Plans and Arrangements

The first heavy snow of the season fell before school let out that day. A big snowfall for us is four or five inches. Not so impressive in comparison to higher altitudes, but more than enough for what I had in mind, especially with the plows forming our own transient Everest’s on the corner and at the dead end of our street. All the kids would gather there at the only unobstructed hill in the land, possibly the highest incline in northwest Indiana as far I knew. Together each winter we would take on the stretch the best we could with plastic and metal sleds, sections of tarp and garbage can lids. This evening with the sun racing out of sight, however, I could not wait to get off the bus and run home, get suited up and head out with my snowboard. A real snowboard. Well, as real as I knew existed at the time. I bought it from one of the older boys earlier in the fall with money I begged from my mom. The deal was that it was my gift from Santa that year. That’s how it worked pretty much every year. Anything my sister or I wanted would just be counted as our Christmas present. We would not expect anything else when the actual morning came other than candy and small things bought at Walgreens. By age nine or ten my sister and I gave up on rushing to open gifts at the first light. There was a mutual understanding of sleeping in.

We rushed off the bus, leaping bushes, mounds of snow and door steps to get in to change into our snow suits and torn vinyl moon boots. Sandwich bags were placed between layers of socks to keep the water and frostbite out as long as a paper thin piece of plastic could. It was unusual, even unheard of, for Grandma Morris to baby-sit us after school. I kissed her hello and slammed off to get ready to hit the slopes not giving it a second thought. Grandma Morris was my dad’s mom, we called her Gramma Nonna. She tried in vain to corral us, telling us we had to wait for our parents before we could go outside. My sister and I went hours each day outside and at friend’s house without parental consent or even notice so this made no sense to us. She was adamant that we wait. So I compromised by sliding around in our backyard in the snow and down the patched of ice that stretched from the house to the end of the yard. The liquid exited a pipe that ejected our waste water from the house. Yes, we’d sled on our own poopies.

Finally Gramma Nonna packed us up into her car. By this time we knew something was up but she would not give us a clue. She just said our parents would explain when we get there. Wherever we were going. We knew the route. Possibly thousands of times we took the same road to and from my mom’s mother’s house. Grandma. She practically raised us. She is who would be there waiting for us after school if dad was away driving and mom had to work. We knew the paper factory a block away from the house that caught on fire more times than should be reasonable. We knew the radio antennae in her back yard and the giant swing set, envy of every neighbor kid for the past fifty years. The shed that dad built and we all painted. The little white house on Lindberg Street in Griffith. Right next to the railroad tracks.

She took us inside. My mom and dad were standing around, as were her sisters and my cousins. I was still in my giant snowsuit, boots and gloves. I do not remember if it was my sister or I that asked where Grandma was and I do not remember who said that she had died. I do remember my dad laughing. Not laughing at me but just out of the sheer shock of it. An amused and embarrassed little laugh I inherited that comes out at seemingly inappropriate times and mostly indicates the inability to properly express empathy in certain situations. Like my dad, I do not know what to do or say when someone else is really upset, so we either say nothing or laugh. The tears and crying actually exploded out of me. 0-60 in less than a second. It hurt. Actual pain. My sides and my lungs. Like I got kicked in the back. My condition could easily be described as hysterical.

We were peeled from our suits and told to watch TV and relax. I lay on the couch shielding my face from my sister sitting in the chair to my right. I do not know why I hid from her, maybe to try to be a strong big brother. Maybe I do not know how to comfort people so I hide it so not to have to put people in the position to have to try and comfort me. That does not sound right either.

The next couple days are just a blur of overhearing plans and arrangements. Calls from out of town relatives. Walking around in a stifling fog, like I am wrapped in a giant sandwich bag, separate but not protected, not any way different than I was yesterday to anyone that does not know, but everyone should know, just by looking at me, looking at us. I do not want to know that she called the doctor, the same doctor she had for decades before, whose office I can still smell, the smell of chemicals, green leather chairs and wood paneling. I do not want to know that she begged for help while having a heart attack on the phone, dead before the ambulance could arrive. I do not want to hear about who is going to live in the house or how much it will sell for. There are repairs to do. This is the original carpet, it will have to go.

I find it weird and disconcerting buying new socks for a funeral. There should be a steel box next to the first aid kit in the trunk with these kinds of things. New dark socks, a tie, tissues, breath mints and an umbrella; it should all be ready. This is no time to have to go to places with checkout lines. Kids should not be allowed to play at recess while we wait in a van for the funeral home to open. It should most definitely not be raining, washing my snow away.

A week later it did snow again. We got dressed up again and headed out with my still untested snowboard. This time we ran a little slower. We spent an hour constructing a ramp out of snow, paying close attention to structural integrity and desirable launch angles. After the snow was stacked and pounded into shape and the path cleared and extra snow shoveled with sleds into the bald spots where the earth shone through the white it was time to strap in. There were some doubts but I was not prepared for the total let down that was this cheap piece of plastic. Slow and unsteerable. If I could wiggle my way to hit the ramp straight on I had to jump off of the top of it to achieve any amount of hang time. In so doing the ramp was as good as crushed under the force. My back and behind hurt from all the falling onto wet and frozen ground. I wanted to smash it. I tried to break it over the tree stump next to the road at the top of the hill. Snow crept under my gloves and into my boots. I finally swung and launched the snowboard down the hill and into the trees. Just another in a series of days that did not end the way I hoped.