Digging Up Daddy

Chapter 1

At the top of the hill, three hundred feet north from the end of the cul-de-sac known as Pot Belly Lane, stood a massive, twisting, one hundred fifty foot tall, one hundred year old black walnut tree, simply referred to as Old Tree. With nearly a thousand angular branches that snaked out thirty feet in any direction of the trunk, Old Tree dwarfed all other trees near or far. Gnarled, tilted, and battered by the years, and the humbling forces of nature, Old Tree nevertheless provided a special spot for a boy and his grandfather.

Young Nevada Minnesota and his grandfather, affectionately known as Grandpa Daddy, carved out an hour or two everyday under Old Tree. Summer presented no worries or cares, so conversations drifted from discussing the merits of the designated hitter in baseball, to the most effective fishing lure, to homemade peach cobbler. In the fall, they debated the necessity of homework, and who ranked as the greatest professional quarterback of all time. On occasion, they gathered leaves from Old Tree and marveled at the intricate shapes, deep rich colors, and uneven textures of the fallen foliage. Sometimes, Young Nevada Minnesota and Grandpa Daddy talked about nothing. They just propped up against the cragged trunk of Old Tree, and enjoyed each other’s company, and the cool north breeze.

Though Old Tree stood out in the open for everyone to see, appreciate, and experience, only grandfather and grandson made a daily pilgrimage to the aged wooden monument. Old Tree served as their private refuge and paradise. Once in a while, they would seal personal messages and secrets in aluminum foil and plastic, and wedge them in the cracks in the base of the tree. It was as if they were sharing their lives with Old Tree. A boy, his grandfather, and a majestic walnut tree, surrounded by a colorful and varied array of bushes, plants, and flowers. How could life get any better?

On one occasion, during one summer, Young Nevada and Grandpa Daddy sat under Old Tree, as a shower dampened the uncovered grass outside Old Tree’s protective canopy. Young Nevada laughed the laugh of a young boy not quite nine years old. He was amazed that he and his grandfather remained completely dry, even though the rain fell at a steady clip. Young Nevada stared upward at the dense intertwining leaves. He tugged at his grandfather’s light blue t-shirt. How old do you think Old Tree is, Grandpa Daddy?

I don’t know. But judging from Old Tree’s base, it must be at least a hundred years old.

Young Nevada squinched his eyes and tried to count the leaves on one branch. Just a hundred years old? Naw. Old Tree has to be older than that. I bet that Old Tree is a million years old. Maybe even a billion.

Nothing on earth lives to be a billion years old.

"Really? Well they say that Terry Drake’s great-grandfather Gus must be at least a hundred million years old. Have you ever seen him? I mean some people have wrinkles, he has valleys. In fact the kids call that big gap in the center of his neck The Grand Canyon. It’s so wide and deep that it should be featured on one of them world record shows. And man, he has so many bumps on his arms that Terry tries to play connect the dots when his grandfather takes his afternoon nap."

I’m glad that you’ve never tried to play connect the dots on me.

Young Nevada smiled. You know I never would, Grandpa Daddy.

Returning to the subject of Old Tree’s age, Grandpa Daddy remarked, Anyway, I can assure you that he’s not a hundred million years old. I know Gus Drake, and he’s only a few years older than me.

Really? Well I know that Old Tree is older than both of us combined.

I agree with that observation. Grandpa Daddy pointed toward a section of the tree with several intersecting branches. Do you see those branches criss-crossing up there?

Young Nevada pointed in the same general direction as his grandfather. Yes, all those leaves and branches form a quilt, so that we won’t get wet. We are lucky that Old Tree protects us so well.

Exactly. But the abundance of branches and leaves performs another function. Do you know what that is?

Not really.

Grandpa Daddy loved educating his grandson on things big and small. He again pointed to the dense patch of tree growth. Let me ask another question. Do you know what lies between and on the other side of that maze of leaves and branches?

No.

That is the beauty and mystery of Old Tree, for Old Tree projects a different perspective depending on your viewpoint.

Perspective? Viewpoint? You’ve lost me.

