Grandpa Ron

In memory of my Grandpa Ron Stockton. Elvis Presley’s voice fills the RV. The words of “Put Your Hand In the Hand” collect in my nearly teenage mind. My dad sits in the driver’s seat, fiddling with his radio. The twenty-seven hour drive bores him, and he finds his entertainment in trying to communicate with the semi-trucks on the freeway. My mom stands in the kitchen, which is about half the size of a modest bathroom. Her legs are spread wide and one hand clutches the bathroom door frame as she lifts chilli into the microwave. The RV lurches and sends chilli down my mom’s arm and onto the stovetop, and she mumbles something about my dad being too stubborn to stop for meals. Clucking and squacking drift to the couch, where I am squished against our two dogs and cat. The bump must have woken up the chickens and birds. Now, an RV blasting Elvis Presley while an exhausted mother tries to prepare food for her husband, daughter, two dogs, one cat, two chickens, two birds, one bearded dragon, five tree frogs, three toads, two salamanders, four snakes, and one tortoise might seem like a rare occurrence to most. To me, this was tradition. Every winter since I could remember, we would all pack into the RV and make the three-day (actually two since my dad refused to stop) trip to Fort Myers, Florida to spend a month with my Grandpa Ron. My mom homeschooled me, and my dad ran his own construction business, so we could spend a month or sometimes more with my Grandpa. “Don’t use so much water!” I shut off the faucet and started scrubbing the left-over chilli bowls with the little water left in the sink. As soon as we were out of the driveway, my mom became the RV water police. “How far out are we?” I ask. “30 minutes.” My dad sounds like he hasn’t slept for days, which is true. Sometimes we camp out at a rest stop for a few hours, but rest stops make both my parents nervous. Something happened before I was born that involved a guy coming into the camper and my dad going through the bedroom’s sliding door (literally because it was locked, and he couldn’t get it open). Turns out the guy was just drunk, but they did without a bedroom door for a while. “May I co-pilot now?” My parents only let me sit in the co-pilot seat when it’s my turn to keep my dad awake or when we’re almost there. “When we are ten minutes out,” my dad barked. He really needs sleep, I thought. Since my parents were now engaged in some sort of argument about my Grandpa and his new boat, I snuck into the bathroom to get the animals ready for arrival. We had the chickens confined in the shower for the trip. Flower and Snow Ball began clucking enthuasiastically when I opened the door. Flower was pitch-black with a crown of feathers flopping every which way on her head. Snow Ball was all white fuzz except for her wings, which had some gray feathers. I cleaned out the shower and put down more newspapers before turning to the sink, which had one of the salamanders and the frogs. I misted their travel tank and dropped in a few more worms. By the time the animal preparation was complete, we were ten minutes away from my Grandpa’s. I plopped down in the massive co-pilot seat and patted the spot next to me for Mickey, one of the dogs, to jump up. The smooth asphalt stretched out for miles and miles ahead of us. I could see the heat radiating from it as the waves climbed upward before losing their strength about a foot from the tar. Palm trees reached towards the sky on either side of the highway. “Look, there is Sonny’s!” I pointed at our favorite southern barbeque place in the whole state of Florida. They had an endless plate of ribs that my Grandpa always said I couldn’t finish–I proved him wrong every time. “Sit back so I can see.” My dad was slowing the RV as we approached the little backroad that led to my Grandpa’s cul de sac. We turned on to the road, and the RV was thrown about as it began to pick up speed again. There were more holes in the road, and the edges had been washed into the deep ditches along side. Vines hung from the massive bald cypress trees and made screeching sounds as they slide against the RV. Spanish moss draped over the branches like a knitted blanket, and the smell of heat and water drifted in through our open windows. Before long, the forest drew back and small houses appeared. I spotted the orange tree that we had picked from every year. The yard it grew on was for sale, and we loved to snatch the sweet, juicy oranges from its branches on our bike rides. We turned off Old Olga Road and onto Wise Way. Some of the houses grew taller and yards wider. I could recognize every tree on this street, though one pine tree stands above all the others. It is the tallest tree on the entire street. That pine tree means it is time for me to start begging my parents to let me out of the RV. After a minute of pestering, my dad unlocks the door and slows just enough to let me out. I leap from the RV and head for the short cut to my Grandpa’s house. The thick, Florida grass is cool on my feet as I race across the little meadow. I can now see and smell the river; the wind from it lifts my hair and makes the intense sun a little less shocking. My dad sounds the RV’s horn behind me as he turns onto Wenola Court–my Grandpa’s street. I am pretty sure the horn startles everyone on the cul de sac, but I don’t care because I can see my Grandpa’s door opening. He is walking towards the meadow, and I pick up pace. His white shirt with light-gold stripes twists in the wind. I can see the gold necklace that he always wears shimmering in the sunlight. He has two different shades and lengths of socks on, and he is grinning at me with the biggest smile. When I finally make it to his driveway, my hair is flying in every direction, and I can barely breath. I pause just a few feet away from him, suddenly unsure and waiting for my parents to park the RV and catch up. It has been a year since I’ve seen him last. “Gosh darnit, did you grow another foot?” He exclaims in less family-friendly language. I’ve tried all sorts of methods to get him to stop swearing–coin jars, cookies, newspapers, alternatives, and the like. I usually make some progress by the end of the visit, but we’re back to ground zero by the next year. “Get over here!” My foul-language-relapse analysis is interrupted as he holds out his arms for me. I step into his embrace, and the many months and miles of distance fade away. I can smell his three-in-one soap, the only brand of soap that he will spend money on. He holds me tight for a moment longer before letting me go to hug my parents. Excitment wells within me as I picture tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, like every other morning after we arrive, we will go to Alva Diner for breakfast. Grandpa will order a ginormous plate of biscuits and gravy, mom will order eggs benedict, dad will get bacon and something, and I will get one buttermilk pancake the size of my plate. Grandpa will say that I can’t finish it, but I will finish it and even ask for another one. He will pretend to be appalled, but I will see the twinkle in his eye. I can’t wait to watch America’s Funniest Videos in his living room while he falls asleep after only five minutes. I can’t wait to make clam chowder in his kitchen as he and my parents boast about who makes it better. I can’t wait to go to Fisherman’s village and walk through all the shops as he makes jokes, embarrasses me, shows me off to people he doesn’t even know. I especially can’t wait to put that fake cockroach that I’ve carried all the way from Minnesota in his chair. I can not wait to make memories that I will never forget. Grandpa Ron, thank you for stepping into the role of grandpa that my biological grandpa stepped out of when I was just a baby. Thank you for showing me what it means to have a grandpa. Thank you for embarrassing me and teasing me until I thought I would die. Thank you for putting up with me and all the animals even though you didn’t especially like animals. Thank you for always making me laugh and cheering me up. Thank you for driving twenty-seven hours every August to be there for my birthday, even when you barely drove to the grocery store. Thank you for always sending a card and gift when you could no longer drive yourself. Thank you for making my first trip without my parents one of the best ones ever. Thank you for letting me drive your Mercedes all over town and even to the beach. Thank you for making my first years as a driver unforgettable since you acted as though we would die every time I got behind the wheel. Thank you for always keeping me company through the phone whenever I was on a long drive. Thank you for never forgetting me even when you forgot so much during those last years. Thank you for being the stubborn, cheerful, goofy, loving Grandpa you will always be in my heart. I love you, Grandpa Ron.