• Home
  • Parenting
  • Grief and Loss
  • About Lynn

The Light Will Find You

  • Home
  • Parenting
  • Grief and Loss
  • About Lynn

A Good Death

September 11, 2013 By Lynn Shattuck 4 Comments

11 Sep
Picture from the Juneau Empire files
For my grandfather, Bill Ray
These are the sounds after a quick death following a long life: The telephone rings are steady, but not constant. Arrangements are made swiftly, with no big decisions, discussions or surprises. Voices are calm. You hear a lot of sighs. Only a thin layer of shock drifts by, like a cirrus cloud.

 

My grandfather lived to be 91. We loved each other and said so in later years, but we didn’t speak often. He was strong-willed and difficult with those he loved the most. He was a storyteller and a lawmaker. A liquor hawker. A secret-keeper and a gold collector. He was a name caller. A fisherman and a painter and a writer.
He was a child of the universe who was here, and now isn’t.
A constellation of ancestors, long twists and turns of accident or fate. A mother’s eyes, a grandfather’s nose. The birth name, Will, that he grew into, but later changed.
My best memories of him are when he told stories. He sits at a table, one hand on his coffee mug. He is already laughing, his eyes shining with anticipation. “This is a good one,” he says. “Wait until you hear this one.”
It’s the one where his father’s dog, Whitey, fell out of the fishing boat, perilously close to the falls. “‘What’d you do, Dad?’ I asked him.”
‘I said, So long, Whitey!”
He shakes his head and chuckles, his laugh still sturdy among the laughs of his listeners.
I wish I had listened better, had a better memory. I wish I’d written the stories down instead of letting them sing by, all wisps and trails. I wonder where do all those stories go when we die? Do they live on, swirling and hanging in the air where he was? In the cells of his great grandchildren who he never met? In the pages he wrote?

 

“Reaaad boooook, Mama,” my daughter says, pattering over to me.
She hands me Goodnight Moon. Her eyes are big and blue, her cheeks full and smooth. I start reading, my eyes taking in the flat greens and tomato reds of the book. By the time I get to And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush, I am in tears.
All those goodnights. The words of the book, a childhood favorite, reach back through my mind, unlocking the little girl inside of me. The one whose grandpa was larger than life, full of laughs and stories. He was big and handsome. He slipped her sips of beer in the kitchen. Sent her postcards when he travelled. He appeared on the radio and TV, making jokes and laws.

These are the sounds after a good death: Quiet sobs. Voices on the phone, shaky, but not shattered. Patter of small feet, new tales unfolding. Goodnight stars, goodnight air. The rush of memories, of stories, rising and falling, lifting into the sky.

Tweet
Pin
Share
0 Shares

Filed Under: Grief and Loss, Spirit Tagged With: Alaska, death, family, grandpa, grandpa bill, grief, life

« Superpowers
Get Your Belly Over… to the Elephant Journal »

Comments

  1. Beth Stewart says

    September 11, 2013 at 9:25 pm

    Dear Lynn, this is a beautiful to your grand father. The stories you remember are something you can pass down to your beautiful children.

    Reply
    • Lynn says

      September 11, 2013 at 9:39 pm

      Thanks Beth. It felt good to write it.

      Reply
  2. another jennifer says

    September 12, 2013 at 7:58 am

    A beautiful tribute to you grandfather, Lynn. And you are preserving those stories and memories by sharing them here. I’m sure your kids love to hear them too.

    Reply
    • Lynn says

      September 12, 2013 at 8:16 pm

      Thanks, Jen. Hopefully I can remember the stories to pass on to my kiddos when they’re older!

      Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Welcome. I'm Lynn Shattuck, and I write about grief, parenting and more.

  • Facebook
  • Pinterest
  • Twitter

Subscribe!

Popular Posts

How to Survive Losing a Brother or SisterHow to Survive Losing a Brother or Sister
For My Mom FriendsFor My Mom Friends
A Letter to Those Who Have LostA Letter to Those Who Have Lost
We Untether: For My Son as he Enters KindergartenWe Untether: For My Son as he Enters Kindergarten

Recent Posts

  • Help a Writer Out?
  • The Questions That Haunt Grieving Siblings
  • Instead of the “Forgotten Mourners,” What if We Called Grieving Brothers or Sisters This Instead?
  • Do You Believe in Ghosts?
  • When the Holidays Suck

Archives

  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • December 2020
  • November 2019
  • March 2019
  • October 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • October 2017
  • August 2017
  • June 2017
  • May 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • August 2016
  • June 2016
  • November 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • May 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014
  • November 2013
  • October 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013
  • May 2013

Tags

40 addiction Alaska Anxiety birthday body body image brother children christmas connection death depression early grief elephant journal embarrasment equinox family friends grandpa grandpa bill gratitude grief grief and loss guest post holiday blues holidays kids life light loss love mindfulness parenthood parenting pee poop postpartum running shame sibling loss sister spirit writing writing elsewhere

Copyright © 2022 · Lynn Shattuck · Designed by Beyond Blog Design· Built on Genesis Framework