The Blinding

He simply took what he could and carried on

“Yesterday's gone on down the river, and you can't get it back.”

—Lonesome Dove

Carry On

The last time I visited my grandmother we stayed up late into the night, sharing stories and remembering those who’ve gone before. Out came the old photos, the typewritten letters, and even a few Indian blankets that have been floating around the family for more than a century. Without a doubt, these are treasures, but what affected me most was hearing my grandmother reminisce about the hard times. It was like listening to an old warhorse recount a military campaign: the good, the bad, and the ugly, all bound together with strands of humor.

These people, most of whom now exist only in memory, couldn’t have survived the century without each other. Daddy’s blindness, Uncle Wad’s “problem,” and Kitty trying to feed five kids all by herself, and then the drought, long seasons, and grinding poverty just laughing in their faces.

Some didn't pull through, but most did, and my grandmother can now laugh and cry a little as she recounts the tender mercies and lucky breaks that saved the whole ensemble.

I know she believes in heaven. There’s no doubt in her mind that it’s filled with a great many familiar faces, lost to this world but known to God and the few survivors who remember. And when all is said and done, she knows that they’ll just pick up where they left off—same as before.

Whenever we get to talking about that bygone world, I can’t help but feel a little ashamed. As bad as things are now, I know a handful of people from my distant past who had it a lot worse—saddled with burdens they carried for a lifetime. I really can’t complain, and even if I could, I probably shouldn’t. Now I don’t think we should sugarcoat things. We have some civilizational problems on our hands that would truly astonish past generations. But I doubt they’d condone the spirit of dread that seems to have paralyzed so many of us. I don’t think they’d tolerate our despair.

I know at least one man in my family who wouldn’t put up with it, not for a second. I hardly knew him, but he still looms large in my thoughts and dreams. Sometimes late at night I can hear his low, steady voice piercing through the dark—every word so carefully chosen. My granddad never wasted a word.

I wouldn’t dare complain in his presence. And even if I did, I doubt he’d say anything. He would just let the raw silence do all the work, and that was enough. For a man who couldn’t see, my granddad could spot a quitter from a mile away. He had no patience for that sort of thing. And he kept cynics, grumblers, and windbags at a comfortable distance.

Granddad was blind, and he earned that affliction right at the cusp of manhood—at the tender age of seventeen. Worst of all, he lost his eyesight for no good reason. And he had to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. But, according to my grandmother, he never once complained. He simply took what he could and carried on.

Cedro at Sunrise

My grandad grew up on a ranch with several brothers, and in the summertime their father would loan the boys out to nearby ranchers to work cattle and earn some money for the family.

My grandad had just been sent to work for a Mr. Bill Sayre for the summer…

Note: This is an excerpt from my granddad’s memoirs (names and locations have been altered)