When I was a little girl, we lived in Minnesota. I don’t remember what the town was like, I can’t recall the bakery my mom worked in, and I only vaguely remember the woods behind our house. What I do have mental snapshots of is the snow, and my dad’s ugly little car, and...my dad. All of my memories of Minnesota are tied to him.
My grandparents drove up from Colorado to visit one summer; I remember how they looked, pulling the brown car into the driveway. My dad’s mother, short and round with vivid red (dyed) hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and a crisp white blouse. His father- a tall, powerful man, age only just beginning to take its toll. Denim bib overalls over a plain white shirt. Ball cap turned ever so slightly off center. He smelled like beer and peppermint candy and he started swearing before he even got out of the car.
I got to ride with Dad and Grandpa into St. Paul one day. I’d never been to a big city, and I remember how...mysterious, and alien it seemed. It was raining; I kept pressing my face against the window in the back seat to try to see the buildings better. Grandpa cursed every time he heard me breathe on the glass- “Kids gunk up every —— thing”. But he slipped me candy every so often and pointed out things he thought I’d like.
My dad drove, and when he was behind the wheel, he told stories. I believed every word, no matter how bizarre- and his stories were Always bizarre. He bought me a bag of gummy worms that day, and told me I could eat them all as long as I didn’t tell Grandma.
Both my dad and my grandpa are gone now. Grandpa got sick and was in the hospital at the same time I was there to have my son. I didn’t- couldn’t- go see him; I hadn’t seen him in years. He was pleased, I was told, to hear he had another great-grandson. He died a couple of days after I brought my baby home. My dad died less than three years later, after my daughter was born. He fell from a roof at work and had internal bleeding. I hadn’t talked to him in years, either.
I don’t know why this is getting to me tonight, why I’m sitting in the dark remembering St. Paul while the rest of my family is peacefully dreaming. I Feel like I’m dreaming; maybe I am. Maybe my dad isn’t gone, maybe Grandpa will call and ask me to go fishing. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and still be in the back seat of the car, drawing smiley faces on the window and watching the rain drops forge erratic paths down the glass.
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