ROGER FARMINGTON AND HIS GRANDPA

Walking off the baseball field, my friend Patrick and I would look in the parking lot for Grandpa’s car. He provided transportation for us four times a week during little league baseball practice. So, after busting our hump for two hours, catching, throwing running on a hot, humid July day, the view of Grandpa’s car would give us a much-needed reprieve. Within ten minutes of the sighting, we knew we would be flopping into his back seat, taking refuge in a shatterproof bubble, and experiencing an automatic fail-safe ride guarantee. 

We looked forward to our trip home with Grandpa almost more than playing the game. We’d stop at Dairy Queen, get a Misty Slush and anticipate our ridership. He would always share life lessons during the thirty-minute road trip. Grandpa called it “Shaping young minds, one synapse at a time.” He would pontificate with gems like “Always keep the train moving forward; once the train stops, it hard to get it moving again” or “Don’t make excuses; just get the job done” were two of his most profound colloquialisms. 

Since Patrick and I were almost twelve, he would also share his life lesson about the opposite sex. “Remember, boys, girls are special; they’re like a rose, beautiful but with thorns.” We weren’t sure what that meant; we just went with it. He would repeatedly remind us, I sure in jest, “You can marry more money in a day than you can make in a lifetime.” I found this odd since he had been married to Grandma for over thirty years. I’m also sure she wasn’t a trust baby or rich when they took the matrimonial leap. 

In a serious tone, he would look us in the eye and say, “Never touch a woman in anger. Never say things you’ll regret the next day,” and added, “The feeling remains after the glitter fades.” I later would hear that hook in a song, and I would come to bastardize the opposite refrain “There’s no problem glitter can’t fix.” Patrick and I would hide from the world’s ugliness together, knowing Grandpa was there shepherding us. 


Another adage he proffered was, “Nothing is free.” We knew what that meant but were still privy to a Grandpa illustration of the phrase. On the first day of the summer taxi, Grandpa said, “OK, gents, since nothing is free, you have two options.” Patrick looked at me with a “What’s up” stare. “Do either of you two knuckleheads have any gas money?” Of course, we didn’t, so we just shook our heads no. “All right, boys, since nothing is free, here’s how you’ll pay your cab fare.” Grandpa inserted a cassette tape into the dashboard radio cavity and hit play. “You’ll have to listen to Firing Line for thirty minutes on the way home.” “Firing Line, wow, a war story?” Patrick quipped. Grandpa answered professorially, “Sort of. Just take your headphones off and prepare to be enlightened.”

At first, we strained to figure out what we were listening to. But as the summer rides continued, we both absorbed the intellectual witticism of the show; the process was engaging. We both enjoyed the unabated banter between William F. Buckley and Gore Vidal. Buckley believed you had to debate to convince someone, even if you risk losing the issue. I found Buckley amusing and realized this was Grandpa’s way of exposing us to various social problems. Hell, at times, he would even make us listen to NPR. 

At first, I needed clarification on what Patrick thought of the Buckley show. But later, I learned what Patrick thought about the program. Grandpa forgot to turn on the cassette when Patrick and I were strapped into the backseat, ready for departure. Suddenly out of nowhere, Patrick hollowed, “Hey Grandpa, we goanna listen to Firing Line?” 

Patrick would graduate from Dartmouth, work for the Reagan Administration, and later take an ambassadorship to Africa. Since his parents were immigrants from Ghana, Patrick was excited to be assigned to its capital city, Accra. He became fluent in French and did all he could to trace his roots in West Africa. Patrick and I are still best of friends. 

February in the Midwest was gray, wet, and cold. But this February was more difficult than most. Three days after Thanksgiving and two months short of his sixty-eight birthday, Grandpa experienced chest pains. Once in the emergency room, the ER doc triages a heart attack. Next, the nursing staff begins to treat cardiac problems, administering the appropriate medication. Thirty-five minutes later, Grandpa crashed. 

He died of a thoracic aneurysm. No one was sure if a proper diagnosis would have made a difference. All I knew was, “Fuck Medicare and socialized medicine.” 

His transition made a difference to me. I thought he would live forever. Then, suddenly, Grandpa was gone, and Grandma lost her soul mate. The family seemed to have forfeited all that was orderly in the world, answers to every question and warm hugs that made terrible times bearable. 

I was mad. Mad at Grandpa for leaving me. Mad at the doctors for screwing this up. Mad at God. I felt abandoned. I needed Grandpa to continue stewarding me through life’s whitewater rapids and alligator-infested estuary. Now he was gone. Without “That look” he would give me when he disapproved of something stupid I’d do or his sage advice in answering my life questions, I would rapidly wander down a troubled path. 

My rage would be heavily dominated by disarray in a few more years. Entering puberty would amplify this turmoil. Experiencing cultural decay with friends devolving into a Leviathan of drugs, sex, and disco, threatening to be damned in the afterlife. If this didn’t generate enough adolescent pandemonium, the radio music played added more provocative and antisocial noise to the mayhem. When the Beatles put out the White Album, all hell broke loose. Why don’t we do what in the road? Piggyies were ripping off Animal Farm. Helter Smelter was trying to start a race riot. With the US cities in flames as racial tribalism became the norm, we didn’t need Lennon and McCarthy to start the Revolution. I was entering my twelfth year of living coexistent with cosmic chaos. 

I’d spend hours after school in the local music store. I’d be snooping around the older guys with guitars, hoping to pick up free lessons as they played along with some of the LPs. I would listen to Hendrix for hours and hours. I would pick up a guitar and try to mimic his riffs. Not even close, but I was obnoxious enough to believe it was because Jimi was left-handed and I was right-handed. Yeah, right, that’s the reason. It took a while before I realized that no one could be Jimi Hendrix except Jimi Hendrix. That’s when I put my Gibson SG away and took up the keyboard.

My trips into psychedelic and later heavy metal music would have been lessened if  Grandpa was still in my day-to-day life. After playing four bars of Purple Haze or Voodoo Child, Grandpa would have given me “That look.” I would sense his disapproval and immediately start playing Merle Haggard and Buck Owens’ music.

I miss Grandpa; I miss him a lot.