When I was about 10 or 11, my grandfather moved in with us. He had lived about an hour away, and, regretfully, I barely new him. He would come over and stay with us every couple of months for the weekend, but it wasn’t till he moved in that I really got to know him. He was almost completely opposite from my other grandfather, whom I knew very well having grown up across the street from his house. His name was Amos. He had lived what might be called a simple life. He and my grandmother made their living by working in local factories and supplementing with tobacco farming. For the time and place in which they lived, this was completely normal. It was a hard life where they didn’t have money for extras but they didn’t complain. It was who they were and pretty much all they knew.
When he came to live with us, he invited me into his world, but I don’t think he meant to. My grandfather was a good man and I know he loved me (he would often slip me a dollar), but he wasn’t great at relating to children, something that, from what I can gather, was common among men of his generation. We did have one powerful thing in common though. Like all the men from the paternal side of my family, we love history. Reading about it. Talking about it. Listening to others talk about it. Whatever. We found a bond over this mutual interest because my grandfather had been a participant in history. He, like many others from his generation, fought in World War 2, but unlike others, my grandfather talked plenty about it. He told me all kinds of stories, and through that, I got to know him. For example, I kept noticing that he was always running in his stories. Finally, he told me he was a platoon runner. Basically, he was the guy who would tear out through the jungle completely alone relaying messages back to HQ. Can you imagine how scary that was? I mean here’s a guy who didn’t do a lot in his life that would bring accolades, but during the war, displayed incredible amounts of courage. All of that history would have been lost to me had he not come to live with us.
Of course, the reason he came wasn’t quite so great. He had been demonstrating the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, and my dad made the decision that it would be safer for him to live with us. At first, it wasn’t bad. That was the stage when I got to know him. Later, he began to hallucinate and descend into dementia. That was difficult on him and our entire family. It was compounded by our moving next door into a house we had built. We could still interact with him, but for large portions of the day, he was alone. During this time, he would often hallucinate, inventing characters which had no basis in reality. Of all the characters, which most had names, the leader and chief trouble maker was a guy named Herman. Herman tormented my grandfather. He, as well as the others, would put on “programs” in the living room, sleep in his bed, and even defecate in the floor. Many times, I would come home from a date or some other outing and notice my grandfather’s lights were on. Instead of bothering Dad, I would go take care of it. I’d find him talking to people who weren’t there and completely miserable. Chasing off the ghosts and calming him down, I could often get him to go back to bed but it was only temporary and this went on for months maybe years. It was wearing heavy on all of us, but my Dad was taking the brunt of it. Then, a kind of miracle happened.
Our new house, was back off the road a pretty good piece. It wasn’t a long way, but it was far enough to cause the cable company to charge an arm and a leg to wire us up so my parents declined. We had “bunny ears”, but it was pretty terrible. My grandfather, on the other hand, still had cable. So, from time to time, my brother and I would go down to watch TV. On one such occasion, my bother went alone. Sure enough, Herman was there, and he was driving Pepa crazy. My brother was frustrated that he couldn’t watch TV and finally said, “Pepa, where is Herman at right now?” Grandpa pointed at a big purple lamp in the window, and Alex simply grabbed it and threw it in the closet. Now, I don’t know whether the Lord used that or if something just snapped in Pepa’s mind, but I do know it cured him. He never saw Herman or the other “people” again.
This brings me to the point of this blog… I’m somewhat known for telling funny stories to my friends and family, and this is the original. Clearly, what I’ve already written isn’t funny. It’s tragic. However, what happens next, is pretty good. After my brother did this, it brought a certain amount of peace to our family. My grandfather was still sick, but the worst was for the most part over. My Dad, who was also stressed at work, was really enjoying the upswing. So, it was time to play a joke. A joke, which ironically, my grandfather would have thought was hilarious as he enjoyed that kind of thing.
One day, I got home early from school. I was sitting in the kitchen watching TV and it occurred to me that I might do a prank call which I did quite often. For some reason, Pepa popped into my head, but almost immediately I knew I couldn’t do that. It was just too mean. It was at that exact moment that my Dad walked in from a stressful day, and I thought, “Well, I could tell him I did it and have just as much fun.” So, I said, “Hey Dad, guess what I did?” He grinned because he is also mischievous, and said, “What?” I said, “I called Grandpa.” His countenance immediately changed and he said, “What did you do?” I said, “He answered, and I said, ‘Amos!! This here’s Herman. I know I been gone a while, but I’m coming back and bring all them other people with me. We’re going to put on programs in the living room, sleep in your bed, and poop all over…” It was at that point that my Dad made his first attempt on that day to slap my head off. I yelled, “I’m just kidding! I didn’t do it!!” just in time to keep him from killing me, but it was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
