Comfort to Spare (VI)

Mom, Aunt Gertie, Grandpa Dirkse, Great-grandpa Hartmann

One of the few stories surrounding the death of Aunt Gertie is the description of what happened in my grandparents' home the night the police came to the door bearing the tragic news of her death.

My grandparents lived downtown, right downtown, where my grandfather had a blacksmith shop that had, through the years, been converted into a service garage and what we used to call a "filling station," Mobile Oil, the big red horse. The front door led immediately into the living room of their home, but a short stairway off the dining room led directly into the "service station," where the men who worked at Dirkse Oil did oil changes. The blacksmith shop was out back.

We can assume, I'd say, that the police didn't come until late, that the downtown Oostburg, Wisconsin, was not full of shoppers or worshippers at either or both of the two big churches within a block of their house. It's hard to imagine that the police coming to the door of their place was any kind of public event. I'm guessing Grandpa and Grandma were in house robes. Their bedroom was upstairs. Perhaps, when they heard the knock, one of them looked out the curtain on the window upstairs and saw a police cruiser. I don't know.

But what happened at that moment is a story that has been passed along. The two of them got to the front door. Grandpa listened to the news and fell apart. The description given in this family story isn't precise or exacting--only that, understandably, he cried and cried hard. What he heard from those cops right then was the worst news any parent can imagine, and he lost emotional control.

Grandma comforted him, I'm sure, but the story goes that, even in her grief, the first thing she did was look up at the men standing there and tell them it was beyond her imagination to understand how they could carry out jobs like the one they just had. Then, she invited them in. 

My grandparents had two other children, both older, both married, both living down the street. Neither of those children were there to witness that moment. In other words, no one made record of exactly what happened right then that night; yet that story gets passed along and no one doubts its veracity.

Is that what happened? I'm guessing the source of the story was Grandma. Sometime in the following few days, she likely told my mother. My mother never forgot.

Whether the uniquely personal reactions amid the immense shock did occur or didn't may not be as important to us and even to our parents, who passed it along, as the fact that we all know the story, even though no one else was there. The story's truth is not simply literal. Grandpa's understandable fit of sobbing contrasts with Grandma's stoicism and selflessness because the significant differences point at the way we've come to define them, our Dirkse grandparents, and the role each of them played in our lives, and through whatever spiritual influences, still do. 

More on that tomorrow.