Because it really is personal…

When I left town nearly 2 weeks ago, it was with the expectation I’d be gone 6 days, that I’d spend my time trying to get Grandad settled into a nursing home and reasoned with about it all. I had no expectation that he’d die. None. In fact, the idea was foreign to me because I’d never had a close relative or friend to ever die.

But, God and Grandad had other ideas. He died 6 pm the day I got there. I never saw him concious, so I’m not sure but what he’d died on the operating table and was simply being kept physically alive.

So, instead of dealing with an irascible old fart with strong opinions, I dealt with everything else. I’m glad I was there to do it. “Stay as long as you need to,” said Sweet Daddio, “We’ll miss you but we’ll be fine.”

So finally, after 12 days, I flew home. Boy, was it nice to be home. People said things about how the house must be a wreck, with everyone eating out of their shoe because the dishes were all dirty, how they were living off cheese crackers and koolaid because all the food was gone.

Well, let me tell you what. It wasn’t like that at all. All my boys, even the (nearly) 9 year old, know how to cook. The 2 older boys can work the grill with (nearly) as much skill as I can. They understand the concept of ‘vegetable’. They can work a mop, a washing machine, and a dishwasher.

When I came home, a bouquet of brightly colored flowers greeted me near the door. There was no laundry to be done, the floors were clean, and a thick sirloin steak from Ellis’ Fresh Meats was sitting in the fridge. On the kitchen table were piled 6 wrapped baked potatoes, with a request to put them in the oven at 2:30. A basket and shears invited me to the garden to pick fresh greens for salad.

That’s what I came home to on Tuesday.

And no, I don’t rent them out. Train your own menfolk.