The first memory I can recall with my mother’s father is standing with him next to the small creek on his property as he told me that I would never be permitted to call him “Grandpa”.  I had been removing leaves caught between the rocks of the creek blocking the flow of water.  He stood on the bank above me as I kept my balance by holding onto the sparse branches of a small willow tree and I asked him a question that I assume was lead with “Grandpa…” He quickly responded that “Grandpa’s” are “sick and dying, lying in hospital beds”, and made a point to tell me “I am not Grandpa.  Grandpa is dead.  I’m The Colonel.”  I don’t actually remember ever calling him Grandpa.  But I do remember how sad and confusing it was to hear those words come out of his mouth.  After that, the one or two yearly visits to The Colonel and Grandma Theresa’s were equally confusing. 

The approach to their house leaves me with a feeling of ambivalence.  As a child I loved wandering through their expansive property, but dreaded the mealtime we shared.  Over the years, each visit became more and more revolved around discussions of plans for the future, interrogations on how my brother plans to become rich, and how my sister and I should intend to “marry a rich man”.  This example so different from the one that I was raised under with my own parents, outlined my mom’s stepmother in a horrible light and deemed her a gold-digger in my eyes. 

Despite these pressures and assumptions that pinned me against The Colonel and Theresa, I feel the need to correct the wrongs we have inflicted upon each other.   I make advances to spend time with them, only to be judged or neglected once I arrive.  Their belongings become stand-ins for my grandparents as even when I’m left alone to wander their house, I’m surrounded by abstractions and portrayals of them. The guns, knives, cigars, high quality bottles of scotch, rubber waders, disheveled books and taxidermy emote my grandfather’s essence.  The highly stylized rooms, the plush pillows, the organized but obviously frequently used kitchen, the ash brimmed fireplace with a scorch speckled rug that lies in front of it—these things describe my grandmother perfectly.  The inanimate objects become my source to connect with and to learn from about my grandparents in their absence.