That crack in the concrete....

My grandfather has been an ever present image in my memories.  Even the very first of memories, from years ago, from when children probably shouldn't be able to have memories.  Curled up under his very tanned arm on our very cheap and old sofa, velvet upholstery of an autumn color scheme.  Itchy if you didn't sit just right on it, hence the old bed sheets that were often draped over it, although having tears in the cushions might have been the reason for the sheet as well.  He wore a light cotton sleeveless shirt, it was summer, it was warm but I still sat under his arm, the skin of his hands rough on my tiny legs.  His gold colored watch rolling loosely on his wrist.  He smelled of his cologne.  Of course, I have seen a photo of this very image many times, so is it truly a memory, or just implanted in my head from viewing the photo and studying its details.  Or maybe one enhances the other.

Either way, Grandpa Ludwig was always close, only a couple houses down the street.  I can remember the time the neighbor boys thought it would be fun to tow me around in a wagon tied clumsily to the back of an old bike.  Being a nasty boy, Chris was his name, he slammed back on the pedals locking up the brakes and sent my head reeling over my knees, banging with a thud against the back wall of the wagon.  Chipped two of my front baby teeth.  I screamed, probably, and grandpa came running (in my head he was running) down the street, scooped me up and took me inside my house.  I remember the taste of blood, the bike was blue, and how light grandpa made me seem in his arms.  A bit like I can remember my dad, vaguely, carrying me sat on his shoulders.  I miss being that tiny, that small, and that blissfully happy.

We value the innocence of our children do we not?  We value their untainted and beautiful views on the world and how utterly fascinated the smallest of things can be to them.

I can feel the innocence of my childhood very strongly.  I feel it's gradual waning and fading so sharply, like a sudden bitter taste that doesn't easily fade.

I am very hesitant to type this next thought.  It is the reason for my reflection but each time I come to its precipice, a flood of memories, like those I've mentioned, keeps my heart in denial.  Makes me that little 7 year old girl again, happy to be sitting on the couch with her favorite grandpa.  This year may very well be the last Christmas with grandpa.

He always told me he thought it would be so terrible to lose his mind before his body eventually gave in.  I can remember that very clearly.  Grandpa was not deluding himself with any thoughts of staving off death as long as possible.  His crystal clear grasp of mortality and reason and practicality and compassion were always evident in everything he did and said.

There it is, past tense already....I should correct myself....

The Ludwig family has practically no drama whatsoever.  We do not easily excite, or enrage...well okay, maybe one or two of us do...but on the whole, we do not make mountains of mole hills, as the old saying goes.  We gather for holidays, drink our old fashions, play our sheepshead, and put butter and gravy on everything.  There are also no fewer than a half dozen desserts sitting on the table after any holiday meal.

Grandpa always appeared as the solid, unchanging anchor of it all.  Sitting among his children and grandchildren, just enough in number to fill the house, but not to crowd it.  Humbly taking joy out of the small things with which life had blessed him.  I admired him.  I wanted to be that satisfied with life.

I would not say he "settled" for what he had - the usage implies a lack of applying a skill or ability for greater achievement.  But he was a settled human being.  He was happy.  He enjoyed simple things.

He still does.  But it is harder and harder to see him, to talk to him, to ask him questions, discuss the weather, or even play cards.  Secretly I had always keenly observed his mannerisms while playing cards.  In the last year, even that has become difficult for him.  He cannot deal very well anymore.  Some days are better than others, probably depending on his medicine regimen.  The man who used to be able to tell me the last two cards I was holding, struggles to remember what suit was led now.

I love my grandpa.  I have been telling him more often when I see him these days.  He still knows my name when I come through the door, and I hope he still has images like I do in his memories somewhere.  Though he may not be able to remember "what I've been up to lately," at least he remembers that one time in church on Sunday, many years ago, when I decided I was going to run all the way up the center aisle and around the pews to the back of church.  Apparently one of the ushers was chasing me the whole way, and I couldn't stop laughing.

And I'm so very happy that each time I walk out the door of their house, take two steps, and look down, I see the jagged crack, like a river viewed from space, contorting in different directions across the driveway pavement.  It was the "coffin corner" on our childhood basketball court.  Our short, weak arms thrusting the ball hopelessly at the hoop after taking a running start.  That soft, worn leather ball flying out of our hands and landing a good ten feet short of the rim.  Grandpa standing on the other side to gather our rebound, walk back to the same crack, and, with the flair of a man completely satisfied with his life, squat gently with the ball dropping between his knees, and heaved it upward, "granny style" before it fell with a wispy swoosh through the bottom of the net.