My Dad's
Home town
A place means so much more when you visit it often
Photos and w ords by Kelly Kenoyer
L
ast April, I got a message from my mother
that stopped me in my tracks. I was in the
midst of writing the cover story of my
career when she texted: “Call me when you
get the chance.”
My heart sank. I knew what that meant. If it’s something
serious, she tries to make sure I get the news at a good time
by letting me call her.
I called right away. My grandparents in Ketchikan,
Alaska, had caught a bad flu, and my grandpa had developed
pneumonia. “Your dad thinks this is the end,” she said. “If
you want to see him again, you need to go up there.”
We bought my ticket that day and I flew up that Friday.
My dad was already there. He had arrived first, a week
before, to take care of the medical side of things. My uncles
and cousins arrived over the course of the next day, all of
us converging to say our last goodbyes.
Waiting for someone to die is a terrible experience,
but one that draws people together. I still remember the
slack look on my uncle’s face: Grief had paralyzed him
so he couldn’t even hold his jaw shut anymore. We cried
on each other’s shoulders and expressed disbelief that my
granddad’s dementia had progressed so far.
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October 5, 2017 • eugeneweekly.com
My grandma cried at one point and apologized for
doing so. My damn family is so stoical they can’t even
allow themselves emotion when their lifelong companion
dies.
I remember my grandfather as a relatively cold
man. He was a big, physical presence, a fisherman, but
also a practicing psychologist. Since I’d known him,
I remembered him for that coldness and that strength,
but my uncles knew him for his intellect and his long,
philosophical discussions going late into the night.
By the time I met him in adulthood, that side of him was
lost forever. He was still a big, physical man, but his dulled
mind had made him softer, quieter. I realized I would never
know him as they had, and coming to terms with that was
a huge part of my grief.
For years my grandfather wrote notecards to track every
thought he had. He would scribble down quotes from
books, and from real life, and thoughts he’d had during
the day. As we waited for his demise, I read those notes to
familiarize myself with who he once was.
One in particular sustained me through that difficult
time. It included directions. He had it written on several
different cards, so I knew it really meant something to him.
Read slowly and bring mind and spirit to the words.
‘Enough’ by David Whyte from Where Many Rivers Meet
Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to the life
we have refused
again and again
until now.
Until now.
I went back to visit Ketchikan this summer, months
after my grandad’s passing. My cousin had moved in with
my grandma to keep her company after his death, and we
all grieved again when we arrived at the house and realized
he wasn’t there — that he never would be again.
It was a raw and emotional visit — but a joyful one, too.