Finding Family In Fire

                                                Prologue

            Aunt Alberta awoke early Sunday morning to cook breakfast for everyone.  It's hard to cook when you're an 83-year-old woman.  Well, her strength failed early that Sunday morning, and it just so happens that it was while she was handling a pan full of bacon grease.  As the flames took to the countertop and the floor, Aunt Alberta's mind failed her as well—she threw water on the grease fire.  Her brother's great three-story house became a feast of family heirlooms and artifacts for the flames.

Finding Family in Fire

            The call went out.  Grandfather needed help.  All five sons and their sons were to brave the road down to southern Indiana, in addition to Grandfather's five sons-in-law.  We were going to sift through the remains of what had once been a home, but was now nothing more than a pile of misery.  Thankfully, the stand-alone garage and the old red barn remained unscathed and would provide a small respite from the harsh early summer sun. 

            Dad and I were to set out forthwith, only waiting to stop at school to get the 7th grade homework I'd miss for the week or two I'd be gone.  I had this gut feeling that helping Grandfather was not going to be pleasant.

            My largest assignment was to write a short report on the Wright Brothers.  Dad, possessed of a tendency towards the grandiose, decided that it would add points for effort if we were to stop on the way to Blocher, Indiana at the Dayton Aviation Heritage National Park, a memorial to the Wright Brothers, in southwest Ohio.  Of course, this proved to be a much longer route than we would normally have taken and we arrived last of the ten crews.

            Dad had it tough; I understood that even then, as the seventh child of eleven, one of which died young.  His father had no qualms about using brute force to uphold the law of his household.  This was the way of his childhood.  Naturally, this brand of authoritarianism grated on each of his five fractious sons, in turn.  Conflict was both long running and palpable in that household.  If at some point there wasn't some level of feud running between him and one of his children then their pet 150-pound pig, Sam, could fly.  I assure you, this wasn't the case. 

            As we pulled up to tract of land upon which had stood the pride of Grandfather, the pride of Blocher, the man himself, shotgun in hand, met us.  He fired into the air to show his disapproval at our tardiness.  This only proved to enrage Dad, who was immediately ready to turn right back around, filial obligations be damned!

            By a small bit of genetic fortuity, I had inherited my mother's propensity for compromise and the assuaging of flaring tempers.  As a young man who never knew his grandfather past the yearly Christmas party, I was intrigued.  I wanted to find out what made this man, who was, by all accounts, a throwback Kentucky hillbilly come to life.  Thus, I convinced Dad to stay, if not for his father's sake, then for mine.  I wanted to know Grandfather. 

            The salvage process went equally as well as Grandfather's greeting.  The fire had burned so hot, so complete, that nothing escaped its fury.  The only things managed to be saved were an old brass spittoon, a brass statue that reminded me of Don Quixote, and the family coat of arms, although it needed a new wooden base. 

            When the remainder of the rubble was cleared away, a local builder assessed the foundation.  He found that it was cracked beyond repair and would need to be completely reconstructed.  Grandfather didn't have the money to do that, so he decided to turn what remained of the basement into a pond and build anew next to the stand-alone garage.  Of course, this only served to heighten the already sour mood that everyone was in.

            As we began filling the basement with water, Grandfather asked me to get in his shabby, old pickup and we headed to the hardware store.  Here was my one private chance to really get to know the man beyond the permanent scowl; the man I had convinced Dad was our real reason for being here.  As we rumbled down the gravel driveway in silence, I scoured my mind for something to say to him.  Where would I start?  I barely knew the man.  "Mahkay, you got a girlfriend?"  I was relieved that he began the talking, even though he could never pronounce my name correctly.  He asked me if I had been intimate with her, although Grandfather was rarely as polite as that.  He went on to tell me of his first experiences with intimacy—the babysitter.  At the tender age of eleven, his babysitter asked him to go take the garbage out and he'd get himself a treat.  He really liked that story. 

            He continued to regale me with his tales of sexual (mis)adventures from his career as a trucker, including that time with the one-legged hooker.  We arrived at the store, bought our tools and parts, and turned back.  Grandfather continued to tell his stories, and I was more than happy to listen.  He told of encounters with a 300-pound mass of muscle that happened to be a homosexual (he regretted mocking that man).  He told me his reasons for believing in reincarnation, and all his conspiracy theories involving oil.  He told me every story I needed to hear.  And then we got back.

            The all-knowing They say that moods are contagious.  I believe Them.  I was in such a good mood upon our arrival that it instantly put Dad in a good mood.  This, in turn, put his brothers in a good mood, and before you knew it, we were all drunk.  It was easier to sleep that night than I had ever remembered.

            There's a cliché for every situation.  They are right about that too.  The situation I happened to awaken to could have been classified as, "All good things come to an end."  There had been a storm of words between Dad and Grandfather, a drunken storm.  I found myself dragged out of bed before sunrise.  Before I could wipe the sleep from my eyes a thousand thoughts hit me.  I was disappointed that I couldn't continue to grow my relationship with Grandfather.  The constant bickering in my family frustrated me.  I was tired.  I was fed up.  Most of all, I felt sorry for Dad.  I felt sorry that he couldn't share the same close relationship with his father as I did mine. 

            I was thrown into the car, snuggled up, and fell fast asleep.  Floating somewhere amidst the crunch of gravel, the smooth hum of the car, and Dad's still-labored breathing, I remember thinking, "At least I got to know my Grandfather…"