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Some Things About Home: A Eulogy for Les
I’m going to ask you to close your eyes and clear your minds. Before I say what I want to say, I just want you to just take a moment and make a picture in your mind of home. Maybe it’s your current house, or the house where you grew up. What do you see? What do you smell? Maybe it’s the smell of grass, or the sweet scent of fallen apples fermenting in the sun. Maybe you see rows of corn and how they look like tines of a rake when you’re speeding by in your car. Maybe you’re thinking of the way the clouds reflect in one of the glassy lakes.
I did not come from a very happy home, and so whenever I encountered this writing prompt, I found myself defaulting to a different home, to my husband’s home, and the family that adopted me. So here’s what I often think of when I think about home:
Cars filling the driveway. The scent of smoke from the wood stove on a crisp December night. Chainsaws and gasoline lingering in the garage. Sweat-stained baseball caps hanging on the wall. The sound of the door, the creak of the stairs, the dance of pet hair on the floor. The fruity, yeasty smell of homebrew on the stove. Sports jerseys and newspaper clippings stuffed into a drawer. A Mustang under the bedspread out in the barn at Grandma’s farm. The sight of Les and his older brothers leaning over the hood of a rusty Ford.
I think of brothers—his brothers, and the brothers that he fathered: Gavin and Brian, how much they look like him. I was standing with them by a campfire, eating catfish by the canal when I first really noticed this, when I noticed that the man I love stands exactly the same way his father did: weight on one leg, thumbs hooked into front pockets, spitting into the fire. And his hands—exactly the same. Same shape, same knuckles, same nails bitten down to their beds.
What else is the same? His hair? His nose? His temperament? Dare I say: his heart? Ah, see now I have your attention—because maybe we’re not supposed to talk about that. But I must, you see, because Les’s heart is a big part of the reason I think of this as home.
It’s the way he always came out the front door to greet us with his arms open wide. The way he brewed a batch of my favorite beer, called it “Honey Grad” and brought it to my college graduation back in Ohio. It was the way he labored over the heavy wooden arch under which Gavin and I would stand to say our vows—painting and swearing at it when he loaded it onto the truck. It was the way he was always there for you whenever your time of need. It was his own vulnerability: the quiver in his voice when he called our house once to atone for his mistakes, the way he said, “Don’t give up on me, darlin. I really need you now.” It was the way he loved being a grandpa, the way he cradled the tender heads of our newborn baby girls. The way he rolled around and played on the floor with them, the way their faces lit up whenever he walked into the room. It’s the same way they light up now when Gavin comes home from work.
My girls have a father who would do anything for them, who will caress their faces and stay with them until they fall asleep. Who, every night—long after bedtime is done, goes back in their rooms to kiss them and whisper goodnight before he goes to bed. My girls have a father who is unafraid to show his love for them because that’s what he was shown. Heart.
Les’s heart has taken him away from us, but not before it gave. We grieve today because he left us too early, too suddenly. Too unexpectedly. But after the shock and the tears and many sunrises and sunsets have passed, I think we will see that Les has prepared us well in loving one another, in forgiveness, in being devoted to another’s needs. We’ll see that he has prepared us in what it means to call a place home.
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