Remembering Grandpa Bancroft

So, grandpa Bancroft reminded us last week that we are all mortal, even him.  We put him in the ground at a family started cemetery in Duchene, Utah, where one of the ancestors buried a young child, so the story goes, on his own property rather than the city cemetery.  Now the cemetery hosts mostly family graves, and is filled in like a small, but proper place.  It was the first time in many, many years that I have stood on this particular plot of ground, and in fact remember the last time as being around 1975, after my mom’s cousin, Nancy, lost her four year old son, and he was put in there too.  Nancy seemed surprised and pleased that I remembered it all, and showed me Mark’s grave and explained several of the others and how they were related to me.  I cannot thank Nancy enough for the time she spent on that memory lane with me.  By the time we finally left, everyone else was gone except the gravedigger, who had just finished filling in grandpa’s grave. 

The graveside service was a small affair with a 21 gun salute from the Disables Veterans, and a flag ceremony from active enlisted Army.  It was simple, and short, and suited the man we had gathered to remember.  His standard metal coffin lay shut in the middle of it all while a few of us shared some memories, his son Rusty, who lived with him and cared for him requested it stay shut because he did not want to see a dead body.  Rusty is so obviously Autistic, but in the days he was brought up, there was no such diagnosis, so he has lived a simple life, in mutual benefit with his dad.  Now he has to go it alone.  My mom was the oldest in that family, and is staying with Rusty to help him adjust to the new circumstances, and my brother, Kerry, and sister, Kristina, spent some time after the funeral painting the inside of the house for Rusty, so he would have a fresh, clean environment to live in. My thanks to them for that was to insist for the two days they stayed here after that they rest, and not do any work.  You have to understand that whenever any of my siblings travel, they demand work to do where they stay. They left this morning, relieving me of the duty of keeping them from being busy.  It’s a lot of work! 

Now, only a voice from upstairs carried through the house; it’s my wife upstairs on a work call, and I sit here with one of my young daughters in her high chair while my mind reviews flashes of light which amount to memories of grandpa.  My daughter is smashing toast in her hair as the memories defog into me in similar activities at a similar age.  I remember things like George, grandpa’s now deceased son, just after his service in the Army, going to live in the back bedroom with his new wife, Jeannie, who happened to have the same name as George’s sister, who is also dead since 1976 from Cancer.  I remember when grandpa was going to put an addition onto the back of that bedroom, and a foundation hole was dug by hand, only to remain devoid of any cement, or any addition whatsoever.  That finally served as a place for some garbage to be dumped before it was filled in many years later.  I remember how grandpa used to call his neighbor girl my girlfriend because I would go over and play with her, in her yard, on her swings, in her room, running through the sprinklers on a hot summer’s day.  I remember too how at nights, when I lived in that house with him as a very young child, his snoring would fill the whole house, even with the doors closed.  It was there that I attended Kindergarten when I was five, and mom and I slept on the couch in the living room, her feet towards me, and mine towards her, because she could not afford anyplace of her own.  All of these memories are soft, muted, and carry through my mind much like that voice from upstairs right now, barely audible, but there, to be sure.  The one memory that is clearest above all though, was grandpa’s laugh.  I can mimic it, but I cannot describe it, and I am going to keep it, all to myself, as the greatest gift he gave his family.  Laughter was important to him.  I am sure that laughter is why he made it past 90, despite his humble living, and the losses of two of his children in his life. 

There will be many thoughts of him, and many memories that will echo in my mind till the day I join him in the earth.  Those will remain mine alone, and all I will share with you is that they are all good.  There are no secrets to hide, just happy moments that hit me like the water from the neighbor’s sprinkler as I dance around in the sunlight!

I love you grandpa!  Farewell! 

Kelsey J Bacon

The memory I shared at his funeral was of calling him once many years ago, when I still attended church, and asking him if he was ever going to go (there was one next door to his house).  He replied, “I live close enough to one to throw a rock through the window.  That’s about as close as I’m ever going to get.”