GIVING UP THE GHOST

Written in memory of my Dad who passed away in 1996.  I miss you, Johnny!

“Why are we here?”  Up until now, I had been sitting passively in the passenger seat, only half-seeing the scenery.  I knew most of it by heart, having made the trip to Elkhart on the toll road several hundred times in my lifetime.

“Oh, quit being a grumpy-grouch,” said my wife as she turned onto the exit and then paid the toll.  “We’re going to a concert.

I felt relief as we turned south instead of north, driving downtown, parking and then walking arm-in-arm to the tents set up in the street.  There we listened to various Jazz musicians as they each plied their wares.  I avoided the “smooth” jazz that is the muzak of that world, attempting to lull you into that hypnotic state of dull stupidity so that you don’t notice they are playing the same thing over and over and over again.  Sally knew that, if I  heard even ONE soprano sax solo, I would probably shove the thing down the musician’s throat.  Instead we headed for the big band jazz and then made our way over to the piano trio’s.  Arturo O’Fallon was the headliner today and I was a fan.  

 I relaxed for the first time in months as we listened to him, arms entwined.  I almost wish I had a joint!  I chuckled at the thought.  My kids would have been appalled to hear their straight-laced father speak so!  Instead, I ordered up yet another beer and tried, once more, to find that allusive mellowness I’d had in my youth.   

Sally and I ate a bit and then she guided me to the car.  I must have had more to drink than I had thought, for I remember waking briefly as I was being helped into bed.

When I awoke the next day, it was to confused surroundings.  Where am I? I thought, only half-aloud.  A B&B?  Hotel?  Home of a fr—

The sudden roar of a Jet Ski made me sit up straight.  I went to the window and felt the emotions washing over me.  I did not want to be here!  I felt like shouting at Sally, in angry tones, about every thought welling up inside, but looking down at the long yard of the “cottage” I saw my brother and my sisters setting up picnic tables.  Apparently, the whole family was here!  I watched a speedboat pull up to the dock, piloted by my eldest son and I began to swear under my breath when my wife walked in the room.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

“Sally,” I said, working hard to control myself, “Why are we here?”

Her face fell slightly, but then a smile perked up the corners of her mouth.  

 “Oh, quit being such an old fuddy-duddy.  We’re here for a family reunion and to celebrate our anniversary as well as three birthdays.”

“But, you know I don’t like being here!”

“I don’t know why not,” she countered.  “You had some of the happiest moments of your life here at this place!  You used to always tell me stories about how much you enjoyed it here!  We pay for it, so why not continue to enjoy it?”

She was right.  We did pay our share every year.  All of us kids, my brother and three sisters families, had all pitched in for a loan to fix the place up for mom & dad’s 40th wedding anniversary.  When dad died, we’d scattered his ashes into the lake where he’d loved to fish.  When mom passed on several years later, we had the deed transferred to each siblings name and we contributed money for the annual house account to pay for repairs, taxes and upkeep.  But, to me, those “fun” years only served to haunt me after the folks had gone.  The good times simply weren’t as good without them there.  

 I’d not grieved at Dad’s funeral.  Being the eldest, I had to manage everything, so I’d not had the time to show any grief.  I’d suppressed it in order to get things done.  When mom got ill while being up here, I also got physically ill.  I was vomiting and had all the signs of the flu.  When she went into the hospital, I was too sick to visit her and afraid she might “catch” something.  I could have gone, though.  The doctor told me that it was my nerves, not the flu.   

She died without my being able to say goodbye. From that point, I was unable to come up here again and feel happy.  For the past eight years, I worked hard to avoid the one place that I loved.

I walked woodenly through the day, trying to enjoy the revelry that my entire family brought with them as a natural gift.  Friends and neighbors along the lake stopped by, bringing pictures of us kids and my parents from long, long ago.  We spoke of those that lived and those that had passed, drank and ate, watched the children play and then finally sat around the campfire drinking, swatting mosquitoes and listening as Turner, the last of dad’s old friends, got out Pop’s squeezebox and began to play the tunes they used to perform so long ago. 

We all got quiet as we listened, with only an occasional remark and remembrance to break the melancholy silence.  A short while later, someone noticed the time and everyone began to drift away and off to bed.  Sally was one of the first to leave.

“Will you be OK?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine.” I told her, “You go to bed.  I’ll join you in a little while.”

Turner and I ended up being the last one at the fire.

“Your Pop was a fine man,” said the old guy as he packed away the concertina.  “I loved him a lot.”

“So did I.  And I miss him a lot.”  I was getting misty-eyed and didn’t want to go in the direction this conversation was headed.

“You never cried,” observed Turner.

“I did my crying privately,” I lied to him.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replied, “It’s no good for your soul to hold it in like that.  Makes your spirit sick.  You got to give up them ghosts so’s they can be happy.”

I nodded, unable to speak.  Turner got up and held out his hand.  “I ain’t much longer for this world, either, but you’se been good folks.  Thank you for letting me join you today.” 

I took Turners hand and looked at him for the first time that evening.  I was shocked to see how old he looked.  Then I remembered that he was a year or two older than Pop.  I smiled at him.  “I’m glad you came, Turner.  Reminded me of the good ol’ days.”

He smiled back at me and then turned and walked across the grass to his own cottage.

I sat there staring at the fire for the longest time before getting up and heading to the boathouse.  I grabbed an old set of keys from the rack and walked past the lines of docked speedboats until I came upon our small pontoon boat.  I checked the gasoline and the battery.  My brother, always the good mechanic, had kept it in great working order.  

 Opening the doors to the dash, I inserted the key, turned over the engine and piloted the small boat out to the channel and then turned it toward the lake.  When I was sufficiently away from the house, I throttled it up and began the drive around the shoreline.  Something made me stop at one point and I began to cry.   

The sobs wracked my body as I threw myself onto the floor and curled up, my moans going out into the night air.  The bullfrogs and crickets stopped their chirruping out of respect and listened to me as I called out.  I cried hard and long, until my sinuses became so clogged they began to hurt.  Then I just laid there in a fetal position, my mind a blank, yet whirling with emotions.  When I finally rose, it was beginning to brighten outside with a new dawn.  Looking around, I saw that I’d piloted to dad’s favorite fishing spot.  As if to confirm it, a bluegill jumped out of the water to catch at a fly. 

I sat there on the deck of that boat, watching the sunrise and sobbed again, this time softly, from deep within the soul.  I felt a weight being lifted from me as I did.  They left me in peace, those ghosts.  I sighed and then smiled for the first time since being here.   

That old ghost had finally given up.  We were both now free.