Vignettes

One
I was exhausted and re-wearing the same clothes for the 4th or 5th time.  A Christmas-break road trip from Colorado to California and then back to college in Washington had been prolonged by a blizzard that trapped us in Elko, Nevada for two days, and then again by an ice storm that kept us in Portland.  I was missing a suitcase that had somehow gotten lost on the first leg of the trip, and so I had no clean underwear, no cell phone charger and was uncertain of the fate of most of my Christmas gifts.  I was giddy with the prospect of a shower and my own bed, reading the signs aloud as each familiar landmark welcomed us back.  The Tacoma Dome.  The Glass Museum.

And finally, getting off I-5, taking the exit for Highway 16, only a few miles from campus and home.  Spencer's phone rang, and I answered, because he was driving.  It was for me.

"Alice, I'm afraid I have some very bad news," he began.  "It's your grandfather..."

"Daddy, no."  I couldn't breathe.  "No."

Two
It was snowing quite a bit, and the road was very dark.  My father looked older than I remembered, hands on the steering wheel, peering at highway signs.  A lot has changed, even in these backroads towns of corn country, and we numb and tired pilgrims had gotten lost.  Somewhere, there, in that suddenly-unfamiliar chunk of rural Indiana, there is an oak tree growing on the roof of an old, dignified courthouse in a lovely little town.  Its roots have grabbed ahold of the building with stubborn firmness and Midwestern insistence, and the townspeople apparently felt that, like themselves, it should stay where it grew.  As we drove by, I could see the branches uplit by the lights in the little square as we went past, on our way to another little town where my father had grown up, on our way to the sacred ground where my grandfather would always rest.

Three
 "Why, Alice, what are you doing?"  My Aunt Esther could somehow tell by my posture on the lovely reception chair that something was amiss.

"I'm in 'jail,'" I started to explain.

Before I could elaborate, my aunt laughed and my very indignant cousin Maya, age 8, skidded toward me in her patent-leather maryjanes and suitably ruffly dress, scolding me.  Prisoners, of course, cannot talk.  Aunt Esther, seeing a ready opportunity for a break, managed to get herself arrested and me released, and relaxed into the chair in my place.  Before Maya could arrest any additional funeral guests, I took her hand and asked if she would come outside with me.

The snow was thick and fluffy, falling in large, puffy flakes.  Our dress shoes were treacherous on the icy bricks of the church's courtyard.  I held her hand and led her to the plain brass door, behind which our grandfather's ashes resided in an incongruous plastic bin.  Later, a plaque with his name would adorn the spot, but for now, it was flat cold and gave no hint that the man I loved so dearly had chosen it as his resting place.

"Maya, do you want to say goodbye to grandpa?"  I knew she wouldn't remember, and probably didn't understand, but I thought someone should give her the chance to participate, to have her moment, in case in later years she did remember.

"Bye-Bye, grandpa!" She trilled, and I lifted her up to place her hand on the brass, which she did with an enthusiastic and somewhat confused smack.

"Bye-Bye, grandpa, " I repeated.  We went back inside, to the warm, and let Aunt Esther out of jail.