My grandfather died in church.
Well, the parking lot anyways.
The church was remodeling their sanctuary. To this day, I still think it’s one of the most beautiful churches, and I’ve seen lots of churches too. The church members had decided to turn the sanctuary around, and have the front at the back and the back at the front. Previously, there had been a large window at the back. With the remodel, the large window would be in the front. It would be beautiful.
When I was really young, my grandparents (who moved often), lived briefly in a house across the street from the church. My Gran Gran, as I called him, would take me over to the church playground. It was the most epic playground ever, and had a huge spiral slide. I mean gigantic. If I seen it today I’d still think it was the biggest, most fantastic slide ever. It was all white and metal, and had a blue and red stripe running down the sides. The only negative was that it was so epically awesome that sometimes I was actually afraid to climb all the way to the top. I specifically remember that was where I learned to count seconds in Mississippis after hearing a kid in front of me saying it.
One day in 1996, when my grandparents were living in an apartment, my grandfather didn’t come home in the evening. By eight o’clock that night, my grandmother had formed a search party. She knew he’d been helping at the church, so she went there.
And that’s where he was, slumped over in his old blue Chevy truck. He’d had open-heart surgery 15 years earlier, and the doctors said he wouldn’t live five more years, but he did.
I could go on and on about him, but I’ll save my Gran Gran stories for other entries.