Burying Grandpa

by Gerald Bosacker

School vacation was already one week old, and nothing exciting had happened. My new Buck Rogers rocket watch said it was at least nine o’clock, and my cousin Billy was still slopping down breakfast. I made tons of noise while waiting outside on the back steps hoping that would speed him up. Already too late to go fishing, but we probably would try anyway. We hadn’t caught anything but bullheads so far, and they were the only fish I couldn’t eat, even if I had both caught and cleaned the ugly mud puppies. Billy would and did, though. He would eat anything yet he was as skinny as I and almost as tall. Except for Eunice and Mirabelle, I was the tallest kid in sixth grade in Le Center, Minnesota.

“Billy! That’s enough cornflakes. You’ve had two bowls already, and your Dad will want something to puke out, if he ever gets up. Put your bowl in the sink, and go try to wake your Dad,” said my Aunt Mary, very crabbily. I stopped whistling, and whittling with my new boy scout knife, and hunkered down quiet.

“Crap!” Billy’s Dad had been on a toot, again. Usually, he just fell of the wagon on Saturday nights, but this was Saturday and a half workday for Uncle Boog at the Le Center Creamery where he was the newly promoted, Chief Cheese-maker.

Our Grandpa Kelly was an Irish bartender and that made him an expert on boozing. Grandpa always said that no one was a drunkard unless they got drunk two days in a row. I hoped Uncle Boog wouldn’t qualify, drunk again on Saturday.

It seemed like hours and still no Billy, but time passed slow waiting but time was flying where our short and precious summer vacation was concerned. The screen door finally banged open, and Billy came out quietly, followed by his surprisingly healthy father, Boog Kelly, who should have been at the creamery.

“Well, now who’s this bum sitting hungrily on my steps, waiting for a handout. Damned if it don’t look like me brother’s child, Gary.” He tousled my hair affectionately and said, “But Gary wouldn’t prefer to sit on the back stoop, like as if we wouldn’t want him at our table.”

Billy winked, and started unlocking his bicycle tethered to the porch railing, as if somebody would steal his rickety hand-me-down bicycle.

“Hello, Uncle Boog,” I said, hoping for a quick and uncomplicated get-a-way.

“Tell your Mom, don’t buy any cheese dated, June 6, 1951, as it won’t be Le Center’s finest. I took the day off to mourn and bury Dad and my helper ain’t quite got the hang of cheesemaking yet.” It was then, I noticed the large stoneware crock he was holding. Grandpa had died last fall, racing the Great Northern Streamliner to the Lexington road
crossing. Because the impact caused Grandpa’s home-made Irish whiskey to explode, cremation was the family’s only logical choice for his remains — which was unfortunate because most Le Center Lutherans believe that you arise from the grave on Judgment Day, just as you are.

I was curious why Uncle Boog waited until today to bury his dad’s ashes and why he chose a Friday night for mourning, instead of Saturday, when he could sleep late. I was curious enough to ask, “Where you going to put Grandpa?” not at all sure that I wanted to know, or that Uncle Boog would tell me the real truth. He was always teasing, like Grandpa did in his saloon, where everyone came to hear his wild stories, even those listeners who only drank Kelly’s home made genuine Sarsparilla and Nerve Tonic, thinking that it was alcohol free.

That locally famous drink was Billy and my main source of income, until Dad started teaching me the value of a dollar by working for him at Gunder’s Cosmetics and mail order house. Grandpa bought the bottles for his elixir from Billy and me. We gathered empty bottles, getting two cents for beer bottles and a penny for ketchup or pop bottles. Grandpa bottled his elixir only in bottles Billy and I supplied. He brewed it in a large cauldron, just like witches use. Some folks said, it was mostly Catnip and Indian Hemp, but Grandpa never let anyone watch him mix his drink, so one could only guess.

Uncle Boog, took a long time to answer like he was just deciding.

