Winks and Grins Forgotten - Hayden Snyders
I hopped my way up the orchard side looking for the perfect shade of red, trying not to crunch too loudly on the dry, late-summer grass. I dodged the rotten apples scattered throughout the aisles and listened to the cicadas chitter alongside my subconscious telling me I wasn’t supposed to snack on the job. But I was hungry, and Grandma said lunch wasn’t for another hour. It wasn’t long before I found a perfect, plump apple hanging about a foot above my head. I stood on my tippy-toes and stretched my fingers, jumping in attempt to reach it. Every so often I would look around to make sure no one was looking, especially Grandpa; I didn’t know what would happen if he caught someone snacking in the fields, and I didn’t want to either.
After a few attempts, I finally clutched the apple in my stubby little fingers and twisted it from the branch. I took another peek up and down the aisle to make sure no one was watching before I took a timid bite. It was tart and juicy like all Calhoun County apples, and the sweet liquid gushed from the corners of my mouth as I gently bit down: a temporary and pleasant escape from the miserably dry and hot orchard. A few bites in, I turned to find Grandpa coming up the aisle shaking his head out of what seemed like disappointment. He brought his knees up high with every step, avoiding the possibility of getting his feet caught in the tall orchard grass. The sweat in my tiny palms made the waxy apple slip right out of my trembling hands as he came closer. That was the end, I was sure of it. But he walked up to me, ruffled my hair, and whispered, “now don’t tell your mom,” as he winked through a playful grin and handed me another apple, this one looking much better than the one I struggled for.
Mom was a few aisles over picking apples and would surely be upset if she found out I was getting special treatment. When she was my age, Grandpa never would have let her get away with such a thing.
Grandpa Alfred was a farmer for as long as I could remember. He raised cattle, chickens, pigs; grew corn, beans, wheat, and produce like pears, apples, peaches, nectarines, plums, and cherries. After a full morning of thinning peach trees, I would ride with Grandpa into town where we peddled fruit out of the old, single-cab farm truck, roughed up from countless loads of produce in the summer and chopped firewood in the winter. The air conditioning and the window on my side were broken, so he would let me hop on his lap to cool off and pretend to drive as we cruised down the old county road. We listened to the wind blow in and out of the driver’s side window because Grandpa never listened to music on the radio, not that the radio would have worked if he wanted to. And if I was lucky, we would stop for an ice-cold Coke at the general store before heading back to the farm—yet another indulgence that came with a wink and a grin. The bottle would nearly sizzle as its mouth met mine, and it was only a few seconds before my Coke was empty. Grandpa liked to drink his slowly, lifting the bottle to his shaking mouth then returning his arm to balance through the open window. I never had the patience.
When Grandpa wasn’t in the fields, he was in the living room watching John Wayne westerns, Cardinals’ games, or the Thanksgiving tradition of Home Alone. He always let me sit on his lap and steal caramel and butterscotch candies from the mustard-tinted crystal candy dish on the table next to the old dusty recliner, which I never saw actually reclined. The trick was to unwrap the candies slowly, being very careful not to disturb Grandpa with the loud crackling of cellophane wrappers.
If the Cardinals were playing, I would pull up a chair and mimic his excitement when someone scored by throwing my hand in the air like he did. And occasionally, Grandpa would let me cuss if someone struck out or failed to steal second, and he chuckled through a grin every time I did. I knew little about baseball at the time, but as long as I participated, I could keep eating the candies. And that’s really what I was there for anyway.
In-between innings and during commercials, I would try to pry stories from him about the war, but he never told any. I knew he served as a riverbank guard in the Korean War as the army transported tanks and large trucks across the water, but that’s all he ever said.
Christmas Eve dinner was Grandma Marcia’s tradition every year. Our entire extended family would cram into their small, ranch-style farmhouse which stayed toasty despite the frigid temperatures outside. After everyone had said their goodbyes and headed for home, I would lie down on the couch with Grandpa and rest for midnight mass—a sacred tradition in the Gress family. Grandpa and I used to get dressed together in front of the tall, floor-to-ceiling mirror he and Grandma kept by their bed. It was the only time of the year I got to see him dressed in anything but his tattered bib overalls. And after he secured the pewter tie clip (his “church clip”), he would bend down after realizing my tie was in a mess to show me again how to tie it. His hands always stopped shaking when he concentrated hard enough—tying my tie and playing pinochle were two of those times.
