Ken Springer
Contributing Writer
Things we leave behind Foreword
Do you ever look at some treasured item – a particular photograph, letters de amor, a souvenir, a family heirloom or an award you’re particularly proud of – and wonder what will become of it when you are no longer alive?
On the other hand, it may be an item you do not wish to be found after your passing. Maybe it was something you hid or kept secret from all others, perhaps something you are ashamed of. I’ll let you use your imagination, but we all have secrets and things we wouldn’t want family members or others to know about.
Late one afternoon, nearly 40 years ago, I was mucking out a horse stall in my father-in-law’s pole barn when he popped in for a chat.
Wilford, or Wit as he was generally called, was a man of great (well, there’s no other way to say it)—Wit. His sharp and sometimes dry humor seemed to be a genetic trait. His entire family embraced humor fully, making all holidays and family gatherings like going to an improv comedy club. Their banter would sometimes get me laughing so hard I would have to use my rescue inhaler.
Sometimes, one party consciously ignores the hilarity of a funny situation, which makes it even more amusing. That day in the barn was a case in point. Some months before, I had wrecked a hang glider and ended up in the hospital with a few contusions and a minor concussion. That ended my non-motorized flying, and the crumpled-up glider was hanging from a beam above the stalls. Our conversation started with Wit glancing up at the damaged glider and saying, “Well, when are you going to get up in your flying machine again?” Of course, Wit knew I had no desire to risk my life again on something not much sturdier than a paper kite, and his slight barb was his way of ribbing me about an admittedly foolhardy adventure.
After our short conversation, Wit peeked out a window to ensure no one, particularly his wife, Florentine, was hanging about. He then walked to an empty stall, carefully slid his right hand behind a vertical beam near the wall, and retrieved a pack of Parliament cigarettes.
Wit and Florentine, parents and grandparents, both in their 70s at the time, were devout Christians, and smoking and drinking were not well tolerated. Wit took another peek out the barn window before lighting up. A few minutes later, the barn door opened, and Florentine walked in. Now, we can safely presume that Wit knew Florentine disapproved of his smoking and that she likely knew he indulged occasionally.
Wit’s immediate response to Florentine’s unexpected appearance was to place his cupped hand, holding the cigarette, in the right pocket of his jacket. She stared at Wit an uncomfortably long time before announcing that dinner would be on the table in a few minutes and to come into the house. Wit opened his mouth to answer, and smoke came out. But far worse, smoke was now billowing up through the top of the jacket, obscuring his face; the cigarette’s lit end had burned through the pocket lining.
This is where humor, disapproval and grace meet on the battlefield of potential marital discord. I was laughing inside at the comical sight, yet I was concerned that Wit was about to get a scolding for sneaking a smoke. Instead, what I witnessed was something beautiful. Florentine, rather than chastising and embarrassing Wit, pretended not to notice her silent husband’s smoldering jacket.
After the short standoff, Florentine simply said, “Get in the house before the dinner gets cold.” She offered no reprimands or nagging; she just turned and walked back to the house as if she had seen nothing.
Their love and respect were so deep that tacit approval on Florentine’s part seemed the best option. The subject may have come up again when the two were alone, but we are not privy to that piece of information.
It was common knowledge among family members that Wit cached candy bars and cigarettes throughout the 19th-century brick farmhouse and barn. He may or may not have known this, but he enjoyed finding new locations to hide his secret delights. He may have noticed his supply of candy occasionally running short and thought a change of location was warranted.
Because Wit knew that I would not tell others of his modest indulgences, and though he never showed me where he hid the chocolate, he did point out the cigarette caches just in case I needed a smoke.
In a few short years, Wit would be diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer. Throughout the course of his disease, he did not complain, nor did he want others to fuss over him. Likewise, he never lost his sense of humor right to the end of life. He approached his end of life with no apparent fear; Wit was indeed a noble and courageous man in life and at death’s door.
Some months before Wit died, we were alone at the farmhouse, and he decided to have a smoke and a little “something” more. He took the opportunity to share a secret cavity behind the fireplace mantel.
As always, Wit glanced around before revealing his stash, although only a cat appropriately named Fierce was there to see our activities. He retrieved a pack of Parliaments and a fluted glass bottle full of a purplish liquid.
He explained that the bottle contained homemade wine. Now, I realize that the TV series The Waltons had two women characters, the Baldwin sisters, who made a drink called the “recipe” that Grandpa Walton was quite fond of. In Wit’s case, three sisters from the Russian Orthodox Church that the family attended made the wine they called a sacramental wine to give it a certain respectability. If memory serves me right, that wine was potent by any standards.
Little did I know at the time that Wit’s stash would comfort me after a tragic experience.
The very week that Wit died, a good friend and colleague’s wife would drive out of state and walk off into the woods to take her life. My friend called me to say that she had abandoned her car in deep snow along a state road, and after several days, it was towed away.
We started our drive to Pennsylvania in the evening, arriving at the tow truck operator’s rural house around midnight. The gentleman was kind enough to show us where he had picked up the car.
In short, I found her frozen and snow-covered body under a large sycamore tree several hundred yards off the road: a small .22 caliber handgun clutched in her right hand. My friend was devastated, but we called the state police on a payphone: They arrived an hour or so later with the coroner.
We stayed another hour so that the police could get any necessary information for their report and discuss what my friend wanted to be done with the body. Then, we drove home in separate cars.
I arrived back at the farmhouse about an hour before daylight, feeling despondent and a bit in shock. The entire family was upstairs in bed, so I turned on the gas fireplace and sunk into one of the overstuffed chairs; there was no way I would get to sleep even if I tried.
I had never been a regular smoker, but on that sad occasion, I had a craving for one. Suddenly, I remembered Wit’s hidey-hole behind the fireplace. Even though he was gone from this earth, I felt his comforting presence as I sipped the sisters’ elderberry wine and smoked his cigarettes. I know Wit would have understood.
This foreword introduces a series of short stories about items left behind when we die. The first in the series will be about a woman who finds a hidden diary left behind by her departed father. Her misinterpretation of the diary causes problems between her and her siblings.
Next time in “For Your Consideration.”
Ken Springer
ken1949bongo@gmail.com
A special thanks to Susie Hardesty, the only one who knew where Wit hid his chocolate bars.