wild west hero

the bells are ringing and i miss you

The history channel was showing the story of the B western. It was a drawn out accounting of all the old cowboys, Lash La Rue, Gene Autry, Roy Rodgers and the like.

I never had the experience of going to a theater and watching the old serials like my father and my grandfather did, and I distressed that I missed that gentler time of life. I know only through the stories I hear from the Greater Generation, how that must have been.

However, I do remember my grandfather. He was a stumpy little elf, like Santa Claus. His German heritage gave him a stern look and growing up in the Inauguration Days added to his features. He was a Jehovah’s Witness and didn’t celebrate Christmas in the sense that there were gifts, but being a grandfather there was a tree beside the fireplace and I would set on his lap and watch as the singing cowboys would find a way to save the day. (And get a couple of songs out in the process.)

There was one year that stands out in my mind, it was a most wonderful Christmas indeed

I sat on my grandfather’s lap as the fire burned warm in the hearth. The tree was decorated in flashing multicolored lights and Gene Autry and Dale Evens had just fouled the dastardly plans of the evil land owner. It was an extraordinary thing to see in those days and I did so love the old serials.

I remember tracing the goose head on the tips of his rocking chair, as my grandmother came in with a small bowl of popcorn for us and to voice her opinions about the violence of the show. How it was bad for little boys to see, but my grandfather shoed her off with a stern glance.

I never allowed myself to get close to men. My father was abusive and I didn’t trust them. There is something wonderful about Grandfathers though. For some reason they know just what to do, and how to do it to make even a coy dog like myself feel as though the world could never harm you.

They have a wondrous gentility that makes scraped knees less painful and they can take the fear of life away with a simple touch on the shoulder and the slightest of smiles. When a grandfather says it’s all right, the universe comes together in perfect harmony and all is indeed right.

After the show was over, my grandfather would pick up his bible and begin to read to me. Being as it was Christmas, he read the story of the birth of Jesus and to this day, when I hear Linus in Its Christmas Charlie Brown do his holiday speech, I shed a tear.

On that year however, my grandfather broke his religious vow and after his reading and some home hade apple cider, he bade me to look under the tree. Way in the back where no one could see.

I dove under the pine and scuttled around a bit, and in the back was a small box draped in red and green striped paper. There was a hand written tag made of an old paper grocery bag that read to Jr. from Santa. I loved that he tried so hard to make it special, but my faith in fairies had died out long ago.

I snatched up the box and sat down again on my grandfather’s lap to open the box. I truly thought to myself that he was as anxious as I was to see what was inside. He beamed in delight as my spirit soared at the gift.

I remind you again that it is a tenant of the Witnesses NOT to hand out gifts on Christmas, my grandfather was devout in his faith and to get a present from him on this day was a sign of the second coming!

I sat looking at the lid of the box. It was more fun to imagine what could have been in it, than to open it and end the anticipation. But he nudged me and nodded at the box to open it and I did so slowly, savoring every last drop of the moment.

Inside was a pair of cap guns. They were old and beat up. Most of the silver had been worn off and the Leather holster was frayed and decaying. There was an inscription on the but of the guns, carved into the genuine plastic mother of pearl.

They were a set of Hop along Cassidy six shooters! What a treasure! What great generosity! What love must have been put into such a thing, for a man to turn his back on his god and bring to a small boy a gift on the holiest of all days.

I was speechless as I held each gun in my hands. Their silver plating returned to their pristine glory. The glow of each weapon in the light of the fire turned me into something I had always wanted to be! I was now a cowboy! No longer the dreaded red man dying on the plains of my own back yard! I was now and would forever be The Slone Ranger!

I spent the next day knee deep in snow killing Indians and bad guys with my trusty new six shooters and my imaginary horse on the open plains! I played with those guns until they fell apart! The holster was the first to go, then the plastic hand grips and finally the firing mechanism. And soon they became the flotsam of memory in the cloudy sea of time.

The last time I saw this god among men he lay twitching in a hospital bed dying of Altshiemers. I stood silent by his bed as he drew his last breath. His girth now faded and the man himself a whisper of humanity, a shell now tormented by time and disease.

The show I watched tonight brought back something I had lost in time, repressed if you will and the surfacing of it devastated the walls that had held it back, rending any hope of restraint and I burst into uncontrollable tears, as I set here now crying like a child, I miss him.

I miss his soft voice and gentle tones, the way he would teach me his interests and allow me to express myself without fear of reprimand. I miss his lap in the warmth of a fire, listening to him read to me as winter bore down on his little home in the Michigan countryside.

I feel I have betrayed him, by burying his memory down deep to be forgotten until something as trivial as watching the Lone Ranger and Silver ride off into the sunset takes away the thin pretense of maturity and the eternal child weeps for days that can never be again.

I feel unworthy of his love now and need so badly to run to him and beg for his forgiveness. I turned my back on him and never really got to say good bye, or anything that needed to be said. It is the way of a frightened child, to run from the petty fears, to hold onto the better days and inwardly dwell in the proverbial. I’m older than that now and this is for me.

Its 4:00 a.m. and the church bells are ringing. I would like to think this is for me and my confession, but I know that god will work ignorant to me and my derision.

However, I love you grandpa. I will spend all my days missing you and the time we could have had. You were the only male influence on my life that mattered and I want you to forgive me for forsaking you as I have.

I am an uncle now and I get to see myself in the boys and their grandfather. Only now do I understand the truth of you and this is for me…