Village Squire, 1978-11, Page 38From death
to pumpkin pie
BY LORI HAMILTON
It was shortly after 9:00 p.m. when a call
came from St. Peter's Centre.
"It's Grandpa," Mama said to me.
"He's doing poorly."
"Grandpa doing poorly?" I echoed.
But she wasn't listening.
"Where's your father? Oh, he's down at
the church. I'll call a taxi."
"But I can drive," I pleaded.
"Janice, you're too young...to be with
death."
Grandpa doing poorly. I had buried three
goldfish and a pet cat, but I've never coped
with the death of people ---not people close
by. Grandpa was very close by.
We left my brother to phone the other
relatives and I drove Mama to the hospital.
The silence was deafening.
Grandpa had been moved from the ward
he had been in since his surgery. None of
us kids had been allowed to visit. Being
nearly 10:00, the lights had been dimmed.
I walked into his room, but I didn't know
this shell of a man. Only the wisp of white
hair on the pillow was familiar.
My mother pressed his hand.
"It's cold," she said. "He doesn't
respond."
I recalled how Grandpa had held my
hand on our walks on Woodline Hill. He
was big and strong and his hands gave me
a sense of security. He showed me all the
different flowers; could call all the birds by
name. I hardly noticed my relatives enter.
"What are you doing here?" asked my
aunt distastefully.
"It's all right, Ruth," my mother
replied. "She had to drive me over."
"Well I never! I was 36 when I went to
my first funeral, never mind witnessing
death."
1 felt guilty. But why should 1 have? The
young die too. It isn't reserved for the
so-called mature.
Silence followed. Moans from the room
sent my mind back to the matter at hand.
Reverend Chung was praying.
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"And, Father, guide Your son Thomas
from the darkness of death into the glory of
Your Kingdom."
But Grandpa needed no guide. I could
see him on the hill, his pockets bulging
with apples -and a grin from ear to ear. He
turned back to me and I waved. I was about
to call, "Goodbye, Grandpa!" when Aunt
Ruth's cough brought me back to the
present.
Afterwards, we all went back to our
house. Amidst the talk of expensive
caskets and Grandpa's belongings, our
neighbour. Mrs. Donaldson, served her
luscious pumpkin pie with whipped cream.
She was only there because Grandpa had
helped her to plan her herb garden. She
hated the rest of the family. My brother
shoved the pie into his mouth with two
swipes of the fork.
"Death to pumpkin pie" I mused. and
found 1 couldn't finish it.
1 was going up to bed as my Uncle Joe
said, "Didn't old Tom leave anything?
Always helping some n'e>`-do-well."
I mumbled something like, "Good-
night."
Upstairs 1 thought that Grandpa's wealth
couldn't be measured in dollars and cents
but in loving kindness. He always had •ime
for us --scraped knees. burned pot roasts,
sick parakeets -none were beyond his
concern. Maybe that was why Mrs.
Donaldson was there.
1 wrote on my calendar. "Thank Mrs.
Donaldson for her pumpkin pie."
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