Perspective is how different persons see the same set of facts, but from different angles, or in a different way, and then must determine what the facts mean.

Okay, Young Nevada returned in an unconvincing fashion.

Let me give you an example and see if that helps.

All right.

From on top, a person viewing Old Tree sees birds’ nests and a secret storage area for squirrels. From beneath, a person sees Old Tree providing shade and protection from the elements for humans and dogs and different mosses and flowers. Masked in between is a combination of both. To some, Old Tree appears quite simple. But Old Tree is far more complex. In order to understand Old Tree, all its leaves and branches must be uncovered and studied. Each leaf, each branch reveals some unique or peculiar aspect of Old Tree’s overall character. Viewed separately, the leaves and branches provide nothing more than a jumbled puzzle of Old Tree’s interaction with the elements and others. But examined collectively, Old Tree’s secrets are exposed, for all to witness.

Young Nevada thanked his grandfather for the answer. Perhaps Old Tree was not a billion years old as he initially suspected. But it did not really matter, for he was certain about two things above all, one, that Old Tree was quite old, and two, that his grandfather was the smartest, and wisest man in the entire world, no make that universe.

They munched on pretzels while waiting for the sun to re-emerge.

Chapter 2

Four winters ago, just before Christmas and the first snow, Young Nevada Minnesota and Grandpa Daddy sipped hot chocolate a few feet from Old Tree. For both, Christmas served as their favorite time of year. The young boy with wide, coal-black eyes, and chipmunk cheeks reveled in all things Christmas. If only Christmas could last all year, he wished. As it was, Young Nevada celebrated the Christmas season from the day after Halloween until the middle of January. Flashing white ice-cicle lights mesmerized him. Alcohol-free egg nog still lifted his spirits. Pine-scented cones tickled Young Nevada’s nose. Santa dressed in bright red, trimmed in ruffled white, delighted him. A sleigh packed with presents stretching as far as the eyes could see, amazed him. For Young Nevada, Christmas captured one Currier & Ives moment after another.

Presents were fine, and family was special. However, Grandpa Daddy appreciated the opportunity for spiritual growth that Christmas presented. Though he followed the Golden Rule every day, Grandpa Daddy put forth special effort during the extended Christmas season. By treating everyone with dignity, respect, and equality, he hoped that would provide an example for others. As Grandpa Daddy saw it, small acts of kindness gradually blossomed into large acts of kindness. For him, that was the essence of the season.

Sipping hot chocolate from holiday-inspired thermal mugs flushed their faces, and warmed their toes.

I love you, Grandpa Daddy, the grandson said, sporting a thin hot chocolate moustache over his thin upper lip.

Grandpa Daddy cherished such moments. His relationship with his own son could be best described as uncommitted, and without emotion. But he and Young One, as he often called his grandson, truly enjoyed life, and each other. Their relationship endured because it was simple, reciprocal, pure affection, without complication. With a broad, heartfelt smile, Grandpa Daddy, responded, I love you too, Young One. After taking another sip of hot chocolate, he asked his grandson, All right, Young One, give me today’s word, and its definition.

For the past eighteen months, Grandpa Daddy insisted that Young Nevada learn the definition of at least one different word every day. Every third or fourth week, Grandpa Daddy gave a written test, reviewing thirty or forty previous words and definitions, in order to re-affirm what had been learned earlier.

Young Nevada smiled, for he was completely prepared for Grandpa Daddy’s question. He answered, "Today’s word is obsess, and it means to be pre-occupied abnormally or intensely."

Satisfied with the response, Grandpa Daddy remarked, Very good, Young One. Very good indeed.

Young Nevada moved the conversation to the more important topic of the day. He asked, How long before Christmas, Grandpa Daddy?

Oh, not too long. A couple weeks before Santa arrives.

I can hardly wait.

Teeth chattered, as a sharp wind whipped by them and Old Tree. They sipped more hot chocolate.

I can feel it in my bones. Winter is just around the corner. I suspect that we will have our first snow before Christmas.

Snow for Christmas? That would be wonderful. You can watch me slide down the hill on my new apple red polished sled.