“Grandpa, always wanted to travel, and never did. He loved to visit with people, really get inside them and see what they believe. I think I will go to the creamery, grind up his ashes with the peppercorns for our pepper cheese, and let him travel everywhere we send our cheese.” Then Uncle Boog paused, looking a bit pale and strained. He set the crock down on the top step, and ran back in the house.

“He was teasing, wasn’t he?” I asked Billy, remembering how Uncle Boog fooled you except when you thought he was, he wasn’t. “Remember when he said he tanned your butt for selling Grandpa that case of beer bottles, and we thought he was teasing?”

Billy rubbed his butt, while remembering that walloping, “He said he was sorry afterward. Just the thought of all that beer going to waste made him temporarily mad at me.” The case of stolen beer Billy and I had found hidden in a culvert under the tracks to the lake, had no value to us, except as empty bottles worth two cents, and we had uncapped and emptied the whole case, taking the empties to Grandpa’s Bide-a-Wee Tavern.

Boog caught Billy returning the borrowed bottle opener to the kitchen drawer, and insisted on knowing why it was borrowed. Billy was not a good liar like me, though I sure have coached him. Grandpa had thought Boog’s outrage was funny, and told everyone. Uncle Boog
didn’t laugh or think it funny at all.

“We can’t let him do it,” I said. “Maybe that would poison people, or make their teeth fall out like Grandpa’s.”

Billy nodded in agreement, shushing me, and grabbing hold of the crock.

We carried it back to the woodshed and garage, at the end of the lot, then returned and started a game of mumbledy-peg with my new knife, while we waited for Uncle Boog to reappear. I had Billy forced to pull the almost buried peg with his teeth when we heard the telephone ring, and soon Uncle Boog came out, almost running.

“Tell Ma, I’m at the creamery; my assistant walked off the job.” He loped down the alley toward the creamery on B street, totally forgetting the crocked remains of Grandpa.

Learning responsibility, I worked Saturday afternoons at Gunder’s. I swept the floors while everyone was off, and the plant empty. I hated working when others weren’t but my Dad wasn’t like his brother Boog at all. Dad wanted me to learn the work ethic and the value of money. I had only a couple of fun hours ahead before my janitorial chores, but I had a grand inspiration. Work wasn’t too bad if you had company.

“Hey Billy, I know where to put Grandpa, and he will absolutely love it. Gramps will travel all over the world and will have intimate contact with lots of beautiful girls. Absolutely love it.” (I had deliberately used one of Billy’s favorite words, since we had looked it up in the school library’s big Webster Dictionary)

“Oh, and where’s that, pinhead?” he said, casually but I knew I would have him helping me sweep floors in the dusty mixing room, just as surely as Tom Sawyer had Huck’s help painting fence.

“At my job! There’s a big tank they keep the talcum powder in. We can drop Grandpa’s ashes in and the vibrator will mix him in with all the other stuff they blend in the face and body powders. Gunder’s ships that stuff all over the world. Gramps would love being slathered on a lot of pretty girl’s butts. He never could get close enough to those huge, old ladies that hung out at his tavern.”

Without even asking about the work we would have to do first, Billy had agreed. We scrounged around in the woodshed for something to put grandpa’s ashes in. We needed a handled container so could carry him on our bikes. We found an empty pail that once held three gallons of pickled pimentos, flavoring for LeCenter’s finest pepper cheese but now gathering dust under Grandpa’s old workbench. Without spilling any of Grandpa in that dirty old shed, we got him in with the residue of a million dried pimentos. Someone sneezed and I thought it was Grandpa, until I saw Billy backhand the snotty remains on his jeans.

Gunder’s was closed Saturday’s but us important personnel knew a spare key hung on a nail under the loading dock. I opened the door and said, “Let’s do sweep-up first, so we can include Grandpa when we dump the sweepings in the mixer.”

Billy, just laughed and said, “I knew there was a reason you didn’t sprinkle Grandpa out the pail while we rode out to the lake!” I forgot to tell you, that was his brilliant plan. Sprinkling Grandpa all over town, like the water they used to settle the dust on Le Center’s streets during summer would be an insult to a man never ever found laying in a gutter, like his youngest son Boog often occupied.

