Virgil’s Passing

This is a story of my Grandfather and the last day i saw him on this earth. I think it was brought on by the stories Dad has told me and the passing of my aunt Martha

Virgil’s  Passing

Virgil was his name but I knew him as Grandpa. He was my father’s father. He passed in the winter of 1957, December 9^th to be exact. I was 7 at the time. My only recollection of him was his hands. They seemed so big and rough.  I remember going in the back porch screen door. It creaked and groaned when opened like something out of an old horror movie and if I didn’t move along it would hit me in the backside and hasten my journey through the door way. The door opened into a porch with tools strewn around, some stacked on an old chair, and some like the old worn and rusty garden hoe leaned against the wall. Boxes of “stuff” seemed to defy gravity as they leaned precariously because someone had fished whatever treasure they were hunting out and didn’t properly reposition the box. A David-Bradley chain saw sat on the floor in front of the chair ready to go cut wood for the stove and the cook stove at a moment’s notice. Before the saw, wood was cut with a crosscut saw which now hung on the wall.

As I opened the back door to the house the warmth engulfed me. Wood heat is like that. The smell of old wood and plaster mixed with the smell of a thousand meals cooked on the huge old wood fired cook stove in the kitchen. It permeated the air and wrapped around me like a fragrant blanket. It was the smell of family. A wooden desk piled with papers confronted me as I entered. That’s where Grandpa ciphered, paid the farm bills and opened mail. I always headed for the old rocking chair in the corner by the wood stove. It was Grandpa’s chair, the place where he held court. In days past he sang silly made up songs to his children to make them laugh or hymns for their salvation in his beautiful Irish tenor. His strong clear voice would fill the house with Joy. He was approached many times to sing in Church but always turned down the invitation. In his impoverished state singing was the only thing he could give his family besides love. He wanted it to be special and unique for his own family.

As I approached he would open his folded hands to allow me in. I’d grab his thumbs and open his arms wide enough for me to get in between them. My hands could barely wrap around his thumbs. We shared this moment of recognition and I stayed as long as I could but Grandpa’s spot by the stove was hot and I had a restless 7 year old soul that yearned to explore. I don’t even know if he even knew my name. He and Carrie (Grandma) had fourteen kids together in the span of three decades. Sixteen if you count the two that were stillborn and never had the privilege to know him. He had so many grandkids by the time I got there he couldn’t keep track. This time he wasn’t in his chair so I went looking for him.

“Where’s Grandpa?” I asked.

The house was full of people talking in small groups in hushed tones. An air of heaviness, or sadness, I had never sensed before was everywhere. Usually when this many people in this family got together there was a loud din punctuated occasionally with laughter.

“Where’s Grandpa?” I asked again louder but no one would answer me. They just stared for a moment and went back to their hushed conversations.

Mom caught me by the shoulder from behind and spun me around. Her face was inches from mine. “SSSSSHHHH! Be quiet! Your Grandpa is in the other room but you can’t go in there. Just stay out here and behave!” she admonished. Then she went back into the room with Grandpa and quietly shut the door.

One by one all the aunts and uncles did the same. I and my cousins were left to ourselves. I went over to Grandpa’s desk and found a pencil and a piece of scrap paper and doodled for awhile but mainly I fidgeted. What seemed like hours passed. I went into the kitchen to see if there were any little chicks in the box behind the stove, or maybe the runt of the last litter of pigs. Nothing, so I went   back into the other room.

Sometime in this process I started hearing singing from Grandpa’s room. I recognized the tune from church. It was WHEN WE ALL GET TO HEAVEN. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went over to the door and opened it just wide enough to peak. There was Grandpa in bed lying on his back. His huge hands were resting on his chest on top of the blanket. His face was so sunken that I almost didn’t recognize him. He had no teeth in his mouth and his lips curled around his gums. His breathing was labored and weak. I could see his cheeks move slightly with every breath in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest. Grandma was at his side. There was no IV dripping narcotic numbness into his veins. Virgil wrestled with the angels on his own terms.

All of my aunts and uncles were standing at the foot of his bed like a church choir, singing to their father like he sang to them so many evenings when they were small. They sang through their sadness and tears savoring one last evening together with the man who had sacrificed so much to insure their future. Twelve times they sang the song until he finally fell into a fitful sleep. One by one they gazed on him as they quietly left. Sometime in the middle of the next day Virgil gathered his soul full of music and heeded God’s call home. As he headed into the light he sought out his Lord Jesus and fell at his feet.

“Lord I have brought to you the voices of all the blessings you have bestowed on me for an offering of praise! I ask of you Lord, may I sing to my two babies, the ones that God called home?”

The House of the Lord resonated with joyful music as Virgil sang. All of heaven was hushed as they listened! Virgil was the wealthiest man I ever knew, and he got to take it with him!

Dan Fulton