In Memorium

I have a theory about landscape. My mom and dad are both wanderers, water people. At parties they're the ones moving between groups, introducing people, pouring drinks. Like interstitial fluid they keep things moving, fed, interesting. Connie was raised off Puget Sound, in a landscape so green that when we first visited I thought it was fake. I wondered at the trees and grumbled at a shirt hung up to dry in them, still wet the morning after. Dennis left Utah as soon as he could. Transitioning from desert to ocean in Finland's frozen wetlands, he never went back really. Jetting from Oslo to Stockholm to Miami, he followed currents: the deft flow of money first, then international cruiselines. Even back in Utah he builds fountains and waters his gardens into tropical lushness.

I've never been a camper, but the prospect of a long weekend exploring the badlands of Utah with Amanda seemed too fabulous to pass up. We spent Friday afternoon salivating over the over-sized pictorals in the Utah section, basing our itinerary on beauty as much as anything else. We drove threw half the state that weekend: Goblin Valley, Capitol Reef, the San Rafael Swell. We took state highways and cattle graded county roads. We debated taking a right at Green River and spending a night at Lake Powell. We approached a park ranger, "Where's the nearest water?" He laughed and sent us to a trickle of a creek 2 hours away.
I sat in the passenger seat on Route 24, past Hanksville and Cainesville, watching the desert bloom into green as we approached town, then fade back into reds and greys. I wondered about some of the first Easterners to see this waste: Mormon pioneers fresh from New and old England. Where was their garden-dwelling god now? This was no place for the white-washed pillars and flowing robes; the god of this land was lean and encrusted in red dust, leering at the new comers.

It started even with his office: industrial, high-ceilinged, with polished concrete floors and the omnipresent thump and rumble of machines--a little too loud for comfortable conversation. I remember the uncomfortably sweet smell of the place: raw meat and cardboard. And Grandpa, seated enormous behind his desk. His smile cut the tension a touch, as did the powdered donuts he offered from his vending crates. He had us giggling in a matter of minutes and I remember my mom's eyes so bright she didn't need the buzzing flourescent lights.

Thanksgiving at my grandparent's house: Grandma's rolls and pies, raspberry jam from the garden. Grandma dashing to and fro, feeding, cooking, chatting. The kitchen is buzzing. At some point I ignore my dad's "go see if your grandmother needs help" and slip in quietly beside him. The talk here is doubtless of football. Probably how BYU is doing. It's kept at a constant rumble, uncles and boy cousins contributing with stats or analysis. My Grandfather sits in his chair in the corner, laughing quietly, but mostly watching. Occasionally, though, his voice booms, some joke about family or Grandma or someone he works for. The crowd explodes into laughter and mock outrage from the women passing through. In a few minutes the conversation resumes along its merry way and so it goes till Grandpa pulls out another zinger.



And this is where the essay always ends, shortshortshort of where it ought to.


My grandfather was the rock of our family.

Earlier this morning his giant heart gave out.


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