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Dec 16, 2002 Not long after my grandfather died, my grandmother came to live with us. I guess I was 7 or 8. She sold her house and moved into my oldest brother's room. She had become very tired and worn down. I remember her shuffling around our house in an ankle-length nightgown and robe. Her white hair was neat, but not as neat as it had been. She would smile -- but not the way she used to -- and pat me on the head. Sometimes she would wear a sweater and sit on a chair in the living room to read. She always seemed to have a tissue, which was kept crumpled and tucked in her sleeve. She would remove it occasionally to dab her eyes and nose and then go back to reading. Most of the time, though, she would stay in bed -- propped on pillows watching a little black-and-white TV. This is where I remember spending time with her. I would drag a kitchen chair, which was almost as tall as me, down the hall to her room and set it next to her bed. Then, I'd climb into the chair and we would watch Westerns together. Stories of gun-slinging cowboys who tamed the wild frontier and, sometimes, the heart of some beautiful damsel. Stories of men who overcame obstacles and realized their dreams. Stories of bank robbers and train robbers and cattlemen. My mom thought it was great that my grandmother and I had something in common. Sometimes she would bring us lunch -- soup and sandwiches and chips. We would sit back there eating and watching movies. Even in the summertime, when my friends would be outside playing, I would sometimes sit inside and watch movies with her. I had no idea at the time how much my grandmother might have enjoyed that. I was just having fun, and I still remember it vividly. In fact, I've been thinking a lot this week about a scene from one of the movies we watched together. You see, there was this small group of cowboys -- maybe four or five -- who had made a wrong turn, so to speak, and were captured by some rather inhospitable "Indians". Most of the Indians wanted to kill the cowboys right away, but the honorable Chief decided he would give them a chance to survive, if they so decided. Here is the paraphrased version of the proposition laid out by the Chief: You can either be killed right now or you can run the gauntlet. Running the gauntlet meant running between two rows of warriors, who were wielding axes and spears and clubs and other instruments of torture. At least one of the cowboys, who had apparently (on a former excursion) witnessed the horror of the gauntlet, chose to die right away. He was immediately shot full of arrows and fell dramatically to the ground like a porcupine and closed his eyes. The other cowboys gathered in a group and, in panicked whispers, decided they would take their chances with the gauntlet. The crazy, brazen cowboy -- the one with the beard, the chewing tobacco and the floppy hat -- decided he would run through first. He nodded a tough goodbye to his fellow cowboys, spit on the ground and ran madly into the tunnel of swinging weapons. The blows rained down upon him, he staggered clumsily and fell dead about halfway through. They dragged away his body. Only two cowboys were left: the hero and the coward. The coward was crying and gasping and sobbing. He clutched at the hero and pleaded for him to do something. The hero assured him, in so many words, there was nothing to be done but to bravely face your fate. The weight of this realization sent the coward into a pathetic fit and he ran wildly away from the gauntlet, trying to escape. He didn't get far. A young brave rode him down and finished him off. Now it was just our blue-eyed hero. Alone. No comrades to comfort him. No escape. His only option was to run the gauntlet -- to boldly face his fears and look death in the eye. And that's what he did. With courage and sure feet, he ran right into the heart of the gauntlet. He ran with purpose -- twisting and diving and pushing his way through. And he always kept his eye on the end goal. Making it through alive. And that's exactly what he did -- bloody and beaten and barely breathing. He made it, and, true to their word, the Indians let him live. One of the young Indian girls took pity on our hero and, at night, helped nurse him back to health on the edge of camp. The hero got well, and, no doubt, did many more heroic things. He had run the gauntlet and survived. In a way, when my grandmother lived with us, she had run the gauntlet, too. She had suffered the slings and arrows of losing her lifelong love. And our family helped nurse her back to health. She lived happily for another decade and we saw her often. She even came to watch a lot of my soccer games, even though she was certainly no big fan of sports. I was always glad to look up and see her in the stands. Her little blue jacket. Her handbag clutched to her chest. Her white hair and smile. The last time I saw her, in fact, was at one of my college soccer games during my Freshman year. We had just lost 4-0. I stood on the sideline after the game, maybe gave her a hug and told her I loved her, I think. I hope. I was thinking about the loss. That night she passed away. A day later, we had another game. In the locker room, before it started, the team had a moment of silence in her memory. We sat pressed together on the benches, heads bowed. I had to breathe deep to hold back tears. We took the field and won 2 - 1. It felt good, like I had somehow given her something. My effort. My dedication. I like to think she saw the game and was proud of me. I like to think she thought back to the times when I kept her company watching Westerns. I like to think that she is reunited with my grandfather. I like to think that if you make it through the gauntlet, there is a beautiful sunset waiting -- and the infinite flicker of hope. I'd like to think of something that isn't a cliche, but I can't help it. I've seen a lot of Westerns. And besides, despite it's sentimental overuse, the sunset is always a great thing to ride off into. ------------ Jeff Milligan lives in West Sadsbury Township, Pennsylvania with his wife and two children. He falls in the following demographic categories: Age 25 - 34. Race: Whitish. Shaving: Does not enjoy it.. Email Jeff: JIam41@aol.com Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
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