I went over to have a cigar with my father-in-law Saturday afternoon. We did this often when I was married to his daughter.
All seasons of the year, but my favorite was when we met during wintertime. He would start a fire in his backyard and we would sit there smoking cigars while the snow fell upon us.
He no longer lives at the same house, but at a cemetery nestled about a mile away. It is a beautiful resting place filled with old trees, a creek and a couple ponds. The cemetery roads curve along subtle hills that bend up and down.
I parked Betty the Green Blazer about thirty feet from PopPop's resting spot. I brought a chair, but I left it with Betty. I grabbed my Padron that George picked up for me at my cigar shop in the Board of Trade. I grabbed a little Bluetooth speaker that I bought at Verizon and I grabbed a flask that PopPop’s daughter gave me on my thirty-fifth birthday. I filled it with a little Wild Turkey.
Saturday was my third visit since Mr. Bergmann has become a captive audience.
I asked him how he was doing as I lit my cigar. I pulled a cheap plastic comb out of my pocket. One of those thirty-nine cent jobbies that you can buy at the White Hen.
PopPop always had one in his pocket. He was meticulous about keeping his thinning hair properly comb. It didn’t matter if he was walking off of a golf course or into a restaurant, he’d slow up and lay his hair down each time.
I left the comb behind his tombstone with the dime and the Butterfield ball marker that I left on my prior visits.
You never know when Pop will need a comb. He wouldn’t want to look unruly around Saint Joseph.
I took the flask out from my pocket and toasted the old German. I poured Wild Turkey on the ground in front of his stone. It slowly seeped into the frozen ground.
There wasn’t anyone that was still alive around, so I prayed and conversed out loud with Mr. Bergmann. I played some George Winston over the Bluetooth. It sounded lovely as it echoed throughout the wooded cemetery.
As I finished my swig off of the flask, it began to snow. The clouded sky was quiet with the muffle of snowflakes falling upon the graves.
After I banged out ten “Hail Mary’s” and an “Our Fader,” I walked around to meet the eternal neighbors near PopPop.
Several Doctors, many of them born in the 1920’s through the early 1940’s. There were a couple veterans and even a former hockey player that played for our Chicago Blackhawks.
I introduced myself to Cottrell Meaders who sits next to Pop.
Mr Meaders was born in 1932 and settled in at Bronswood Cemetery in 2019. I’m looking forward to getting to know Cottrell on future visits. I’m already curious to know about his hyphen between his birthdate and his departure to heaven. The hyphen holds everyone’s life story.
On the other side of Mr Meaders is Stan Mikita. Emblazed on Mr Mikita’s tombstone is the Blackhawk Indian head. The same one he wore on his sweater for twenty-two years on the ice at the Stadium.
Since it was snowing, I decided to tell Stan, Cottrell and anyone else that happened to be within earshot a story about snow and Mr Bergmann.
Christmas Eve of 2001.
We started a fire after dinner for the whole family to enjoy. The Bergmann’s had nice sturdy benches that their son Bill built after high school. They were tightly packed next to the fire.
It was snowing softly that night and the benches were filled with cousins and aunts and my girlfriend. I had been sitting by the fire for a good hour when I decided to go take a pee. As I went through the back door, Mr Bergmann was heading back outside. He went inside to replenish his Christmas cocktail.
The spot on the bench were I was sitting was dry from falling snow. You can picture the size left from my ass print. Perfectly warmed up for the next person. Just as the screen door was closing, I could hear my future father-in-law say, “this must be where Big John was sitting, it was nice of him to leave it for me.”
I turned around and looked through the frosted glass on the door. Everyone was smiling and Mr Bergmann’s daughter nestled close to her father in my absence. He was happy that night.
Pop and I had a couple more swigs of Wild Turkey and I finished my cigar. Placing the ashes neatly near the side of Pop’s stone. He loved to keep a big ash on the end of his cigar and then place them in a uniform manner in his silver ashtray. Occasionally he’d misjudge the timing and ash would fall on his chest and belly.
I took the wrapper off of my stogie and flung the butt into the creek. Since he wasn’t driving anywhere, I poured Pop one last shot of bourbon.
I asked him to continue to keep an eye on George, Fritz and Hazel and thanked him. I thanked PopPop for giving me the opportunity to have a family with him.
Then I climbed into Betty and drove away.
It was a fitting moment to share under the gray skies on a Saturday afternoon. It was nice having a catch up and a chance to formulate life.
Time to check the rest of my numbers for the superbowl. I turned it off before the halftime show and never turned it back on.
I should have told the story about the first superbowl that I watched with Mr Bergmann. It’s a good one.
Next time..
Monday morning is already here and baseball is right around the corner.
Be astonished
