In Memoriam Viri

I miss him so much. He knew so much. If anything, my desire to learn and my avid curiosity about the world around me came from him more than from my own Dad. He and my dad didn’t have the best relationship. They loved each other, but things were rough after all that he’d done. I didn’t know him when he was a drunk. He is an inspiration to me because he got over his addiction and became a really cool guy. He became someone that I could always look up to. He did more things to ruin his life with booze than I ever did. He ruined his home, broke ties with his family, abused his wife and kids, which all ended in a divorce, ten years of recovery, and his last consequence was his death. I…just lost spirituality and I can’t go on a mission when I want to. He got over it, though.
When he died he was my hero.
I’ll never forget when I was four and went around with him in his car. He knew everything. When I drove around with my dad, he skirted around questions, and gave me vague answers. My granddad knew exactly how to explain things so I would understand. I think that’s actually the first time I ever saw him. I wouldn’t know—I don’t remember much before that. He told me all about the cows, deer, and agriculture. He would tell me stories like you wouldn’t believe.
One time, he was out shooting in Nevada—in a place that he wasn’t supposed to be. He set up camp underneath this trailer. The trailer, apparently, was the target for a combat exercise for the military. He wakes up to gunfire all around him. He knew he was in trouble by then. He figured the smartest thing to do was to stay under the trailer. After the gunfire was over he left, but his car had been dashed to pieces by the “attack.” He had to be taken out of there by a helicopter and he got home somehow. Several months later he got a neat bill from the military for over six thousand dollars documenting every expense: removing his car, trespassing fines, and the helicopter ride.
I’m not sure if I believe that one completely.
One time, when he was managing a grocery store, he was robbed and he chased the thieves out into the parking lot. He was holding onto their car trying to coerce them, but they ran up next to a brick wall and knocked him off on the corner…I think that story involves a shotgun, but I don’t remember who had it and why nobody got shot.
I don’t know why I’m telling these stories. I guess they’re what I like to remember him by. I love stories. My dad can attest to that. After probably a hundred fishing trips, I let it slip that I don’t really like fishing and only went to collect rocks and listen to stories. I still like fishing—mostly for the nostalgia. I feel like I have to come up with a story for everything. If I know a story that has anything to do with what’s being said I HAVE to tell it. I know its annoying, but that’s who I am.
I guess I should tell one of my stories.
One time, when I was in Utah, I had a misunderstanding with my dad. My dad and I don’t speak the same English. I wanted to see my friend Matt in Utah really bad. My dad dropped me off there at night and said he’d see me tomorrow. I was kinda disappointed because we were leaving the next day and we never got to see grandpa. I spent most of the next day with Matt and when we got back to his house around 4:00, I found out that my dad had been trying to get a hold of me all day. He wanted me to leave Matt’s house in the morning so we could visit my great aunt Cathy (who’s really cool) and my granddad. I had no idea we had plans for that day. We didn’t have very long to get all the way up to Layton and back down to the airport, but we did it anyway through a compromise with Alana.
We made our way up to Layton, where my granddad lived. I hadn’t seen him in a couple years. I knew his health was failing, but he seemed like I always remembered him the last time I saw him two years previously. The whole way up was silent because I was angry that I misunderstood my dad and I was tense because we were barely going to make it in time.
When we walked inside my soul dropped. My granddad was lying there so emaciated from his diseases that he must have lost a third of his weight since I’d seen him. The skin was clinging to his bones and he needed help with everything. I wanted to burst into tears, but I was determined to look happy for him. We exchanged a few stories, caught each other up on life. He would say obscene things about the invading Mexicans, and my dad and I would try not to judge him. Just like old times. Except that this was one of the last times.
We left because we had to, not because we wanted to. We had to catch a red eye flight home and my dad had work the next morning. As soon as I stepped into the rental car I fell into uncontrollable sobbing. I knew that I would be lucky to ever see him again. I had no idea how bad his condition was. I felt so foolish for thinking that we wouldn’t visit him. I felt terrible for making our stay so brief. I had held in my torment for half an hour and now I couldn’t hold it any longer. For at least a full minute I could barely breathe between my tears and gasping breaths. How could this happen? I fully realized then that my granddad was going to die. I started the pre-grieving process. Many of you probably know what it’s like to know that a loved one could die any moment. He lived for a year and a half after that moment, but I will never forget it. I was able to see him at least another time.