Grandpa Daddy chuckled. And how do you know that you will be getting a new sled for Christmas?

Santa will be bringing one to me. It’s at the top of my list.

Then I am sure a new sled will be under the Christmas tree for you.

What do you want for Christmas?

He thought for a moment, then smiled. A man my age, doesn’t need much, really. The best Christmas present I can think of is being with you.

Young Nevada smiled as only a loving grandson could. You’re the best Grandpa Daddy that ever lived.

I’m the only Grandpa Daddy that ever lived, the old man laughed, gently squeezing his grandson’s hand.

Well, I hope you live forever.

That’s a nice thought. But my time on this earth is not long now. At some point, I will die.

Of all the monsters, and demons, and dragons, and dinosaurs that roamed and terrorized the earth, Young Nevada Minnesota could not think of, or envision, one half as scary as death. Even a momentary thought about death caused his legs to tremble. Nothing good or positive ever occurred as a result of death. He remembered his frog Fred. He purchased Fred on a Friday afternoon, and the frog expired Sunday night. Random and swift, death struck without warning, in the deep, dark pitch of night. His grandfather’s words unsettled Young Nevada. Expressing a child’s greatest fear, Young Nevada stated, You can’t die, Grandpa Daddy. You just can’t die.

But someday I will die, Young One. At some point, everyone, everything dies. Even Old Tree will die, one day.

But not you, Grandpa Daddy! Never you! Why you’ve never seen me pitch a perfect game in baseball, and you’ve just got to teach me how to drive a car. While still holding the mug of hot chocolate, he hugged his grandfather.

Let’s just enjoy now, Young One. We’ve got this perfect, once in a lifetime moment. Let’s savor it, and remember this moment forever.

I will. I will never forget this moment, Grandpa Daddy.

Squirrels scampered from tree-to-tree, playing tag and other squirrel games. Nothing complicated. Leaves swirled without a care around Old Tree. Nothing earth-shattering. In the distance, Christmas lights flickered. And so Young One and Grandpa Daddy savored the moment. And of all the moments that Young Nevada and Grandpa Daddy shared under Old Tree, both realized that indeed that moment was the best and could not be duplicated.

Over the next ten days or so, grandson, and grandfather planned the perfect Christmas. By December 23, Young Nevada could not contain his glee. Christmas was only two days away. In two days he could give Grandpa Daddy his special present. In Young Nevada’s mind, his gift was priceless. He was certain that Grandpa Daddy would treasure his gift above countless other Christmas gifts.

And so, the perfect gift deserved, actually demanded, the perfect gift wrap. And the perfect gift wrap demanded the perfect gift wrapper. But Young Nevada could not wrap day-old fish bones in newspaper, much less a Christmas present in distinctive, and colorful, decorative wrap. No, the perfect gift wrapper was his next door neighbor, Miss Meghan Jennifer Simmons.

Inside the home, there was nothing she could not accomplish. She transformed her house with each major holiday. Between Veterans Day and President’s Day, she rotated themes and decorations from room-to-room. Of all the holidays, Miss Simmons especially excelled during the Christmas season. Every year, she placed a ten-foot western North Carolina Frasier Fir in front of her living room bay window. Adorned with no less than three hundred ornaments from her personal collection that exceeded one thousand, her Christmas tree reflected an unmatched magnificence.  A different theme set the tone for every year. Yet, always stylish, always tasteful. That year, Miss Simmons celebrated teddy bears. So that Christmas stuffed the hallways, and bedrooms, and windows of Meghan Simmons’ house. By Young Nevada’s unofficial count, there were at least four hundred twenty teddy bears decorating her home.

As far back as Young Nevada could remember he had visited Miss Simmons. His fondness for sweets provided the necessary justification for his bi-weekly visits. Miss Simmons excelled at baking cookies, cakes, pies, and other types of fruit-filled pastries. With wonderful scents of cinnamon wafting from her triple oven kitchen, Young Nevada’s sweet tooth could not resist her delectable delights. While everything Miss Simmons baked pleased the palate of Young Nevada, he especially craved her angel sugar cookies. Often, he would eat a half a dozen at one setting.