A sweet waft of the Avon Sterling No. 6 aftershave he dabbed from the brown car-shaped bottle on the bathroom counter hit me every time he came in close. It burned and tingled my nose but smelled warm, like I imagined all grown men did. He held the bottle down towards me, furrowed a brow, and asked with a side-cocked grin: “You want some?” Without another
thought, I slapped on a few dabs, and it hurt more than just my nose. Grandpa couldn’t help but chuckle a deep laugh and flash another one of his goofy grins.
When I was 8, Grandpa’s presence at midnight mass and rides in the old clunker stopped. He was too sick. It started with the diabetes, and soon after, his organs began to shut down one-by-one. Slowly, we watched his body wither away and his mind succumb to the Alzheimer’s, leaving nothing behind but a dazed and scrawny person who was not my grandfather. On our last Christmas Eve together, I leaned over his wheelchair for a hug goodbye and he whispered in my ear as I bent down, “Who’re you, boy?” He constantly forgot where he was, asking Grandma if he could leave the riverbanks, but I never imagined he would forget me. He did, though, like it wasn’t that hard to do.
Now I stand staring at a body, lifeless and without color, not much different than the last few years Grandpa was still alive. His eyes are sunken and black, and his bottom jaw is slightly crooked, sitting more to the right than I remember. And he isn’t shaking.
The casket is small, but the inside of its lid vividly depicts a black and white sketch of the farm: a small row of apple trees line the distant orchard side just beyond the barn; the gritty dirt road winds its way and eventually disappears into an imaginary town; the open living room windows feature an empty recliner with candies still sitting in the yellow dish next to it.
People are crowding in the funeral home (some of whom I have never met before) telling story after story, bringing back vivid memories of my own which I had somehow forgotten. He’s still sharing stories, making us grin even though he isn’t here to flash them himself. I find myself constantly rubbing his pewter church clip buttoned to my chest, thinking about how difficult it was to tie my tie without him there to help me.
After the flag was folded and the lone bugle played the last few notes of “Taps,” all was silent but the birds, some muffled sobbing, and his joking voice in my head telling me to finish the Coke before we got back to the farm or someone would surely begin to think I was his favorite. I couldn’t help but let out a small giggle and grin through the tears dripping from my cheeks.
After a few attempts, I finally clutched the apple in my stubby little fingers and twisted it from the branch. I took another peek up and down the aisle to make sure no one was watching before I took a timid bite. It was tart and juicy like all Calhoun County apples, and the sweet liquid gushed from the corners of my mouth as I gently bit down: a temporary and pleasant escape from the miserably dry and hot orchard. A few bites in, I turned to find Grandpa coming up the aisle shaking his head out of what seemed like disappointment. He brought his knees up high with every step, avoiding the possibility of getting his feet caught in the tall orchard grass. The sweat in my tiny palms made the waxy apple slip right out of my trembling hands as he came closer. That was the end, I was sure of it. But he walked up to me, ruffled my hair, and whispered, “now don’t tell your mom,” as he winked through a playful grin and handed me another apple, this one looking much better than the one I struggled for.
Mom was a few aisles over picking apples and would surely be upset if she found out I was getting special treatment. When she was my age, Grandpa never would have let her get away with such a thing.
Grandpa Alfred was a farmer for as long as I could remember. He raised cattle, chickens, pigs; grew corn, beans, wheat, and produce like pears, apples, peaches, nectarines, plums, and cherries. After a full morning of thinning peach trees, I would ride with Grandpa into town where we peddled fruit out of the old, single-cab farm truck, roughed up from countless loads of produce in the summer and chopped firewood in the winter. The air conditioning and the window on my side were broken, so he would let me hop on his lap to cool off and pretend to drive as we cruised down the old county road. We listened to the wind blow in and out of the driver’s side window because Grandpa never listened to music on the radio, not that the radio would have worked if he wanted to. And if I was lucky, we would stop for an ice-cold Coke at the general store before heading back to the farm—yet another indulgence that came with a wink and a grin. The bottle would nearly sizzle as its mouth met mine, and it was only a few seconds before my Coke was empty. Grandpa liked to drink his slowly, lifting the bottle to his shaking mouth then returning his arm to balance through the open window. I never had the patience.
