He closed the hymnal and returned it to the pocket in the back of the pew in front of him. His thoughts turned, as they always did when he sang, to that day in November 1929 in Chicago when the telegram arrived. “Father dead. Come home.”
It had taken him nearly six years to save up the money for music school and the day he left the farm he knew a freedom he had only dreamed of. He was older than the other students, but it hadn’t mattered. They were all there because of a mutual love of music, of making music, of hearing music, of living music. Chicago itself was a liberating new world, with its concert halls and museums and restaurants and speakeasys where they would go at nights to listen to the new jazz bands and even join them in “jam sessions.” Sometimes he rode the “El” from one end to the other and back just for the ride and the view of the lake and the city. If he was honest, he missed the majestic mountains that enclosed the valley he called home, but Chicago more than made up for that loss.
And then, just four months later, he had to leave it all to come home. Come home to the smells he had hoped to leave behind forever —the musky cows in the barn, the rank manure in the corral, the cloying hot milk in the pasteurizer, and the sour rotting silage. But what could he do? He was the oldest. His mother needed him. His little sisters and brother needed him. He’d always been a good son, a good brother, so he did what good sons did and went home. He ran the farm. He married. Had children. Found solace in a bottle when the smells became too strong.
And now he sat in the chapel of the church near the farm, the one where he’d attended services all his life, and his parents before him, waiting to be called up to give his first grandchild, his granddaughter, her name and a grandfather’s blessing. What kind of blessing would he give? He’d say the obligatory things, of course, but he would be expected to add something personal. Something from him to her. He couldn’t do anything about the red hair she’d inherited from him, as he’d learned long ago, but there was something he could do, if he dared to do it. Something unexpected.
He and his son, carrying his tiny daughter, were called to the front, where two of the other elders waited. The men all held out their hands to make a platform for his infant granddaughter, beautiful in her white lace dress, even with that red hair. He recited the traditional words, giving her the name that her parents had chosen, and then pronounced the expected blessings of health, marriage, motherhood, faith. The time had come. Did he dare do it? Dare say the almost heretical words? A grandfather’s blessing had power. It would follow her all of her life, especially when pronounced in this holy place. He took a deep breath, then spoke, “And I bless you with a mind of your own, with the strength and resolution to make your own choices and follow your own path.” No one looked surprised or shocked. Likely they thought he meant to follow the path that their faith laid out for women and reject that of the world, but what mattered was what he had meant. His intent. That she follow her dreams and ambitions and not allow the expectations of others to make her decisions for her. He closed with the traditional words. His son held the baby up so that all could see her. She stared out at them, her eyes moving from left to right across the congregation, as if considering them and finding them wanting.
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