Granpa in Missouri

I have needed to do this for some time.

My great grandfather was Lester LaMiller of Lebanon, Mo.
For short, and to cut down on confusion, my sister and cousins
and I used to refer to him as Granpa inMissouri. To his face,
I always called him Great Grandfather much to the amusement
of my mother and any other adults who found the full use of
the term strangely formal. I felt it only appropriate that someone
who had earned the term "Great" be addressed as such.

Lester LaMiller, Granpa in Missouri, Great Grandfather
was 98 years old when he died in a state-run nursing home.
His only worldly possession that I am aware of was a .22 caliber pen
gun he kept in his shirt pocket until his final day. It was a relic from
another time just like him. It wasn't so much of a toy or a novelty,
but a necessity. My mother has a picture of him in the nursing home
that clearly shows the pen in its place. No one ever knew he had it.

My Great Grandfather was a squatter for most of his life. I am
not sure what he did in his younger days for a living, but I know
he was a twin. I know he had a wife and two daughters who were
also twins. I know that one day, they were in a car accident
and all three of the people who made up his world died and left him
so alone that it never seemed to matter to him what his life became so long
as he was buried next to his wife. We would go and visit him once a year
and park our camper on the territory he had managed to secure for
himself right on the highway outside of Lebanon. How he managed
to live there for any length of time amazes me now, but seemed only
appropriate back then. He was never a particularly unhappy person.
He could chase my sister and my cousin around his shanty wielding his
false teeth and screaming like a madman He came from a stock of people
who survived some of the worst deprivations known to Americans during
the Great Depression. Being alive and having enough food to eat under a
roof that didn't leak too bad was all right with him. What did it matter if
his shack smelled of urine and his clothes were never clean? Once, my mother
took his shoes off to wash his feet and found maggots between his toes.
It broke her heart to see him living like that and she would have done
anything to bring him back with us to Iowa, but he couldn't leave his
wife. So long as he was in Missouri, he believed that he would one day
be reunited with her. Heaven for him was knowing that he wasn't
leaving her alone.

Granpa in Missouri lived in a shotgun shack until he was 97, but he
apparently had nearly 20 grand hidden in that shack. He could very
easily have found some kind of accommodation that would have kept him
safe and comfortable without breaking his bank. But nothing doing.
I think what my mother couldn't quite understand was how he could
choose to live like that. She understood his desire to not leave Missouri
on account of his wife and children. We visited their graves every year
by a beautiful white church in the hills surrounded by trees. It was cool
and inviting. I wouldn't mind being buried there myself if I weren't so
inclined toward cremation. What my mother couldn't understand was
how any man would live in his own filth, mired in his own scent, surrounded
by the detritus of a lifetime. To him, it must have been a package deal. I
think there must have been some guilt for living for so long after they
died. He wasn't inclined to take his life, but he was able to spend
his life in poverty, alone, waiting for the end. It seemed to satisfy some
kind of secret condition he set. He would live. He wouldn't remarry or even
seek a better life. And when the end came, he could be buried next to
his wife and children. All debts paid.

Of course, this is largely speculation on my part. I was pretty observant
for a 10 year old, but I was still a 10 year old. I don't recall any testimony
or bits of conversation to that effect.

The greatest disservice I ever did to my Great Grandfather was when he
died and I was given the option not to go to his funeral. I took it. I think
my mother would have preferred that my sister and I stay home, which
is why she offered the option. It might also have been because she knew how badly
I reacted to death, fuerals and hospitals. I wish I had gone now regardless of how
hard it might have been. I would like to be able to think back now and remember
with some satisfaction how complete a man's life can be, not just when he lives well,
but when he gets the only thing he ever really wanted out of life, to be with his wife
in death. I would have liked to see him buried in that country graveyard with the
shade trees by the little white church that was just as beautiful if the sun shined or
cloudy skies drizzled on us like quiet tears.