Young Nevada guessed that Miss Simmons was sixty years old, maybe a couple years younger. Her curled black hair had a touch of gray at the temples. She used eyeglasses, simply to read recipes, or that’s what she told Young Nevada. Just over five feet, and thin as rolled dough, Miss Simmons typically wore black or blue outfits, and a white apron with the words Bakers are Best, on the front. When she spoke, her voice revealed just a trace of a British accent.

A retired teacher, Miss Simmons had moved next door to Young Nevada roughly ten years ago, maybe a month or two before his grandfather moved back into town. Miss Simmons’ husband died some twenty years ago, at the hands of a drunk driver. The accident occurred less than a week before their twentieth wedding anniversary. She forgave the driver, but never forgot the incident. She had hoped that time would ease the tears, grief, and loneliness. When Miss Simmons realized that the pain of loss was never more than a pin prick beneath her emotional surface, she immersed herself in all things about the home. Her intense decorating, and baking, regimen served as an incomplete substitute for her loss perhaps; but, at least it lessened the pain to a tolerable level.

Miss Simmons enjoyed Young Nevada’s frequent visits. More than anything, she appreciated the company. Having someone to talk to, and cook for, allowed Meghan Simmons access to the outside world, without having to interact with hordes of individuals she wished to avoid. She appreciated Young Nevada’s innocence. She understood that time and revelations would harden his impressions of mankind. So Meghan Simmons facilitated a young boy’s imagination and belief in the goodness all.

As Young Nevada devoured a sugar cookie, he recalled last Christmas when Miss Simmons wrapped presents at the local mall. He marveled at her skill. She required no tools or accessories, other than clear tape. Each present she wrapped was a masterpiece, a sensational seasonal piece of art. So beautiful were her wrappings that it seemed a shame to ruin them by tearing into the gift. Yet, he could think of no greater compliment to his gift than her wrapping.

And so two days before Christmas, Young Nevada gathered enough courage, and asked Miss Simmons if she would wrap his Christmas gift for Grandpa Daddy. As soon as Young Nevada popped the question, Miss Simmons accepted, without hesitation. Grateful, he added, It’s the best present I’ve ever got for Grandpa Daddy. So it has to have the best wrap. And you by far are the best wrapper I have ever seen.

Not blessed with children, Miss Simmons thought of Young Nevada as one of her family. Responding to his compliment, Miss Simmons returned, Thank you. I will treasure and care for the gift, as though it were my own.

Young Nevada handed Miss Simmons a bent gray cardboard box sealed on each side with a small strip of yellow packing tape. That was the only empty box I could find at home. I was hoping that you would have a better one.

I am sure that we can find a box that is a bit sturdier.

Thanks.

The box jiggled slightly. So what did you get your grandfather?

Go ahead. Open the box. I bet that you will agree that it is the best Christmas present ever.

By removing three strips of yellow tape, she opened the box. A single sheet of white gift tissue covered the gift. Miss Simmons immediately smiled as she examined his present. A perfect gift indeed. Thoughtful, sentimental, and timely. You’ve done quite well, she remarked.

Thank you. I’m sure that he will like it, as well.

If I’m not being too personal, what did you get your parents for Christmas?

My mom, I got her some perfumed body lotion. It’s got one of those fancy French names. Anyway, she’s been dropping me hints since before Labor Day. I was lucky because it was on sale when I went to buy it, so I got her two big bottles. Can you imagine it? Two large bottles of fancy French perfumed lotion for under ten dollars. She should have enough lotion for at least a year, now. As for my father, well, choosing the right gift was tougher. My dad dislikes a lot more things than he likes. He hates shaving lotion, and rarely wears ties. To be honest, even if he wore ties everyday, I wouldn’t know what type or color he would like. Someone mentioned socks, but he has hundreds of socks—so many, that he has two sock drawers, and then that’s not even enough. Anyway, with no hints from my dad, I walked down to the shopping plaza at the end of Maple Street, and checked out Beakins Pharmacy. And low and behold on aisle seven B, I saw a gift that I am sure he will like—a digital camera. My father always talks about how nice it would be to take photographs of the family, but he never has a camera to capture any family moments. If it weren’t for Grandpa Daddy, there would be no photos, no memories of the Minnesotas. So now, my father will be able to chronicle the best Christmas ever.

