These are two tales of my Grandfather that were intended, originally, for the sequel to my novel, “Lost Child of Paradise,” titled “The Night Farmer.” They are based on real conversations and experiences I had with him. He died when I was a teenager, but I miss him every day. I hope you enjoy them.
Chris slipped away after Sunday lunch, unnoticed, his meal nibbled at just enough to avoid questions. The adult conversation, centering, as always around adult things, and sin, and sickness and who was doing what to whom seemed unbearably tedious to him. He took his book bag, and walked through the garden, toward the creek, where the humidity and heat of the summer was relieved by the breeze along the narrow creek bank.
It was one of those hot, heavy summer days that seem so long to children, and so short to the old. His grandfather, smoking out on the porch where he had been exiled by the presence of the preacher, saw him walking along the fence line, and walked out to join him.
They sat together, taking turns throwing pebbles at a milk carton.
The boy spoke. “Everybody says I'm wasting time out here, reading and throwing rocks in the creek.” Another pebble splashed near the carton.
“And what do they think you should be doing instead?” the old man asked.
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Something useful, I guess.”
“Useful to whom?”
Chris shrugged his shoulders again. “I dunno. Everybody says so.”
The old man thought for a moment. “If you consider “Everybody” as one person, you'll find that “Everybody” is wrong about things about as often as anybody. And if you believe what “Everybody” says, you'll get what everybody gets, which is nothing much worth having.”
Chris thought about this for a moment. “Like Santa. Everybody says he's real, but he's not. Just because everybody says it doesn't mean it's true.”
The old man half-smiled. “If I'd known you were paying attention,” he said, “I'd have been more careful about what I said.”
As the boy threw another pebble into the creek, a sad smile creased the leather and canvas of the old man's face. He paused a long moment, looking up at the clouds. The air around him seemed to him to have tightened, as if something were forming there. The moment mattered. Most boys his age believe in Santa. Most boys his grandson's age believe adults don't lie.
But the words had already built momentum, deep in his chest. The love of knowing and understanding that had sustained him so long, and his desire to give his grandson that one thing worth having overpowered the voice that was telling him not to reinforce his grandson's strangeness, not to increase the burden already heavy on those young, narrow shoulders. The words came forth, and he knew where they would lead.
“Now why do you suppose everybody, including me, told you such a humongous fib?” he said.
The boy shrugged. “Don't avoid it,” his grandfather said, gently. “When a question comes up, one that matters, think about it. Sometimes, it needs another question. Sometimes, it needs a guess. But you'll never lose by trying to understand, so long as you keep curious.”
“What do you think?” the boy asked, looking up.
“No, you're looking for someone to tell you the right answer, someone bigger than you. That's another way to avoid thinking about it. The most popular way, I reckon.” The old man paused. “Why are you trying to avoid thinking about it?”
The boy's lips compressed. He looked back at the creek. “I...suppose it's a little scary to think about. It's such a big lie, and so many people believe it. It's like...if you didn't believe it, at least at first, you'd be weird.”
“And you've never believed it, have you?” the old man said. “Weirdo.”
They both laughed. “Couple of weirdos, throwing rocks in the creek,” the old man said. “But there's good news, too. You see, once you know you're a weirdo, you don't have to think like everybody else. If someone says, “ 'You can't think like that,' you can say, 'Well, I'm a weirdo.'”
“So what do weirdos think,” the boy said, “about the Santa thing, I mean?”
“Whatever they like,” the old man said. “Weirdos don't even have to think like other weirdos. But that comes with a big responsibility. It isn't easy being a weirdo, a good one, anyway. You have to think about things honestly. You have to read and study to get anything worth having. You have to be able to change your mind when you learn something new. Since you don't just believe what you're told, you have to take responsibility for what you know.”
“But what if they don't listen?” the boy said, sadness creeping into his voice.
“What if they don't? You're not called on to make weirdos of them. I think you're probably born a weirdo, or you're not. It doesn't do any good to try to force knowing on people. People only respect knowing they find for themselves. And you want to be careful about who you share your knowing with. People can be pretty hard on weirdos when they get scared.”
“Like Jesus,” the boy said. “Jesus was a weirdo.”
“One of the best ever,” the old man said, nodding. “But that's a pretty good example of a knowing that you want to be careful with.”
The boy looked into the creek, the gravity of his thoughts made him look older for a moment. “So, the Santa thing,” he said. “I think there are a lot of reasons. Some people maybe just want to tell a happy story, to make the world seem like there's magic in it.”
