George

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

My grandfather was the first Robert Carl Thoreson, born April 12, 1898, and always known as Carl. I was very close to my grandfather and was called Carl’s shadow. My grandmother often remarked, Carl always said you should have been a boy.

He was a great man who could fix anything and shared his love of hunting and fishing. I also learned to whistle piercingly loud, as well as to walk silently through the woods. As a youngster in my brand-new blue snowsuit and my brother’s black galoshes with their big buckles, I followed Carl everywhere on the farm I grew up on.

One day I slipped, tripped and landed with an ugly splash in the cow gutter. Completely soaked in manure, Carl tried to return me to my mom at the back door, but she insisted that Carl hose me off in the milk house first. Eventually, I was allowed back into the house, in sopping wet but not smelly condition. We laughed about my early swimming lesson in the barn.

His son — Robert Carl Thoreson Jr — came along on May 15, 1921, and was my dad. He was always called Bob. Except when his mother would call for him and he was in trouble. Then it was Robert. ROBERT!!! I may have some experience with this. MARY GERARD THORESON, YOU BETTER GET IN THIS HOUSE RIGHT NOW!! AND TAKE OFF THOSE FILTHY BOOTS!!!!

My dad didn’t read much fiction, more of a history guy. But he loved John Steinbeck. Steinbeck wrote about people my dad knew. Hard-working people who were always just a slip from disaster, crop failure, floods, or the manufacturing plant shutting down for good.

Of Mice and Men is a tale of two men, a small smart guy, George and his friend and obligation, Lennie. Lennie is a huge man who can work three men into the ground each day, but has the mind of a child. He also has a weakness for soft things. My dad is a big guy, 6’4” in his prime. And he worked hard most of his life. Certain lines from the book became part of our regular conversations.

Can I pet the rabbits, George?

I like ketchup in my beans, George.

Live off the fat of the land, George.

We still trade those lines.

So, as a young adult, I teased my dad and always called him George. He was no longer anything but George. This did irritate my mom, definitely a bonus as far as I was concerned. Everyone knew and loved my dad, George.

My dad and I share a lot — humor chief among them. And my son, Daniel has it as well. We agree the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and it’s a very small orchard. The three of us together are pure laughter. My family has often been told, you all think you’re so damned funny. And we do believe it.

My mom slipped away into the never-ending fog of Alzheimer’s. Dad said it was like losing her a little bit each day. And they were such a love match. Married for 62 years — WOW! And very happily. Holding hands and giggling together is one of my most common memories of them together. My mom or dad looking at the other in a rapt and adoring fashion as they told the same stories over and over. I come from a family of storytellers.

My dad’s 90th birthday party was a great event. We all wore tie dye, and of course, there was cake!! It said HAPPY BIRTHDAY GEORGE.

My mom spent a lot of time asking, Who’s George? I cried that day. And laughed. And ate cake. Mom finished the party asleep on the couch with a happy ring of chocolate frosting on her mouth.

Mom died in 2013 and my dad found a way to go on without her. He lived with us for some years until he needed more care than we could provide. He managed to keep his gratitude for life and all the small things he enjoyed, reading, politics — so proud that he never voted for a Republican, his grandson, playing bridge, and eating cookies. He never ate a cookie he didn’t like but he kept looking.

Our last visits in hospice care were sad and difficult, with an occasional smile as we shared the many memories of a life just weeks short of a century. He asked to come home. He asked for a beer. Can I pet the rabbits, George? Robert Carl Thoreson Jr, died February 23, 2021.

Last night I dreamed George came home, hung up his coat and sat at the kitchen table eating cookies. Welcome home, George, welcome home.