When Grandpa wasn’t in the fields, he was in the living room watching John Wayne westerns, Cardinals’ games, or the Thanksgiving tradition of Home Alone. He always let me sit on his lap and steal caramel and butterscotch candies from the mustard-tinted crystal candy dish on the table next to the old dusty recliner, which I never saw actually reclined. The trick was to unwrap the candies slowly, being very careful not to disturb Grandpa with the loud crackling of cellophane wrappers.
If the Cardinals were playing, I would pull up a chair and mimic his excitement when someone scored by throwing my hand in the air like he did. And occasionally, Grandpa would let me cuss if someone struck out or failed to steal second, and he chuckled through a grin every time I did. I knew little about baseball at the time, but as long as I participated, I could keep eating the candies. And that’s really what I was there for anyway.
In-between innings and during commercials, I would try to pry stories from him about the war, but he never told any. I knew he served as a riverbank guard in the Korean War as the army transported tanks and large trucks across the water, but that’s all he ever said.
Christmas Eve dinner was Grandma Marcia’s tradition every year. Our entire extended family would cram into their small, ranch-style farmhouse which stayed toasty despite the frigid temperatures outside. After everyone had said their goodbyes and headed for home, I would lie down on the couch with Grandpa and rest for midnight mass—a sacred tradition in the Gress family. Grandpa and I used to get dressed together in front of the tall, floor-to-ceiling mirror he and Grandma kept by their bed. It was the only time of the year I got to see him dressed in anything but his tattered bib overalls. And after he secured the pewter tie clip (his “church clip”), he would bend down after realizing my tie was in a mess to show me again how to tie it. His hands always stopped shaking when he concentrated hard enough—tying my tie and playing pinochle were two of those times.
A sweet waft of the Avon Sterling No. 6 aftershave he dabbed from the brown car-shaped bottle on the bathroom counter hit me every time he came in close. It burned and tingled my nose but smelled warm, like I imagined all grown men did. He held the bottle down towards me, furrowed a brow, and asked with a side-cocked grin: “You want some?” Without another
thought, I slapped on a few dabs, and it hurt more than just my nose. Grandpa couldn’t help but chuckle a deep laugh and flash another one of his goofy grins.
When I was 8, Grandpa’s presence at midnight mass and rides in the old clunker stopped. He was too sick. It started with the diabetes, and soon after, his organs began to shut down one-by-one. Slowly, we watched his body wither away and his mind succumb to the Alzheimer’s, leaving nothing behind but a dazed and scrawny person who was not my grandfather. On our last Christmas Eve together, I leaned over his wheelchair for a hug goodbye and he whispered in my ear as I bent down, “Who’re you, boy?” He constantly forgot where he was, asking Grandma if he could leave the riverbanks, but I never imagined he would forget me. He did, though, like it wasn’t that hard to do.
Now I stand staring at a body, lifeless and without color, not much different than the last few years Grandpa was still alive. His eyes are sunken and black, and his bottom jaw is slightly crooked, sitting more to the right than I remember. And he isn’t shaking.
The casket is small, but the inside of its lid vividly depicts a black and white sketch of the farm: a small row of apple trees line the distant orchard side just beyond the barn; the gritty dirt road winds its way and eventually disappears into an imaginary town; the open living room windows feature an empty recliner with candies still sitting in the yellow dish next to it.
People are crowding in the funeral home (some of whom I have never met before) telling story after story, bringing back vivid memories of my own which I had somehow forgotten. He’s still sharing stories, making us grin even though he isn’t here to flash them himself. I find myself constantly rubbing his pewter church clip buttoned to my chest, thinking about how difficult it was to tie my tie without him there to help me.
After the flag was folded and the lone bugle played the last few notes of “Taps,” all was silent but the birds, some muffled sobbing, and his joking voice in my head telling me to finish the Coke before we got back to the farm or someone would surely begin to think I was his favorite. I couldn’t help but let out a small giggle and grin through the tears dripping from my cheeks.