I live in Ohio now, have since the summer of 1997.
It seems fitting, then, that these two items are so strongly tied to my adopted home. At least it
would make sense if they actually came to me because of that move.
They didn't, however. They came to me from my grandfathers.
The buckeye lives in my car, a totem that rests at the bottom of the storage cubby where I leave my wallet most of the time. I could call it a good luck charm - because that's what my paternal grandfather considered it, but I don't think of it bringing me any sort of luck. I certainly don't call it what he called it (I'll
link, but I won't type it). To me it's just Grandpa's buckeye.
The glass is one of two of its type, both bought long ago as promotions from some filling station in Louisville. They're nothing special in any way, just short, round drink glasses. But I remember them from my maternal grandparents' house in Louisville. I remember Grandpa drinking out of it and always wanting it as my glass whenever I was at their house as a child.
Grandpa Goehe passed away during my junior year in high school. I remember the events of his passing oddly, remember seeing him on the day of his death, his frail body rattling in his bed at home, remember my mother getting a phone call when we got home that day telling her that he had passed on the thirty-minute drive back to our house.
I say that I remember his passing oddly because I know that my memories of those events are false ones, somehow built up in my brain to cover up what must have been a pretty traumatic time in my life, the first death of someone truly close to me, a passing that took place on my birthday that high school year. I remember spending the afternoon and evening at the funeral home, remember the funeral service and the drive to the cemetery all but across the street from my other grandparents' home. I remember the military burial ceremony and the visitation at their house afterward.
And I remember my grandfather every time I drink out of that Bengals glass.
I remember going fishing with him on Lake Cumberland. I remember driving to Bernheim Forest with him, remember spending a week in his hometown of Staunton, IL with him. I remember his bald head and breakfast of grape nuts with orange juice instead of milk in the bowl. I remember Christmas Eves spent at his house with him reading the Christmas story directly from the bible. I remember his garden with the hedge border. I remember him eating parsley directly out of that garden. I remember putting together model airplanes with him.
And I remember him with every drink from those glasses.
The buckeye is with me more often, spending time with me whenever I'm in my car. The buckeye rested in a fruit bowl in my paternal grandfather's house, a house at 1918 Ekin Avenue in New Albany. The house was across the street and over one house from the national cemetery where my other grandpa was laid to rest. The house was just barely more than half a mile from the house where I lived until I was in junior high school.
I
could walk from my house to my elementary school and onward to my grandparents' house, my junior high, and my high school in probably twenty minutes and by only making a couple of turns along the way. I spent a lot of time at that house and spent at least some time at their house every day after school until I was in junior high school.
I remember my Grandpa's thin pancakes fried in Crisco. I remember the smell of his shed, a place where he would park his car every night but that smelled of tobacco spit, sawdust, and varnish. I remember Grandpa's chair and his huge, cabinet television that he watched from it. I remember his giant lathe on which he turned wood creations that I am lucky enough to have in my home today. I remember his work shirts and his shoe stretchers kept in the closet that you had to duck your head to get into. I remember Christmas days spent at his house with him sitting in his other chair in the living room.
I could go on for paragraphs and paragraphs about what I remember about my two grandfathers, but I remember them both whenever I say my full name: Robert Lorenz Dusch.
Grandpa Dusch was
Robert Fred Dusch. Grandpa Goehe was
Lorenz Henry Goehe.
When the two men passed, I went through their houses with my family, choosing things that mattered.
There wasn't much that I wanted from either house - a few photos, some glasses, a couple of buckeyes.
I already had the memories that mattered.