I’m sure your mother and father will be quite pleased with their presents.

Young Nevada did not mention that he had purchased a gift for Miss Simmons. He intended to give it to her on Christmas morning, just after she delivered her traditional gift, a mountain of Christmas cookies.

With her granny-style eyeglasses, Miss Simmons reminded Young Nevada of someone he had recently seen on television. He was not sure if Miss Simmons’ look-a-like was an actress, or just someone captured digitally. But, as best he could remember, he was pretty sure that the woman on television had won some acting award, or was presented with some humanitarian medal, or was an extra on one of those crime dramas that his mother forbade him to watch on television, but, he caught snippets from the Internet. Yes, in Young Nevada’s world, Miss Simmons was definitely a super star.

Would you like more milk? she asked, interrupting his day dream.

Yes, please. He stared at the wrapped present. I wonder what Grandpa Daddy got me for Christmas?

I guess you’ll have to wait.

He dunked a half-eaten cookie in milk. Young Nevada noticed Miss Simmons smiling. With the inquisitive tone of an investigative reporter, he asked, Do you know what he got me?

Miss Simmons handed him yet another cookie. Whatever she knew, Miss Simmons chose not to share with Young Nevada. Almost laughing, she responded, You’ll just have to wait.

Can’t you give me a hint?

I could. But being surprised upon opening gifts on Christmas Day is part of the joy of the season. You’ll enjoy it more, if you wait until Christmas.

Young Nevada concluded that it was unlikely Miss Simmons would reveal anything to him. He prepared to leave. Thanks for everything, Miss Simmons.

Anytime, Young Nevada. Anytime.

With gift in one hand, and two cookies in the other hand, Young Nevada raced home. As he opened the kitchen door, he finished the second sugar cookie. With crumbs stuck to the corners of his mouth, he kissed his mother, then placed the beautifully wrapped present under the fresh Frasier fir Christmas tree. With its silver, gold, and green theme, the medium-sized box nevertheless captured the attention of anyone casting eyes on the tree and its presents.

Having weathered temperatures cold enough for three scarves outside, moving inside presented Young Minnesota with the ideal opportunity to start a fire, in the family room fireplace. Four logs later, the last embers from the fire burned until suffocated by the surrounding ash. Young Nevada counted the presents under the tree. White sparkles from flashing Christmas tree lights seemingly bounced off the metallic surface of some wrapped gifts. Over fifty brightly wrapped in boxes of varying sizes and shapes formed a fantastic Christmas wreath. Young Nevada yawned, sleepy, but not tired. Christmas could not come soon enough for him.

For Young Nevada, forty-eight hours seemed as though it were an eternity. Forty-eight hours, two days, its relative length dependent upon one’s perspective, and a comparative examination. In forty-eight hours, an astronaut could circle the earth over thirty times. Yet, forty-eight hours would not be enough time in which to fully assemble a space capsule. The average person could walk up and down the Washington Monument twenty times in forty-eight hours. Yet, it took forty-eight hours times three thousand, two hundred eighty-five, in order to build the Washington Monument.

Sometimes, forty-eight hours could prove elusive—a goal too remote and difficult to achieve. Sometimes, forty-eight hours is indeed too long, when twenty-four hours would have been perfect. Sometimes forty-eight hours is not nearly long enough, when ninety-six hours would have been ideal. Sometimes, anytime, is perfectly inadequate to complete that which is beyond human grasp.

All the hopes and visions of a perfect Christmas, and perfect Christmas present evaporated that winter, quicker than the time it took to flip a switch and illuminate a living room in the intermittent glow of red blinking candles and white blinking canes.

