(and his son & grandson, in memoriam)
The winter Grandpa died,
he’d been out chopping wood
until late morning, sat first on his
recliner, got up, told Grandma Hazel where it hurt, covered his
lungs with the palm of his hand then patted his chest, moved
over to the sofa, she had run to get him some aspirin, and
when she was back in the living room, he was on the sofa, on his
Back, lifeless, a heartattack. Dad had
Cancer, lymphoma, he was 57—the age I’ll be in 3 years—it had
ravaged him, but he had seemed on the mend, went down fast in
one short week, my brother, Gary, found him face-down in the driveway, he’d
spit blood until he was completely spent, gone too soon. At 48, Gary—he and Dad shared the
same middle name, Grandpa’s, Thurlow—fell asleep in his truck one hot night, never awoke.
