PC

I felt like Paul Cofield today. Paul Cofield, my maternal grandfather, that is. There was a biography of Johnny Cash on TV early this morning, and the narrator spoke of Cash's early hardscrabble life in the Depression.

Paul Cofield led that life. He grew up on a farm on the border of Kentucky and Indiana. He moved from Rising Sun, Indiana, to South Bend to get a factory job. Moving north during the Great Depression was very common, I understand, but it is singularly important for me that Paul Cofield did this: I would be a different person if he did not.

He married Edith and had two children, Linda (my mother) and Michael (my uncle).

Paul Cofield worked hard all his life. I didn't realize that the Cofields had the least amount of money and influence of the Haenes children until I had entered adulthood. He worked as a janitor at Jackson Middle School. I used to be ashamed of that, but now I bring it up all the time to my students.

He never took a vacation that I know of, other than to see his son and brothers and sisters. He drove trucks worth less than the coffin he was buried in. He went fishing in a small rowboat on Sunday afternoons. He took me sometimes. I remember longing for the speed boats with seats (not benches) built into the floorboards.

My uncle relates the story of his wedding reception, and how painful it was to hear his cousin snickering about the paper plates. He made something delicious he called "popcorn steak." It was basically meat scraps with lots of fat, fried in a pan. He was very happy to make it. When I was a teenager, I saw him ask a butcher for any leftover meat for his cat. I figured out what made him so happy about it: He was getting the meat for free. In the 1930's this was considered the best thing you could do.

Near the end of his life, he had a stroke. It damaged him, making him speak at inappropriate times and at inappropriate places. It embarrassed me the last time we bought a Christmas tree together when he told the kid selling the trees that he had sold hundreds of them. It embarassed me even more when I apologized to the kid. The kid told me that I'd better listen to my grandfather, as he had just lost his, and regretted not doing so. Smart kid.

Paul Cofield's was the first and fastest death of all my great aunts and uncles on my mother's side, most of which are gone now. He had leukemia and we knew it was coming, but it was still hard for everyone. It seemed very unfair: He didn't smoke. He wasn't fat. He didn't drink. Paul Cofield deserved a long life, and he didn't get it.

His last thoughts were of me and my brothers. I'd post a photo of him, but he died before the digital age. He died before I graduated from college, he died before he met my wife, he died before I foolishly moved to Oregon, and he died before he met my son.

I don't think I ever got over his death in the way that shrinks say you should get over it. Its been 15 years now since he died. Every time I see a photo or hear my mom (now in her 60's) speak of him, I leave the room. I usually go into the bathroom and cry, just because there isn't anything else to do.

I feel him, though. Every time I put on my coveralls or use my snowblower, I feel like Paul Cofield. When I smell paint and gasoline I feel him. When I cut my mom's grass. When I hear "In the Garden," and when I look in the mirror. So maybe thats something.