momma said with a catch in her voice that he was not. The doctor said, “Jean, listen to me. Your roads are bad. There is going to be lots of traffic out to that farm you know? I will come, and I’ll drive very carefully in order to cut a straight safe track to the house. It won’t be quick. It need not be quick. Do you understand?”

Momma said that she did. After a few minutes Grandma’s phone began to ring as the party liners called to offer their condolences. Since nobody had pronounced the man dead, there was little to be said. Then, our own phone rang and it was Mom who called us to tell us what had gone on so far. We could hear Grandma’s wailing and weeping. Momma said Grandma wanted us to come SEE grandpa. She hoped we could wake him up!

Neither of us had ever seen anybody grieve. We couldn’t imagine that adults had emotions—not like these! Nobody told us this is how people react and that it is a normal emotion. When asked to go there, Bonnie refused out of hand. She was 11 and far more mature than I was. I relied on her to keep me appropriate in new situations. Still, I was positive that I could make a difference. Maybe I COULD waken Grandpa and everything would go back to how it was! I had to try! I couldn’t bear to see Grandma like this! I got on my coat and boots and set off the quarter-mile to her house. Bonnie went too.

Once there, we found the back porch layered with coats and boots and Grandpa’s coat thrown to the floor. We stepped into the kitchen, and Bonnie slipped her skinny body between the kitchen range and the wall where she stayed. Grandma came wailing to the kitchen and shouting at Grandpa, “Wake up now, Mark! The little girls are here. The ones you love so much! They are right here! Oh, why won’t you wake, Mark?!”

I was ushered by Mom into the dining room where Grandpa lay on the horse hair sofa with the Indian blanket over him. I could see his shock of white hair on the pillow at the opposite end. I was directed right up to his face where I looked down and saw his eyes fixed and dilated staring at the ceiling, and his mouth open in an agonizing silent scream.

My vision became clouded.

My throat closed.

The floor shifted under my feet.

I started to fall—to gag—to moan.

Somebody took me by the shoulders and propelled me to the kitchen where I again breathed. I had thought I was fainting dead-away just like Grandpa. I whispered to Bonnie, “Don’t go in there! Don’t go!”

Momma came and got our coats back on and sent us home.

The doctor was arriving as we left. There was no doubt in our minds by that time about whether Grandpa was dead or not.

Mr. Tucker came. He was our funeral director, though in those days he was called simply the undertaker. He was a native of another small town, but he was never casual or small townish. Mr. Tucker wore a brown three-piece suit and white shirt and tie every day. His shoes were shiny. He wore a brown hat. He was ever calm and helpful. When he was called to come and get Grandpa, he told Momma that he’d bring some big men to help get Mr. Scotton into the hearse. It had not occurred to me that Grandpa wasn’t going to walk right out there and board the hearse without assistance. Yes, Mr. Tucker would need some help. He was such a small man. He also owned a general store in the little town where he had his business. It was on Main Street. There was an elevator out beside the store where he put the bodies and coffins and took them to the second floor where he did his prep work. My aunt refused to eat any meat that was sold at Tucker’s store. We always giggled behind our hands at this. Not very funny today.

AS the day wore on, my aunts and uncles came and Aunt Grace stayed with Grandma. Grace was the fashionable one of the Hullman girls. She was a calm reassuring presence who knew how to proceed in this culture.

As evening came, Daddy said, “Now you kids, get your chore clothes on and you must help with the work.” And we did; that night and every night after that. We were no longer innocent little girls, we were now responsible people who must help. We were proud to be able to do it. However, I really think that first night, it was the fact that Daddy did not want to be alone. We had seen the livestock fed and watered all of our lives and had no qualms about what needed to be done.

We were leaving the chicken house with a basket of eggs for Grandma’s back porch, when Aunt Grace stepped out. She had on her mink coat and a silk scarf around her hair. She knelt and took us into her arms where she held us warmly for a few seconds. Then she stood with a hand on each of our shoulders. “Now girls! I am so proud to see you take charge and know what to do to help your Daddy and Momma. I want you two to stand with me and when we go to Grandpa’s funeral I’ll want you to hold your heads up like grown ups, because WE are STRONG WOMEN, and don’t you ever forget it!”

I was filled with warmth and assurance that we were truly included in the family and needed now to act as adults. We were treasured. Aunt Grace had found he words to help us, and we loved her the more for her caring.

So often since that day, I’ve thought of Aunt Grace’s statement. We ARE strong, because we’ve had to be! When my daughter carried her newborn into the hospital where her husband was dying, when my son was diagnosed with a terminal disease, when I was told that my husband had died—I’ve held my head up. Broken hearts are a dime a dozen. This family can take it!

I was filled with warmth and assurance that we were truly included in the family and needed now to act as adults. We were treasured. Aunt Grace had found the words to help us, and we loved her the more for her caring.

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