My grandparents, Alvie and
Marguerite lived in Bluffton, the seat of Wells County, just south of Ft.
Wayne. Their home was a three-bedroom ranch on Stodgill Road among a typical
strip of ranch houses, the kind that sprung up on the edges of Midwestern towns
after World War II, the kind with deep front lawns and no sidewalks. They’d had
it built themselves. They paid for everything upfront, with Alvie meeting
contractors and lumber company deliverymen, paying them on the spot with cash –
money carefully saved from his career as a postal worker.
Their home had a lush lawn
that Alvie tended with the professional determination of a golf course greens
keeper. During childhood visits I often sat on his riding mower in the garage,
pretending to drive or puzzling over the heavy roller the mower pulled around
the yard to make the lawn as smooth as a floor laid with deep shag carpet.
One morning when I was maybe 6
or 7 years old, Alvie took me to the bowling alley where his buddies met for
coffee and a few frames. While he was in the restroom his retired friends
enlisted me in a practical joke. They prepped me with the answer to a question.
When Alvie returned, one of them asked, “Kurt, are you a Republican or a
Democrat?” I responded as prompted, “Democrat.” I still recall the hoots of
laughter and the scowl on Alvie’s face.
It was prophetic. I am a
Democrat to this day.
My father told me once Alvie
disliked FDR for the New Deal, for growing government and making people
dependent upon it. When I pondered that as a young man, I figured it must have
been easier to cast such judgments when you had a safe, government, Post Office
job during the great depression.
I recall Alvie’s disapproval
of comic books and wasting time and his narrowed eye and menacing growl when I
said once I didn’t like the food served at dinner. I ate it.
He was raised in a German Apostolic farm family, the third youngest of fourteen children. Their rural community spoke a Swiss-German brogue. At church, men sat on one side of the aisle and women on the other. Once as a child he was so frustrated with having nothing of his own and no way to have fun, he stole a chicken from his own parents’ farm, sold it to a huckster wagon and bought something for himself alone. Alvie left school at sixteen as all the kids in his family did, but after a year away, convinced his parents to let him go back. He graduated high school in 1924, left the farm and moved to town, got a job at a gas station, bought a motorcycle, left the Apostolic church and became a Methodist.
As a child I tried to imagine
him on a motorcycle, but the portly 60-something-year-old man with wire-framed
glasses that I knew didn’t seem much like the motorcycle type. More like the
type to disapprove of them.
But he wasn’t always a sour
puss. There was ice cream after dinner at his urging. On occasions he’d rope a
sheet of plywood to the back of the lawn tractor and pull us kids around the
yard. At a Meyer family reunion in Bluffton he caught me reaching for a third
Orange Crush from a galvanized feed trough filled with ice and bobbing soda pop
bottles. He nodded and winked, “Aw, go ahead. Who’s counting?” Fishing with him
in the tall grass along the Wabash at the end of Stogdill Road, I threw a rock
in the water, lost my balance and fell in, or as Alvie put it, “You forgot to
let go of the rock.”
He took me home, put me in the
bathtub, and as he scrubbed the river mud from my hair made me promise not to
tell Marguerite what had happened. “She might not let us fish anymore,” he
worried.
When my father visited his
parents on Stogdill Road in the years after he graduated college, sometimes
Alvie would offer to show him something in the garage. Once there, Alvie pulled
a bottle of Manischewitz wine from a workbench hiding place and they passed it
back and forth.
For some-40 years Alvie had
doggedly worked and methodically saved for retirement, but cruel- ly, by the
time retirement arrived the tremors of Parkinson’s arrived with it. Still, he
and Mar- guerite took a train trip across Mexico. It was the first of what they
hoped would be many trips. With a gentle palsy in his hands and mild shuffle to
his gait, he was an easy target. A pickpocket stole his wallet. Later, not
feeling well and needing a doctor, they couldn’t find one. That helplessness
scared Alvie out of traveling again, though he’d saved his whole life to do it.
He would later tell my father,
“I should have spent more of my money along the way and enjoyed life, instead
of saving it all for retirement.”
Alvie corresponded with
doctors near Jacksonville, Florida where groundbreaking work was being done on
Parkinson’s. He had two surgeries in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He was sedated, but
kept awake as doctors drilled a hole in his skull. They put a probe in his
brain and moved it about, looking to touch a place that would still the tremors
in his hands. It didn’t work.
In relentless steps the
Parkinson’s stole his quality of life, the ability to function independently
and perhaps even his will to live. As his condition worsened, he and Marguerite
often took slow, plodding walks near the Stogdill Road house. She would steady
and support him with her arm wrapped tightly around his. On one such walk he
told her, “I wish I had two tickets to heaven.” Marguerite asked, “Why two?” He
replied, “Because I don’t want to go alone.”
But he did go alone.
Parkinson’s drove Alvie into
near silence and a wheelchair. The last time he spoke to me I was eleven years
old. He was lying flat on his back on my parents’ bed where he’d been laid to
nap during a holiday gathering. This was a time when he seldom spoke, and when
he tried, I usually couldn’t understand him. But as I covered him with a
blanket, he said in perfectly clear diction, “You’re a good boy, Kurt.”
I had so often recoiled at his
repulsive infirmities, I felt unworthy of the compliment.
With his muscles so weak he
sometimes choked on food. Marguerite would force her fingers into his mouth to
clear his windpipe. Early one morning as she fed him, he began to choke, but
this time clenched his teeth so she couldn’t get her fingers into his mouth.
And that’s how Alvie died; he
choked to death in a wheelchair while Marguerite tried to save him.
I had never seen my father
cry. But at Alvie’s funeral in the Bluffton Methodist Church, when the minister
got to the part that reads, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” I heard a chilling wail of sorrow rise
up and fill the sanctuary. It was my father. Seeing my dad cry, made me cry.
But even though I was a young boy I understood I wasn’t crying for Alvie,
because I didn’t fully understand what death meant. I was crying for my father.
My dad told me later,
“Funerals are not for the dead. They’re for the living.”
Alvie in the 1920s.
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