“Okay, we’ll mix Grandpa in the powder, first. You can go fishing alone while I do the sweeping. I grabbed the pail from Billy and walked to the ladder to the steep steps that went to the platform surrounding the top of the powder vat. “You can come up, Billy, but don’t make any sparks. No smoking because this fine dust is explosive like gunpowder. That’s why my clean up job is so important.”

Billy mumbled something I didn’t catch. He didn’t smoke but he always had candy cigarettes he’d selfishly suck on without sharing. I think cigarette companies made them so kids would think it was cool pretending to smoke. Ma wouldn’t let me have them, so I didn’t get any when they closed Grandpa’s place. Boog and Billy got most of the goodies.

We went to the top, about sixteen feet above the floor where a noisy belt conveyer brought up big sacks of finely ground flour, stinky flower parts, and powdered rock. A slick vibrator and air pump was used to mix the ingredients and fluff it up. I turned it on so Grandpa would be spread thoroughly through the gigantic vat, and soon the level of fluffy powder rose near to the top, though it had been less than half full.

“Pry off the lid, Billy. Be careful of the powder, it’s really slippery stuff and look how far down it is.” Billy looked dizzily down, handed me the un-opened pail, and started back down the steps.

I stood, looking at the powder fluffing, prying off the lid, and must have pried too hard, slipping sideways on the powdered steel grating. Taking three small steps, to regain balance, one of my feet went over the edge where I teetered, one hand grasping for the opened the safety railing, grandpa’s pail handle firmly held in the other.

I did not float in the fluffed up powder, but grandpa and his pail did, a full arm’s length over my head at the powder’s surface. The vat full of suffocating powder was much deeper than I could survive, and it was many seconds of frustrated kicking before I realized, what held my right arm erect. Grabbing the pail handle with both hands, I reached the surface and by wrapping my arms around the buoyant pail, got my head high enough to breath.

“Billy, shut off the vibrator,” I yelled but my voice was stifled by a mouthful of powder. My vision was blocked by a pasty coating of powder. I yelled again, a little louder but Billy did not answer.

Just a little calmer, I realized the seriousness of my predicament, and thought of how I might survive. Firmly holding the can of Grandpa’s ashes, I tried kicking to the side of the bin, but swimming did not work in the fluffed up powder. Blinking did not clear my eyes, so my fate was in the hand of rescuers that would come only if they knew I was there.

“Billy, please get help. You won’t be in trouble. Please get help,” I said in my Sunday company voice. He did not answer. I hoped that he had gone for help, but knew that was a long shot. Billy would not want to be a part of my predicament because his Dad was extra mean when he was sick. He was usually just sick Sundays, but this week, Uncle Boog had a head start.

I thought the can holding me up was sinking, fine powder sifting in past the lid maybe. My dilemma was getting worse and then the plant’s fire alarm began warbling. If the flames reached the powder vat, I would escape, but in a ball of flame, streaking across the town like a sky rocket.

I could hear the siren of LeCenter voluntary Fire Department’s big American-La France fire engine, and it was coming closer. I sniffed for tell tale smoke but could only smell the lilac smell of the powder clogging my nostrils. The siren grew louder and louder.

I heard Gunder’s front door burst open and Le Center’s Fire fighters burst into the mixing room, and clambered up to my mixing platform area. They had came for me and I was never so glad to see anyone. Even Uncle Boog in his yellow slicker and big fire hat looked good to me.

“Where’s Grandpa?” Uncle Boog asked.

“Mixed in the bath powder,” I said, worrying whether he would punish me for losing Grandpa’s ashes, or just Billy, for calling the fire department. Instead, Uncle Boog totally surprised me.

“You and Billy come by the fire station. Soon as I get out of my gear, we’ll go to Whelan’s Drug Store and get us all a double size chocolate sundae. We’ve got to do something important so we will always remember the day we buried grandpa.”

And, of course, we still do.

Copyright © 2002-2008 Gerald Bosacker
All Rights Reserved.

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