"My Refuge and my Strength" Submission #16

Grandma Munson became my Sunday night refuge. She was my dad’s mom. Vetah Janes was her name… the “Janes” coming from her second marriage. Regardless of her current, legal last name, we still called her “Grandma Munson.”

Grandma had a constant tick. Sort of like Tourette’s Syndrome. Every few seconds, her head would twitch and she would let out a quick, guttural sound. It took a little getting used to but eventually, I quit noticing it.

Grandma’s husband, Earl Janes, was “Grandpa Earl.” He wasn't a blood relative but he was the only grandpa I ever knew. What a great guy! I loved the man. Every time I saw him and he heard my voice, he’d get a big smile on his face and say with a touch of gusto, “Well hello Brother Bart!”

I say when “he heard my voice,” because Grandpa Earl was as blind as a bat. He couldn’t really see me. He wore thick, coke bottle glasses but I think he could only see blurry shapes or shadowy outlines.

For years, people in Madrid would bring their lawn mowers to Grandpa Earl to repair. He was a wizard at repairing these machines. Even when he all but lost his eye sight, he’d still fix lawn

mowers. He could tear a mower apart and put it back together by touch. An amazing talent.

I’m ashamed to admit that I used to play a cruel trick on him as he toiled away on the workbench in his garage. I would creep into his work area… undetected. He would be standing at his bench, his back to me, disassembling a motor. As he would lay a tool down, I would pick it up. Seconds later, he’d reach for the tool… his hand feeling along the area where he was sure he’d just laid it.

“What the hell?” He’d mumble, out loud, certain that it should be there. Then his fingers would probe the other side of the bench, at which time I would place the tool back where it was originally. Eventually, he’d feel along the original path and what do you know, there it was.

He would let out a little husky laugh and shake his head as he muttered, “I don’t know…” his voice trailing off.

Grandpa Earl had a leg amputated. Diabetes, I think. But that didn't stop him from hobbling to the garage to fix his mowers. Eventually, he had the other leg amputated and that pretty much did him in. He became wheelchair bound and his health seemed to deteriorate from there.

I remember seeing him, sitting in his wheelchair, head bowed, as though he was praying. He would frequently experience “phantom pain" in the lower legs… that weren't there. Both of his stubs would

twitch as he would attempt to muffle his cries of pain.

“Oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh!” He would he would cry out… embarrassed.

When the pain would subside for a few minutes, he’d finally raise up his head, smile at me and say, “My legs sure are acting up tonight, Brother Bart!”

“I know.” I’d say. “I hope they feel better soon, Grandpa.” I didn't really know what to say.

Grandma Munson and Grandpa Earl lived in a tiny, two-bedroom home on Main Street, directly across the street from the Madrid water tower. The old school, built in 1915, was just two blocks

south from their house. At that time, these school buildings housed Kindergarten through 12th grade. Some years later, they built a new high school out on Highway 17, just north of town. Eventually, the junior high students moved out there too.

My Sundays became very predictable. Mom and Jack would start tossing them back shortly after wiping the sleep from their swollen, blood-shot eyes and the alcohol consumption would continue until they could find something to argue about.

By mid-afternoon, invariably, one of them would fire a shot over the bow of the other one and it was on! This was my cue. I’d head over to Grandma’s house. I just didn't want to see them fight. It scared me something fierce. You never knew when the verbal barrage would escalate to physical blows. It often did and mom always came out on the short end of the stick.

Sunday after Sunday, with a rolled up change of clothes under my arm, I would jog the entire way to Grandma’s house, cutting through yards to shorten my trip. People in Madrid didn't build fences.

As I jogged, I would quietly sing gospel hymns to the rhythm of my footsteps. I remembered these songs from my childhood, attending church in California.

“Just a closer walk with thee,

Grant it Jesus is my plea,

Daily walking close to thee,

Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.”

Then I’d sing:

“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine,

Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.

Heir of salvation, purchase of God,

Born of his spirit, washed in his blood.

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my savior, all the day long!

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my savior all the day long.”

The words to these songs would comfort my troubled and frightened soul.

Grandma Munson would cook me dinner every Sunday night and it was always the exact same meal. Meat loaf, fried potatoes and cream corn. I loved it! It is still my favorite meal.

Grandma’s bedroom was right off the living room, on the north side and Grandpa Earl’s bedroom was also off the living room on the south side. My bedroom? I slept on a scruffy, old love seat in the living room. My head was on one armrest and my feet hung over the other armrest. It was far more comfortable than being home… the war zone.

It occurred to me, years later, that mom never asked me about where I was going those Sunday nights. Heck, I don’t think she had a clue that I was even gone. As I stated in a previous submission, she totally lost track of me, as she surrendered her parental duty.

Grandma Munson never asked me why I came over and spent the night… especially when I had school the next day. I suppose she might have known.

Grandma Munson and Grandpa Earl will always hold a very special place in my heart. I don’t think they even realized how much of a comfort they were to a frightened and confused young boy. They were my refuge and my strength. May they rest in peace.