That winter, at one eleven in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Grandpa Daddy died. Not by cancer, or heart attack, or disease, or lingering sickness, or crippling condition. No, according to his doctor, Grandpa Daddy simply died of old age. Everyone has a prescribed time to die. And Grandpa Daddy’s was one eleven in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. He did not suffer prior to death. In fact, just an hour before he died, Grandpa Daddy read Young Nevada, Twas the Night Before Christmas. Then his heart stopped, he slumped in his chair, and the book slipped from his hands.

At first, Young Nevada thought Grandpa Daddy might be taking an early afternoon nap. But it was clear after a few minutes that something was not quite right. He ran to the kitchen, and told his mother that Grandpa Daddy was not breathing.

A minute, maybe two passed before his mother returned to the kitchen. Her grim face spoke volumes.

Is Grandpa Daddy going to be okay? Young Nevada asked timidly, not really wanting to know the truth.

His mother glanced away, not wishing to make eye contact. I’m so sorry, son. Grandpa Daddy is dead. He’s in heaven now.

For Young Nevada, it was the worst news imaginable. His first thought was to punch a hole in the family room wall. But a momentary violent outburst would not breathe life back into his grandfather. Soon grief consumed him with a vengeance. Large, salty tears flowed freely. He sought refuge in his bedroom. Pounding his tear-soaked pillow, Young Nevada blubbered, It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Grandpa Daddy was supposed to see me sled down the hill on my new apple red sled. How could he leave me, when I needed him the most? It’s just not fair!

Death did not discriminate. Seldom fair, death nevertheless treated everyone equally without regard to height, or weight, or age, or gender, or race. Always on the prowl for its next soul, death struck at any time, at any place, in the dead of night in Charleston, or at high noon in Yuma, munching on morning corn flakes in Chicago, or sipping afternoon earl grey tea in San Francisco. Death claimed as its final reward both the infirm and the healthy. No mortal could outlive death. Death survived as a constant, incapable of being fooled, or outrun, or bribed, or appeased. Death was inevitable, though almost always unexpected. Death left no one untouched.  Death embraced few friends and billions of enemies. Yet, death showed no favorites and delighted in destroying the hopes and dreams of those still alive—for the moment.

He recalled that his father said that Grandpa Daddy died simply and without pain. But there was nothing simple about death. And even if the deceased died without pain, those left behind endured a hollow, pitch black, moths in the soul, kind of pain.

Young Nevada returned to the kitchen. Miss Simmons sought to console her friend. But nothing, and no one, could console the young boy. With a face streaked with tears and mucous, he soaked more than two hundred extra strength tissues—the ones with facial lotion. In time, the tears stopped. But the agony over the loss of Grandpa Daddy continued unabated. How could someone as good and loving as Grandpa Daddy die on of all days Christmas Eve? The cruel irony of his death would not be welcomed or appreciated on April Fool’s Day, and certainly was not welcomed on a day that was supposed to be festive, joyous, and a celebration of birth and life.

Late in the afternoon, as neighbors stopped by and paid their respects, Young Nevada braved a stiff winter wind, in order to spend time with Old Tree.

Carrying a fresh box of tissues, Young Nevada visited Old Tree. He thought that by visiting Old Tree, he would feel the presence and spirit of his departed grandfather. But his sense of loss was a chasm, wider and deeper than Old Tree’s comfort. In less than fifteen minutes, he had tossed more than half a box of tissues into a brown plastic bag.

Old Tree drooped just a bit more, upon sensing the loss of a trusted friend. Squirrels scampered about searching for the scent of the elderly man who tossed them bread crumbs and nuts from time-to-time. At the end of their vain search, the squirrels sadly stared at one another, not sure of what happened to their kindly visitor.

He’s gone, Old Tree, Young Nevada wept. Grandpa Daddy died at one eleven this afternoon. How could he? He died on Christmas Eve.

For a moment, the creatures of the woods stood still. Perhaps it was the bitter wind. Perhaps, it was their visitor, rubbing his eyes, in a vain attempt to stop crying. Whatever the reason, the spirit of the season seemed to vanish in that instant.

When Young Nevada left Old Tree that Christmas Eve afternoon, he stuffed the unused tissues into the tree hole. He figured that the tissues would be