DAY 98: The Family Tree

Grandma got everybody together for blondies and lemonade, the better to ask us to get grandpa's skull.  He had died on the operating table the day before, and while his daughters - our mothers - wept and consoled each other, it was the grandchildren that were being entrusted with the solemn request.  His skull was to be cleaned and set into the family tree.

As it turned out, getting our hands on Grandpa's skull was the easy part.  Mr Wanabaker had known of Grandpa's wishes for years; he consulted with an immigrant butcher of indeterminate origin (who apparently possessed a sense of discretion, along with previous experience) to make the essential preparations.  When we went to the funeral home, Mr Wanabaker already had an urn, bearing the cremated remainder; he said the skull would be ready after the wake.

The wake was well-attended by many strangers, but we could sense those among the crowd who knew.  Whenever one of us would be mentioned as a grandson, the knowledgeable would respond with a narrowing of the eyes, as if they were studying our fortitude.  In their voiced condolence, they might spinkle in some tale of one of Grandpa's accepted challenges.  The conversation would usually end with a squeeze of the hand or shoulder, as if to say, "mind your grandpa, now..."

The next day, we received the skull, and returned to grandma's, for the next step.  She seemed bleary-eyed and agitated when she saw us on her step, and she scolded us for not calling first.  A minute after holding the skull, she was composed, and she led us to the southwest corner of the backyard.

The tree was massive, a testament to the resiliency of our lineage.  We had not planted it, but the tree had thrived from its symbiotic relationship with our ancestors.  Dwight looked up the trunk, and said to me, "You're the lightweight, dude.  Get up there."

It was 15 feet to the first branch; I started to argue with my cousin.  But the clatter of Grandma trying to drag over the ladder and hatchet defused our tiff.  We took the items from her hands; while my cousin made off with the ladder, she passed me the hatchet and said, "He wanted to be up in the crown, and facing the sunrise."

Unlike me, Dwight had visited our grandparents when he was tree-climbing age, so he gave me directions.  "Just look for Grandpa Malcolm - he'll be the lowest - and put Grandpa about twelve inches under him.  Resting above a branch is better, and threading a branch through him is great, too.  Just make sure it's gonna stay."

The ladder put me in reach of the low branch.  Slowly, I pulled myself up until I reached my great-grandfather.  His skull was half-embedded, the bark barely an inch behind his sockets.  I craned my neck upward, and counted three others, swallowed in various stages.  I even thought I saw the outline of a fifth, almost completely.obscured.

With a stick, Grandma tapped the side of the tree she chose; a twinge of vertigo made it feel like an earthquake.  But I found the best spot I could for Grandpa, and carved his 'seat.'  After a few minutes, I yelled down for the skull.  Dwight tossed first, but didn't reach me, and it fell back to Earth.  Grandma caught it with her apron, glaring at both of us before we made a second try.  The second try was good, and I set Grandpa in his final resting place.

When I was done, I yelled them to stand clear, and dropped the axe.  But back on the ladder, I had a second thought.  I pulled out my set of keys, searching for the least useful one.  I pulled it off the ring, with a Mt Rushmore souvenir keychain attached; I jammed the key into the tree, about two feet below Grandpa.  Patting an apology to the tree, I began my descent. 

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Drop of Goo Becomes World Famous"