His Nilla Wafers Tasted Like Tobacco: A death, a fire, and a funeral.

I have to say I remember pretty clearly when I found out my grandfather had died. It was Valentines Day '95 and I remember I was staring at the designs printed on a chocolate heart I had been given at the annual Valentines Day party at my elementary school. It was on a stick. I wanted to eat it and stare at it forever at the same time. An announcement came over the loud speaker that I was to come to the front office to be picked up by my parents. I was in second grade at the time and I'm pretty sure I was delightfully surprised that I would get to go home. Either Mom or Dad told me that Grandpa had passed away, and I was pretty bummed. I was however a bit more bummed that the chocolate heart didn't taste very good. Grandpa lived on a farm in a small town in the middle of Texas. I still can't remember the name. I was always too busy watching hypnotised as the black tar lines on the road weaved and danced for miles on the cement. The town had a Texas Burger restaurant in it.

When I think of the times I actually spent with O.C. Lewis I have about three distinct memories:

-I remember having a conversation with him in the kitchen at night once. I recall the conversation mainly including a very little me talking to him nonstop while he sat there and listened to me patiently. He had a stroke that reduced his speech to an unintelligible mumble a number of years ago, so he preferred not to talk at all. The moon was shining into the kitchen window, and I sat on the floor in the dark just chatting away.

-I remember he had a driveway that was made of lots of various stones of different sizes. I used to pick up the prettiest rock I could find and chuck it as far as I could.

-My favorite memory was of him taking me on a ride in his green army jeep down to feed the catfish in his pond. We'd load up the bags of little brown food pebbles in the back of the vehicle, go riding down a bumpy trail to the pond, and he'd watch as I threw handful after handful of catfish feed into the pond. It was delightful to watch them go up to eat the food, their little heads bobbing up and down in the water and their fish whiskers twitching. I can still remember the smell of the fish food. It would pierce the air and stay on your hands even after you washed them.

About a year or so after the burial when someone bought the ranch property from my father I was secretly angry over it. I felt the pond and its hungry catfish wouldn't be appreciated by whoever owned the place next. I imagined that the fish would all die, and their bodies would all float to the top of the pond, and then the new owners would fry them up and eat them.

Most of my memories of my Grandfather are of him after he died. I still don't know very much about him or his life, but I know how he died, the names of both of his ex-wives, and how bad a father he was. I never felt the need to know anymore about him. He had a best friend who also had a stroke, and he was the one who found him dead on his bed after having a heart attack. I recall him being a slightly pudgy man of a short stature who seemed very sad about the turn of events. I felt as much sympathy for him as a 6 year old possibly could--his guilt radiated off of him in nearly visible waves.

People tend to assume that a child doesn't understand death, that its true meaning is far too complicated or abstract for someone under 4 feet tall to truly grasp. I don't think that was true for me-- I understood what had happened from the get go: at one time my Grandpa was in the middle of Texas feeding his catfish and smoking cigarettes and the next day he was gone. I didn't really question it. I think children understand death better than adults do in a lot of ways.

Tip: If you burn trash in a large metal bin do not let a burning can fall out and land on dead wheatgrass. Fires start and do not stop. The entire field was angry and black with smoke, and my mother screamed at me to call 911. I flat out refused because I did not know the address. Second grade does not teach you that 911 has caller ID. The fire department came and put out the fire. I helped by stomping on some small grass fires that popped up around me with my brand new tan Hushpuppies. I thought it was cool that the entire field was now black when it was once a blondish yellow. I believe I was the only one. That night I slept in his living room on a fold out bed, listening to the grandfather clock chime in the middle of the night. I didn't get any rest.

I don't really remember the funeral. Funerals for old people aren't generally very memorable. I do remember that my grandfather's step-daughter stroked his hair and adjusted his hankerchief when she went to view his body. I thought that was pretty damn creepy. Later my father showed me the obituary. I was proud of my grandfather for getting in the small town's local newspaper. I wanted to be in the paper too.