“Probably,” the old man said, his eyebrows raising.
“And some just want their kids to behave, and do what they're told,” the boy went on. “So they tell them that Santa is watching, so they get presents.”
“That seems to be so.” The old man's wonder at the boy's fearless pursuit of truth grew in a mixture of pride, and uneasiness. The idea that adults could be selfish and deceitful at the expense of children was a big load for such a young boy to bear.
The boy continued, “And some people think it's a good lesson – that doing what you're told gets you more presents. So they lie – like a fairy tale with a moral.”
The old man nodded. “I think,” he said, “that you are going to be an excellent weirdo, Chris. It's not easy, but it's the weirdos that bring us all forward. Edison was a weirdo. The Wright Brothers were weirdos.”
“There are a lot of reasons for lying, aren't there?” Chris said.
“As many as there are liars, Chris. And it's not always done out of meanness. Some people lie to be kind, some because its convenient for them. Some because they're afraid of the truth. Some because they want to seem bigger than they really are. But there's only one reason to look for the truth.”
The boy looked at him. His young eyes were grave. “Because it's true.”
The old man nodded. “That's enough weirdo talk for one day. Let's go get a hot dog.”
“A footlong, with chili, mustard, slaw and onions.” Chris said smiling.
“The official meal of weirdos,” the old man said. “C'mon.”
And they walked back toward the house. The old man noticed the boy's bowed head, as if the weight of knowing bent it down. He was sad about the weight, but he knew there was no other path for him to walk.
“Can't be helped,” the old man thought, “It's in your blood.”
“Grandpa,” the boy said, “Why did you tell me that fib, about Santa when I was younger?”
The old man considered this. “I'm not sure why, Chris. I think I knew you didn't believe it.”
They walked on for a moment. The boy spoke again. “Was it because you didn't know if I was a weirdo yet?”
“No. I had a pretty good idea. You've always asked a lot of questions that made adults uncomfortable. That's a pretty clear sign,” the old man said.
“Then, why?”
They stopped in the shade of the big willow near the house. “Well, there were other adults around. I suppose I didn't want them to think I was a weirdo.”
The boy frowned. “That's not being a very good weirdo, is it?”
The old man laughed. “No, it isn't! But I'll make it up to you. Hot dogs and ice cream this time?”
“Okay,” the boy said, smiling. “But please, don't do it again.”
“Absolutely.” The old man said. “You have my weirdo word.”
They smiled, the pact made to bear their weirdness together.
###
My Papaw and I used to walk to get away from arguments or tension happening at the house, or just to make sure we were “out of the way” when something was going on that didn't concern us. One of our favorite things to do when we walked was to stop on a little bridge that went over a nearby creek, and play a game we called, “Better Not.”
Better Not was played by dropping a branch on the up-creek side, and throwing pebbles at the branch when it emerged from under the bridge. The objective was to get as close to the stick without hitting it as possible. Papaw was Olympic-level good at this, I was middling at best. He said that when he was a kid, there were mean packs of wild dogs that roamed nearby, and throwing a rock without actually hitting them was a good way to discourage them.
“If you actually hit 'em,” he said, “you'd make 'em angrier. Then you better be ready to kill a whole pack of 'em, which I don't care to do.”
“Why not,” I said, “if they're threatening you?”
He thought about this for a moment. “Dogs, and people I suppose, make threats for all sorts of reasons. When they're scared, or angry about something that doesn't concern you at all, most usually. Besides, it'd be a shame to kill a dog just for being a dog. Being a dog's bad enough I reckon.”
I managed to toss a pebble just beside a birch twig, splashing it, causing it to spin.
“Good shot,” he said. “That'd whistle right past some pup's ear. Make him think he's got better things to do.”
I nodded.
We walked back to the house. When we got close enough to smell the coffee my Grandma was boiling, he stopped and drew in a deep breath. “That's a special smell. I like to take in smells. Think about what they mean. I didn't ask your Grandma to start the coffee. She did that when she noticed we were gone. She knew I'd want coffee when I came back. That's a little kindness, you know.”
He picked up a pebble, and regarded it for a moment. “I remember what my momma's breakfasts smelled like. I remember the smell of my first pair of new leather shoes. I've smelled a lot of things. Knowing what stale air smells like can save your life in the mines. In the war, I smelled things that...I can't describe, or forget. Something about smells that goes right to memory.”
He put the pebble in my hand. “There's a line that you cross when you hit someone, dog or man. There's no easy way back over that line. Worth learning how to miss when it's best to miss.”
###