into the mystic...

the night before, my father had tried to strangle my mother. i had beat him off with a tennis racket and he left crying to my grandmother's.

today, i sit in russian history. mr. girtman passionate about the treachery of rasputin. i was doodling in my notebook when the P.A. called for me to come to the office. the teacher glared at me and then nodded for me to go. i was usually in trouble in high school, and the office was like another class to me.

i collected my books and walked out into the hall. what was it this time? did they find my stash of speed in my locker? damn, k-9 checks!! did dad do something else to my mother?? is it dad come to collect me and take me away from my mother?

my mind filled with worry as played back the previous evening's episode.

i entered the office. standing there, flirting with the secretary, was my grandfather. dressed in khaki, like always. smiling with those whiskey-stained eyes of his.

"grandad?" i said a bit confused, "what are you doing here?"

"taking my grandson to lunch." he said patting my back, "that okay with you? or should i have made an appointment?"

i looked at the assistant principal who was standing there behind him.

"go ahead, bradley." he said.

"do you got all your stuff?" grandad asked.

"uh...yeah." i followed him out of the office doors.

we went to his favorite spot. a small cafe called "the windmill". there is a manshaped patch on the wall from a guy my dad shoved for pinching my mother's a*s from a few years ago.

we both ordered a cheeseburger with fries.

after a few bites he grabbed my hand with his, "you okay, grandson?"

i didn't know what he meant at first. grandad wasn't the touchy feely type. then i realized he knew about what happened last night with my parents.

"yeah..." i answered. "yeah i'm okay."

"how 'bout your mom? she okay too?"

mom wore sunglasses today and heavy makeup.

"i think so." i started to choke on my tears remembering the words shouted last night...the sounds...the crashing...

"we can't control what our parents do, bradley." he says, "i wasn't the best father to your dad, y'know?"

i looked up into his face, "did you hit dad too?"

grandad sighed. "no. no, i didn't, nor did i hit your grandmother. i'm not sure where your father got that from. but i'm sure i helped put that rage in him. i was hard on him...whenever i was home. i was gone most the time...when i was home...well, i drank alot."

sometimes, when you're young, you hear things that dispell all the myths and fairy tales you believed of your elders. this was that moment. i didn't want to hear about grandad's drinking problem. we all knew about it, but we didn't talk about it.

"why, grandpa? why do you drink so much?" i asked trying to swallow this knot the size of texas in my throat.

"i saw a lot of bad things in world war II, bradley. that's not an excuse, but it was the seed. something in me died in that war."

we didn't say anything else to each other until after we finished our meals.

"want to go fishing?" he said finally as we walked out the front.

"what?" i was surprised, "but i have to get back to..."

"do you want to go fishing, or not?"

"um...yeah."

"good. i've packed an extra pole for you with a couple of cokes and some kipper snacks and peanuts."

a smile dances on my face.

"oh yeah...." he grabs my hand again, "don't mention this to your parents about me taking you out of school."

we sat on the dock and fished the rest of the afternoon. grandad's transistor radio crackled out "into the mystic". i listened to the words and the mood that always stuck in my head to this day.

"who sings this song?" he asked.

"van morrison." i answered.

and he started humming it to himself.

 

once a month he and i would go fishing until emphysema took him away from me. in the hospital, on his death bed, he reached for my hand. i had never seen my grandad cry until now. he was scared. he didn't want to go.

i hummed the song we shared until he let go of this life. at his funeral i played "into the mystic" in his honor on my guitar. everytime i hear it, i smile and allow one tear to drop for my grandad.

Author's Note

songs trigger memories, and after reading a few poems today and getting an email from a friend on here...i was inspired to write about this.
salud, grandad...whereever you are...

Reviews

[Lovely Lady]

memoreis... nothing like them... I love when i can experience something not of my world but in my world through the words and works of another. This is splendid... and Van Morrison plays in my head; hums in my heart. Thanks for the share. You Rock!
~♥~

[Michael of Gilead]

Salud, to your grandad.

[Wildfleour]

I loved reading this, as I have become accustomed to your poetic style....this pushed me to think, and read, about you differently.

It is amazing what triggers us. For me, anything sensory will conjur up a memory.

[Matthews Reggie]

tender, sad, but good... thanks for sharing...

*siffle*.. yeh..

[Crinkle°]

what a wonderful story, Bradley; very well wirtten, you know, alive and moving.

[David W Moore III]

a tear welled up on this one. Thank you for shareing this tender memory

[Lovely Lady]

a smile dances on my face...

[Robin]

man that was beautiful ... like we said ...