The Last Walk

It’s not hard to imagine my Uncle Steve at age five. He is three years my senior and has been like a brother to me my whole life. Apparently I am the one who nicknamed him Bubba as soon as I could say the word. I don’t remember him at age five, I haven’t found my two year old’s memory, but I have no trouble knowing what a five year old Steve surely looked like, as all four of his children bore a striking resemblance to him when they were young.

At age five my Uncle Steve lost his father. His father, my grandfather, suffered from congestive heart failure and experienced several major heart attacks before the one which took his life on May 15, 1959. After the first attack my granddaddy, Lewis, was prescribed diet and rest, which he allegedly followed religiously. At noon each day he picked Steve up from morning kindergarten at the Catholic school where my grandmother taught second grade. Lewis and Steve spent the afternoon together; lunch, followed by a nap and then a walk to the end of the block and back before the other family members began returning from work and school. What a treat this must have been for Steve. The youngest of ten children, he had never before experienced the undivided attention of a parent.

Also, he had never experienced the freedom of those long afternoons. As Steve tells the story now, half a century later, he waited patiently for his father to fall asleep at naptime and would stealthily creep from the room, and out of the house, to roam the neighborhood, sneaking back into the house in time for the afternoon walk. What an angelic picture the little imp must have made walking down the front sidewalk, holding the hand of his six-foot tall father, shortly after he had riled every dog on the block while running and whooping through the alley.

There were two things Steve was forbidden to do (I am sure there were more, but these are the two he related.), one was walk on the roof and the other was climb the redwood fence. My grandfather was proud of his slate roof and didn’t want his children breaking the tiles, or it can be assumed, falling off and breaking their necks. I can also guess he didn’t want the fence slats broken by his young sons and daughters scrambling over the top when such a nice hinged gate was provided. During naptime Steve did exactly the things he was told not to do. One day after his afternoon romp through the neighborhood Steve climbed over the fence planning to sneak back into the house and into bed before he was missed. St Christopher, hanging from Steve’s neck by a long silver chain stopped him on his descent from the top fence rail. Little Stevie was hanging from the redwood fence certain he was being punished by death for his disobedience. A Savior appeared in the form of his father who carried him into the house, examined his neck making certain he was truly not injured, and then gave him a good spanking, admonishing him to never climb the fence again.

On the day of my grandfather’s last heart attack my grandmother received a call at school summoning her home. She retrieved Steve from his classroom, raced home, and deposited him on the living-room sofa where she ordered him to sit. Steve might have sneaked out of the house while his father was napping, walked on the roof, and climbed the fence, but no one disobeyed my grandmother. From his seat on the sofa he observed the “ambulance men” arrive with a gurney and leave with his father. He and my grandmother followed the ambulance to the hospital where he was once again ordered to sit, this time in the car, while she went into the hospital.

Steve doesn’t know how long he waited in the car. Long enough to push every button, turn every knob, go through the glove box, and play with the cigarette lighter. At some point a lady showed up at his open car window, told him her name was Mrs. Robinson, and he was to go with her – and he did. He recalls having a vague idea that her children went to his school. He spent the rest of the afternoon at her house before someone, one of his siblings perhaps (he doesn’t recall), picked him up.

As vivid as his memories of this day are, he doesn’t remember much about the next few. His father died, a funeral takes place, and relatives and friends gather at the family home after the service. Late that afternoon, amid the condolences and the company, my Uncle Ronnie, Steve’s twenty-three year old brother, thinking it a good idea to give Steve a sense of normalcy by keeping to his routine, takes him for his afternoon walk to the end of the block and back.

As they stroll along holding hands, Ron, preoccupied I’m sure by the events of the day, glances down at Steve noticing his other hand, the hand not held in his, is raised toward the sky.

“What are you doing, Bubba?” Ron asks looking at Stevie’s outreached hand.

“I’m holding my Daddy’s hand and he’s walking with us,” was Steve’s reply.