Wild Bill

I rarely use names in my postings. This is an exception. Wild Bill was my grandfather, my mother's father.

When I was a child, he flitted in and out of our lives. No one was ever sure where he lived. Once someone figured it out, he had moved again. Then he would just show up on our doorstep and my parents would always take him in.

You know what Robert Frost said, "Home is the place where they have to take you in."

He might stay 2 days or 2 months. He had a gypsy soul and was soon off again.

Everyone seemed to know him. He made friends easily. Age was not a factor. About the time I was finally allowed to attend parties in high school, it was not unusual for me to show up and hear someone say, "Oh, your grandfather was just here."

Wild Bill invented drunk dialing. If he was with friends (and he was always with someone,) he would put them on the phone to talk to you. My mother has accused me of inheriting this gene. She would get so frustrated with him and that's when he nicknamed her "The Prosecutor."

My father had a little more patience. He would allow Wild Bill to work with him or he would often take him fishing. Dad lost more fishing equipment to overturned boats than he would care to remember. Once, Wild Bill ducked behind my dad's truck and Dad ran over him. On the way to the hospital, Wild Bill was moaning and groaning. In a rare moment of zero-compassion, my dad told him to stifle -- he wasn't having a heart attack! After several hours in the emergency room, they informed my Dad that -- you guessed it -- Wild Bill had a heart attack.

He was a skinny wisp of a man. He had a bad eye that he always taped shut with Scotch tape. It was a bizarre look. My dad tells the story of him calling the house, needing a ride, etc. My dad would go to pick him up and he would announce to a bunch of hooligans, "This is my son-in-law and he's going to kick your a**."

Later in life, he worked with the Sheriff's Department and played Popeye for sick children. They would helicopter around the state and bring joy to kids in the various hospitals. As a perpetual kid himself, he was very good at it.

At the end of his life we were called to the hospital repeatedly, always told that he may not make it through the night. He fooled us for months. My parents would go in after the doctor and ask how he was doing. The answer was always "Great!." Finally, my dad asked him if he had understood the doctor's diagnosis. He said, "Well, I know I'm dying but I still feel great."

My grandmother was the love of his life, although they had a twisted and demented relationship. She left him when the children were very young. When he was in the hospital dying, she agreed to see him one more time. He was unconscious, but she visited and talked to him. She reminded him of their fun times together. They had not seen each other in over 30 years.

When he passed away, I didn't believe it for a while. Just like my entire life, I thought he'd pop back in eventually. He must have still had some pull with my grandmother. For no logical or medical reason, she died 5 days later.

Maybe they're in heaven avoiding each other.