Cross to Bear

When I was little I would do sleepovers at my grandparent's house.  There are certain things I remember about my visits.  Grandpa would always get up before dawn and make orange juice/banana shakes for breakfast. Grandma would do loads of laundry because my brother would inevitably slide down dirt hills and fall into ponds. Grandpa would make paper airplanes. And that their bed was always made with a cruifix above their heads. 

My Grandmother was devout Catholic and my Grandfather was a recovering Mormon.  As long as he didn't have to accompany the family to church every Sunday he was fine with them being raised with the Holy Trinity.  I really think he is more of the agnositc/atheist category.  And yes, this is the angry-last-sacrament-didn't-work-because-I'm-still-alive-the-next-morning-Grandmother, and "good luck" Grandfather. 

When my Grandmother died, Grandpa embraced his bachelorhood.  The cupboards are empty, fridge bare (save for a few deli fried chicken pieces, iceberg lettuce, oj, and hotdogs), and no stinkin' cleaning lady was coming in because he said, "I don't make dirt."  As time has passed, my Grandma's presence is making a comeback.  Before I left Salt Lake I noticed a photo of her reappearred in the living room.  I really missed that photo and was glad to see it back. 

My Grandpa has relocated the cruifix, however.  It now resides in the laundry room.  I suppose the fabric softener is truly blessed now.  Not really certain why it is there and I doubt he could tell me why other than, "It seemed like a good place," or something like that. 

I mention the cruifix only in light of my recent proclaimation of faith and marriage.  I am getting used to things like sharing the fridge with a vat of lagered beer waiting to be bottled, sharing a laundry basket which now doubles its size in half the time, and sharing a bed with yes, a cruifix on the wall above our heads.  This is not my cruifix nor my cross to bear.

It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. 

The morning that I was leaving on my 3 day trek across flatland USA, my father was misty-eyed.  He looked like a lost puppy watching my mother and me load the car.  He wasn't particuarly sad about me leaving, but more so Edgar.  To me his parting words were, "Have a nice life."

"Dad!  Have a nice life?!  That's like saying, 'Good Luck!'"

Yup, apples and their kin.  No matter if I change my last name, my paternity shines through.