------------------------- Flowers from Jedo ---------------------
Gregory Gruss

I only have one memory of my grandfather: him sitting on the front porch, playing the accordion and singing next to a jug of wine. I still have a few fragmented memories of the house; one is of a bird flying around upstairs, one is of a bobcat in a tree, and some involve eating kolach or sandwich cookies. I also have snapshot memories of the coats on the wall before the steps, the shower in the kitchen, and the fire in the wood stove. We visited Baba’s every week.

My parents often entertained on weekends. Usually, one of my uncles would stop by, and sometimes they brought their families. Occasionally, my parents—especially my uncles Joe and Steve, and their wives, Betty and Biddy—would go out dancing the polka at a club. Their favorite place was a ski lodge in Somerset, where they would meet up with Pete and Ann.

I remember plenty of nights when my mom and dad stayed up late, playing cards in the kitchen with another couple, laughing and telling stories. The men would have a few beers or maybe a seven and seven, but my mom and most of my aunts didn’t drink. Usually, at some point, it would get “past our bedtime,” and we’d be sent to bed while the party continued.

That’s what happened on this particular night. It got to be “past my bedtime,” and I was asked to go to bed. But instead of going to bed, I got ready and then sat on the top step, where I overheard my mom tell a story.
She said that Baba and Jedo had made a promise that before they passed away, they would say “goodbye.” But, as fate would have it, Jedo passed without goodbyes being said.

When Jedo passed, my mom said I refused to go to the funeral and really carried on about it. I told my parents I didn’t want to go because I thought they were going to “nail Jedo to the cross” and I did not want to see that. They assured me that Jedo would not be nailed to the cross and I did go to the funeral.

In the days shortly after the funeral, we went to the house as usual. During our visits, when there was time, we were allowed to play in the woods, but we had to stay within earshot and not go past the old mining road. On this visit, when my dad was ready to leave, he went outside and yelled for me to come back, but I didn’t. He waited for a while and called again. Sometime later, I finally showed up, and my dad began to question me about where I had been. I casually responded that it was okay because I had been talking to Jedo, and he gave me the flowers I was holding to give to Baba.

At the time, while sitting on the top step—after hearing the story—I think I went to bed. I don’t remember how old I was, and I don’t think I ever discussed it again. I parked it in the back of my mind, knowing I’d get into trouble if I brought it up.

But later, as an adult, I wondered if that story had been a dream or something I made up. So, when my mom was in her eighties, I asked her about the story I overheard that night. She told me it was true, and that Baba believed, from then on, that Jedo came back to say goodbye.

And I have a snapshot memory of an old man sitting on a stump, handing me flowers.