Fifty Years Ago

The past few days have been about remembering an event that re-shaped the world fifty years ago.

For me, the public remembrance of President Kennedy’s death always evokes a more personal memory. I’ve told this story before, but a fiftieth anniversary seems like the right occasion to tell it again.

(Note: I’m posting this on both blogs. Apologies to those who received it twice.)

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As Elmer’s first grandson, I enjoyed some sort of favored status.

I remember several things about Elmer. He was the strongest, toughest man I’ve ever encountered. Even in his fifties, the men who worked for him in the railroad yard told stories about his toughness. As a kid I didn’t really get it. To me, he was just Grandpa, but those men talked about Elmer in nearly legendary terms.

I also remember Elmer’s death. In an odd way, it might have been the event from his life that had the most significant impact on me.

I know the date he died—November 29, 1963, fifty years ago today—because it was exactly one week after President Kennedy’s assassination. He was very ill, and he asked to see me before he died. So after a weekend glued to black-and-white television images from Dallas and Washington, my Mom put me on a train for the trip from Chicago to South Dakota.

My aunt met the train at midnight and took me straight to Grandpa’s house. As a twelve-year-old I didn’t grasp that he made her promise to bring me because feared he might not live through the night.

I remember being shocked when I entered his bedroom. He looked like a shadow of himself. The bulky arms were sticks, his booming voice was a muted whisper. He motioned for me to sit beside him, then reached for something laying on the bed.

“Here. I want you to have this,” he rasped.

“Grandpa—this is your shotgun.”

I couldn’t count the times I’d watched him drop a pheasant with a blast from that gun. I’m not sure I ever saw him miss, but that might be a grandson’s selective memory. He’d taught me to shoot (not very well) with a single-shot 20-gauge. I’d never even fired a 12-gauge, and certainly never dreamed of hunting with HIS gun.

I cradled it carefully, just like he’d taught me. It was a double-barrel, a relatively rare style known as an “over-under.” I ran my fingers along the worn stock, beginning to understand the significance of this moment.

“Now it’s yours. Take good care of it for me.” He slipped into sleep.

The next day was Thanksgiving. I don’t think I got more than a few feet from the leather case containing the most prized possession I’d ever owned. Early the next morning, the phone at my aunt’s house awakened us with the news—Elmer was dead.

The next days were a blur of tears and arrangements, family filling every spare bed and couch, people I didn’t know asking me about the gun case. I didn’t know what to say—I was afraid to even open the zipper. Then on Sunday everyone gathered on the night before the funeral.

As the evening went on and adult beverages flowed, Elmer’s eight older brothers began telling stories.

They grew up in a rough part of St. Paul, and the youngest brother was also the fiercest fighter. Whenever there was a confrontation, they made sure Elmer was around. The drinks and stories continued, and I noticed the laughter.

Everyone laughed—not polite chuckles but loud, boisterous laughter. The stories got more outrageous, the laughter became more intense until the windows seemed to rattle with each outburst. The louder they got, the more uncomfortable I felt. I pulled my Mom aside.

“Why is everyone laughing? Grandpa’s dead—how come they’re laughing?”

“Think about your grandpa,” she replied. “What’s the one thing you remember?”

And I understood, because of all the things I remembered about Elmer, the most striking was his laugh. He never snickered or chortled. When Elmer laughed it was a full-out, deep bass laugh.

Mom saw the understanding in my face as she remembered her father-in-law. “Your grandpa loved to laugh. If he was still here, don’t you think he’d be right in the middle of the stories?”

I nodded.

“Your grandpa wouldn’t want us sitting around being sad. That’s not how he’d want to be remembered. He’d want exactly this kind of party.”

She was right, because he never did anything halfway. When grandpa got mad, he got really mad and everyone knew about it. And that’s how he laughed.

I returned to the party and became mesmerized by stories of fighting, outlandish pranks, and the general chaos of life in a small St. Paul apartment with nine boys. I laughed at Elmer’s career as a bare-knuckle boxer, the times his older brothers let him fight their battles, the times when fights never materialized just because Elmer showed up.

I learned about my grandpa that night. I learned about his uncommon combination of fearlessness and gentleness. I learned about his generosity, how he stood up for others, and the times he helped someone through the difficult times of the Great Depression.

I don’t remember his funeral or burial. I remember Elmer’s laugh.

I believe I’ll spend eternity in God’s presence. Scripture assures me of a new body, which I’m certain will have six-pack abs and a full head of hair and will not require a wheelchair.

I don’t know what that will be like, but I hope there’s laughter.

I hope the souls in heaven laugh like Elmer laughed.

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