My Crazy Family

Last night my mom's family got together to celebrate (strange word in this situation) the anniversary of my Grandmother's passing eight years ago. We all brought different kinds of chili (not that this was my Grandmother's food of choice) and sat around telling stories about her and listening to my 92 year old Grandfather talk about how they met. My Aunt brought along Grandma's urn so in a sense she was with us. I'm sure at times I could hear the ashes swirling around the interior of the urn.

Write About a River

His name was Ronnie and his heart was pure. This tall, lanky man thirty years my senior, was a bus boy at the truck stop where I worked summers during college. Always a smile on his face and a kind word to everyone, Ronnie never wanted for anything, because he was content what what he had; which was nothing. He never called me by my given name, always by Ginger, a name he picked out for me believing I was meant for a life more glamourous than that of a waitress. "I had a dream about you last night Ginger," he would tell me as we cleared off tables together. "You were sitting in a cocktail lounge with a long dress on, drinking a Manhatten. You looked just like Ginger Rogers." I would blush and smile at Ronnie; his dreams never concerned me because his heart was pure.

He doted on his Aunt Betty, a grouchy old woman who visited the truck stop at the same time each day, always by taxi. All of the other waitresses despised Betty as nothing was ever right with her order, but I didn't mind. I knew how to win Betty over by remembering how she liked her coffee as well as her toast, but I also treated her well because of Ronnie. It was the least I could do for this man who was kind to everyone.

Not everyone was kind to Ronnie, however. Waitresses would bark orders at him when times got busy or wouldn't give him the time of day when all he wanted to do was say hello. I appreciated everything that Ronnie did. During our Friday night fish frys, Ronnie not only bussed tables but covered the entire restaurant refilling coffee cups just so the waitresses could serve the perch and shrimp platters while they were still hot out of the fryer. At the end of the night, I would slip some of my tip money into Ronnie's shirt pocket as a way of saying thanks. Ronnie would smile, "Ginger, you are so good to me."

I was back at school, my Junior year, when I got the call. One of the short-order cooks at the truck stop called to tell me that Ronnie had died. The police had found his body along the banks of the river, his cause of death unknown. I cried for days not only for the loss of my friend, but also for the mystery of how he died and whether he had suffered. For such a kind, generous man, I told myself that he had simply gone down to the river banks to watch the birds and had simply slipped away. That weekend, during the show I hosted at the college radio station, I dedicated a song to Ronnie, "Fly to the Angels". It seemed fitting.

It has been twenty years since Ronnie died, yet whenever I pass the river banks where his life ended, or hear the song I dedicated to him, his smile still appears vivid in my mind.