You probably want me to tell you what happened after that. Whether or not Freckles and Broomstache went to jail. If they were ever tied to Garvadill Food Supplies. If my father managed to produce his fried-chicken jelly beans and if the company made a fortune off them. Some of you are probably more interested in whether or not a certain girl got a certain email from a certain aunt and wrote a certain boy, who may or may not have lied to his best friend about that whole goodbye kiss business just to make it sound like he was cooler than he was.
I guess I could tell you, but that’s not really what this story is about.
This is a story about remembering. First dates and fishing trips. Easter-basket hunts and magic trees. Empty bottles and boxes full of treasures. Things we choose to forget because it’s easier, because remembering them might make us see everything a little differently. It’s a story about fathers, the ones who catch you and the ones who don’t, and about being lucky enough to take things for granted.
It’s a story about coming home.
I will tell you what happened to Papa Kwirk, though, since it’s mostly his story anyway. Some of him was taken to the Greenburg Cemetery and sprinkled in the grass over the grave of Michelle “Shelley” Kwirk, devoted wife and mother, who passed away on May 14 at the age of thirty-three. Some of him was taken back to Indiana with us and planted with a new sycamore tree, much like the one that overlooked the butterfly garden where Dad would dig for worms. And believe it or not, some of him still sits in an old cigar box on my great-aunt’s mantel above her fireplace, flanked on both sides by a dozen porcelain cats. One day, I suspect, they will turn Aunt Gertie’s house into a museum, and that cigar box will be just one of many oddities to see on your way to the world’s biggest toothbrush exhibit upstairs.
And speaking of museums, if you’re ever in the town of Greenburg, Illinois, you might pay a visit to the Museum of Modern Warfare. There you might see a little display in the Vietnam section about a man named Francis T. Kwirk, or Jimmy, as only one person in the world ever called him. You can read the letter that he wrote to his then-girlfriend, soon-to-be wife. You can also see the 105mm artillery shell that nearly landed in his lap. Don’t worry. Its dud explosives were taken out long ago, though if you could get your hands on it, you might swear there was still a little something inside.
Afterward, you should head over to Polk Park and take a spin on the rusty roundabout, or find a good tree to climb. Or if you’re hungry, go to Mallory’s and try to conquer Mount Everest. They don’t call it Mount Everest anymore, but the people who work there will know what you’re talking about. Just don’t forget to bring loose-fitting pants. And maybe a bucket.
Whether you reach the summit or not, be sure to check out the wall in the back. You can look for the picture of my family. The Kwirks.
I’m the one in the middle, rolling my eyes and shaking my head, trying way too hard to act normal.
Surrounded by something extraordinary.