At the beginning of March 2007 I was informed that my granddad was in failing health. He had been relocated to a hospital where he could receive constant treatment. His organs were failing. I was told that it would be any day now. The pain was tremendous. I tried not to think about it too much. I tried to go through the final few weeks of the school show, Grease. I tried not to focus on my phone during rehearsal, waiting for the dreaded call.
I was in rehearsal. My mom called me and said that I needed to go straight home after rehearsal. She wanted me to stay, but to come home as soon as I could. The rest of the rehearsal was so surreal. I felt like I was floating through the motions. I ran to my car and got home to find everyone crowded around the kitchen. My dad delivered the bad news: his father had died.
We left the next morning to go to Utah. I went to school early and informed all of my teachers. Some showed great sympathy, the rest…were men. I particularly remember Mrs. Squier—now Mrs… somebody else. I can’t believe I can’t remember. Anyway, she related to me how several of her relatives had died that year and she sincerely wished me luck with everything. It really helped. I travelled with Lauren. We tried to keep our cool and act like normal. It worked. We were okay—until we were landing in Utah. I saw the familiar places on our way down and I just…had to cry. I don’t remember who picked us up, but we all went down to Fillmore within the next day. We stayed with our good friends, the Jenkins. For a few days we saw more and more cousins…well, not really—just my family, Kaden, and Kyra. Jason’s kids couldn’t go. It was nice to see them. The day of the funeral was really cool. There were so many people, including my granddad’s girlfriend, Cheryl, who I hadn’t seen in ages. I saw my great uncle Raymon for the first time since I could remember. He’s really cool, too. I was back in Fillmore. Many people I knew and loved ones all in one place for one purpose.
The actual service was terrifying. First, the closest of family came to a viewing before the actual ceremony. There we said our last goodbyes to him. All the children spoke at the actual service. My favorite was Jeanna’s talk because it seemed so well prepared and calming. She had a different kind of experience with her father. She was very young when her parents got divorced. She didn’t know her father much at all when she was a kid. She was, however, the closest to him towards the end because she was the only one who lived in Utah still. That’s how I remember him—after alcohol, before disease.
The scariest part was the singing. I sang “Abide with Me” with my dad’s best friend, Doug, at the actual funeral. I have never felt the Spirit more during any other song, ever. I was able to make it the whole song before I cried significantly at the actual ceremony. After that, I was a wreck. My cousin, Kaden, and I were both pall-bearers along with the sons, the brother, and someone else, I don’t remember. After we placed him in the hearse I was beside myself. I didn’t know what to do. That’s when my aunt Kathy (a different one than before) gave me a big hug. I still remember that as the best hug in my life. I really needed it, I really hugged back, and it really made me feel better. She gives great hugs, if any of you know her.
The next few days I spent with my cousins and friends. We had a great time. 4-wheeling and rabbit-hunting…make that failed rabbit-hunting. You can just ask my dad how well the safety works on Doug’s gun. I love my family. I love Fillmore. I went home the next day…to show week. It was so hard adjusting from Utah to stress for theatre. I wasn’t the same.
The next summer, or maybe it was April a year later, we were driving around in Utah. We were going to head up some canyon outside of Fillmore. We passed right by the cemetery and right back without stopping. I really wanted to visit my granddad. I don’t think I was completely ready for it, anyway. He’s still there next to our family. I will visit him sometime—hopefully in April.
I do miss him.
One of the last things he said to me was “Don’t do anything stupid!” He meant is as advice, and it was good advice. I haven’t followed it, exactly, but I know that he wants me to learn from his mistakes. He is an example to me of someone who can overcome their addictions to make their lives better. My dad didn’t even let him know I existed until he was certain that my granddad was safe and off liquor. I’m glad he did get off it, because I wouldn’t be able to make it through some days without remembering him.
I love you, Granddad John.