It fascinates me when depressing songs become big hits.
Not “who listens to this garbage, what is wrong with kids today” depressing-I feel that can be explained pretty easily by a lack of good taste (and by good taste, I mean whatever I like)-but depressing subject matter. Subject matter such as death, abuse, illness, et cetera, et cetera, and so on and so forth; “woe is me my baby done left me” songs aren’t what we are discussing here. It is interesting that a large number of people want to continually endure three minutes of lyrics about such things.* I suppose it’s cathartic; everyone needs a good cry now and again.
*Having said that, the two best depressing songs that got a lot of radio air play are “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas
Lately, I can’t escape this “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry. Evidently, it has become one of these cross over hits that I hear every time I turn on the radio, regardless of what type of music the station plays (I’m fairly certain I even heard it on the ESPN station once, but this may have been after a couple of drinks, so don’t hold me to it). I feel as if I’m stuck in the brainwashing scene in A Clockwork Orange, only instead of scenes of violence, my eye lids are pried open to a depressed 13-year-old girl reading from her diary. At least that’s my excuse for knowing every word and singing along, even after the 14th time I’ve heard it today.* After all this exposure, one lyric hit home this week: “Funny how when you die, people start listening.”
*I get a great sense of satisfaction out of seeing people sing songs that could not be less aimed at their demographic. Judging by the reaction of a car full of girls who caught me belting out a Pink song at a red light last week, I am not alone.
The topic of the song, combined with the proximity to Father’s Day, has gotten me thinking about my grandfather.
I’m lucky enough to not have been exposed to a lot of death in my 38 years on the planet. I’ve never lost any close personal friends or members of my immediate family. In fact, the only people who had any sort of consistent presence in my life that are now dead are my grandparents. All four are gone, and not recently: My dad’s parents, the above mentioned grandfather, passed away about 15 years ago. He actually went about a year before his wife; I don’t know the exact date, which may make me a bad person. I remember it was early summer and the first funeral I had a role in.
Most of the details of that day escape me now. What I do remember is discovering this whole life the man had that I was unaware of through bits of pieces of stories overheard from guests who had stopped by to “pay their respects.” Two stand out: He was nicknamed Red. This still amuses me as in all of my memories, what little hair left on his head was white; the shade of white reserved for albinos and the elderly. So I am forced to take this guy at his word; he seemed reliable. Numero B: By all accounts, he was an extremely charitable man. One old friend of his told a story of how he had given a poor family some gloves one winter, right off the hand of his own kids. It was a small gesture, but one that had left a mark on this gentleman.
Those were my two revelatory moments. He was 85ish and I can’t tell you many details of his life. As far as I know, he never pulled anyone out of a burning building. I don’t have a leather bound book of his collected platitudes. I’m fairly confident he didn’t take out a Nazi platoon in W-W-I-I, help discover a cure to some disease, win any gunfights with Blark Bart at high noon, shoot down a mad dog in the middle of the street, donate a kidney to a stranger or deliver a eloquent monologue that convinced a jury to free an innocent man.
Yet I would unequivocally say I can’t imagine a better person. Here’s what I do know about him:
Anywhere I went with him, he was always good for a bottle of peach Nehi and a bag of peanuts. At least one afternoon a week over summer break, he would haul me around on his mail route and never give me trouble for reading comics the first half and sleeping the last hour. He chewed those giant twists of tobacco that look exactly like a king size Tootsie Roll to an eight year old. He was married to one spouse for 60 some years and raised four kids who can say the same. He made up ridiculous nicknames for all of his grandchildren, including “Buckshot” and “Pee Wee”. Nothing fired him up more than leaving a light on in an empty room or killing the lawnmower after running over a large rock. From 12:30 to 3:30 p.m. he was parked in his recliner and not missing a second of his soap operas. He always had a paperback western nearby. He was always good for a five dollar bill on Christmas morning as well as this nugget of wisdom: “Well, we made it through another year.” He always made me feel like his favorite grandkid and I’m sure my sisters and cousins all felt the same*. Did I mention the peach Nehi?
*He was totally lying to them though. Don’t tell.
I believe most people could not imagine a more mundane list of details. Yet I wouldn’t have it any other way. Most of our lives end up much more Goundhog Day than Saving Private Ryan. I hope there is a nobility and inherit goodness in just living a life well. Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up. I think that is the lesson I keep listening too long after my grandfather is gone.
Happy Pop’s Day.
