Three Legends of My Least Favorite Grandfather
Hello. This is my first real entry on Substack. I decided I’d write a little story about my Grandfather. I hope you enjoy it.
Next week we’ll start with a more traditional newsletter.
- Jack
Three Legends of My Least Favorite Grandfather
by Jack Cameron
My grandfather was from North Dakota. His name was Dale. In North Dakota, Dale met a woman from Kansas at a time when asking for a woman’s hand in marriage meant asking her father first. So they went to Kansas.
Dale had every intention in the world of telling this woman’s father how much he loved her, how he’d protect her and be there for her and give her a good life. I don’t know if he ever got the chance to make that pitch, because something happened over the course of that weekend that changed everything.
Dale had met this woman’s little sister, Daphne. Whatever he may have felt for his fiancé dissolved when he met Daphne. And by the end of the weekend, Daphne was the one engaged to Dale. And that is how my grandparents met.
Dale worked for the railroad. They moved to Tacoma, Washington. Daphne got a job for the phone company. They had four children including my mom. Even with four children a dual house income at good union jobs in the 1950s and 1960s allowed for a fairly comfortable life and a good amount of savings.
It was a bit of a family tradition/curse to borrow money from them. Nearly everybody did so and nearly everyone regretted it. They might decide that they own you while you owe them money, but they rarely refused and would typically hand over the money on the spot. The one and only time I borrowed money from them, I asked for $2,000 and my grandfather pulled it out of his wallet.
One night, long after their kids were grown, Daphne and Dale had an argument. Dale was drinking. Again. His drunken rages were legendary. Though he’d rarely if ever get physical, he had no problem yelling and screaming at those he disagreed with if he were drunk. The argument got to the point where he declared the he’d had enough. He was going back to North Dakota without her and without packing. Right now. He was incredibly drunk when he got in the car, but he managed to get on the freeway and headed East. He stopped a couple times to pick up more booze.
Just as he entered Montana, a State Patrol car pulled him over. The officer didn’t need to do a field sobriety test to determine Dale’s level of drunkenness. The cop asked for Dale’s license and registration. Dale smiled drunkenly, reached into his wallet, and pulled out nearly $9,000 in cash. The cop took the money and told him to turn around, go home, and most importantly, get out of Montana. So he did.
Many years after that, after the death of a relative, Daphne decided she should purchase gravesites for her and her husband. She took her youngest daughter, my aunt, who was now in her 40s with her. She found a shady spot under a tree facing Mt. Rainier. There was only one problem. Her daughter pointed it out.
“Mom, there’s already a grave there.”
“So what? That person died like a hundred years ago. There’s no way anyone visits that grave anymore.”
Recognizing that this would not be a convincing argument for the funeral home they walked on.
They found an open grave and casually looked in it.
“That’s a lot deeper than six feet.” Daphne told her daughter.
“It’s a double. For a couple.”
“Oh. I don’t want that. I never want to be that close to Hell.”
In talking with the funeral home another option was suggested: They could be put in a wall. The wall memorials consisted of a series of squares. On each square was the vital information about the departed and behind each square lay the remains of the person who has died. No dirt nap for these folks.
Daphne found two next to each other, again facing Mt. Rainier and purchased them for $5,000 each.
A few months later the phone rang at my grandparents’ house. Dale picked up. The person on the other end of the line wanted to purchase the two squares in the wall. They had other relatives on the wall and wanted two squares next to each other, but all the adjacent squares were taken. They made Dale an offer: They would buy the squares for $10,000 AND purchase a single square on another wall for both Dale and Daphne to occupy together when the time comes. Dale loved this idea.
Dale went down to the funeral home, signed some papers, and took home a $10,000 check. He did not bother to tell Daphne about the phone call.
A little later a postcard arrived in the mail, but Dale didn’t get the mail that day. Daphne did. The postcard was a card expressing thanks for selling the squares and taking the deal.
Daphne got on the phone and insisted that the funeral home had made an illegal mistake.
“His name isn’t on the check I wrote you.” She told them, “You can’t let a man who did not pay for the plots sell them, can you?”
By the end of the conversation she had negotiated her way into a second free square, but she was still not happy.
Dale got home to the sound of his wife saying, “Mr. Berg.”
He knew he was in trouble.
“What made you think you could sell the plots I purchased? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out and be angry?”
Dale did not think carefully about his next words and simply said what he was thinking:
“I figured if you died first, then you would never know it happened and if I died first you couldn’t kill me because I’m already dead.”
“You keep doing things like this and you’ll be using your square far sooner than you think, Mr. Berg.”
Dale smiled at her, “Yes, dear.” He said, not quite condescendingly.
“One more thing.” Daphne said.
“Yes?”
“Where’s my ten thousand dollars?”