The road into Broken Arrow was nearly a straight shot; passing through Joplin and slightly past Tulsa would make our mark. The soundtrack of Ira Glass and Al Green helped distract me from the probable cringe-inducing family recap that would oblige a decade-long gap between visits to my Pentecostal grandparents.
Poor directions landed us in Muskogee, making a mere four-hour road trip into a six-hour voyage. Fortunately, this misfire had an unintended benefit of exhaustion as an adequate reason to dodge questioning.
Poor directions landed us in Muskogee, making a mere four-hour road trip into a six-hour voyage. Fortunately, this misfire had an unintended benefit of exhaustion as an adequate reason to dodge questioning.
My visit wasn’t the main attraction. It was being overshadowed by the frantic preparation of my cousin’s wedding. I was the oldest of the grandchildren but the least accustomed to adulthood, or rather I had fewer aspirations for it. Now after being an uncle and soon to have another cousin join the ranks, I figured it was only a matter of time until I was asked, “When are you getting married?”
But that question never came. Instead I was asked about my mother and her financial situation. I was dreading any kind of predictably candid family interrogations, but without it, I felt as a neighbor or family friend that was just being allowed to crash on their sofa.
It had been nearly a decade since I visited Broken Arrow, but the garish carpeting, numerous dolls collections, and biblical images worked as comforting mnemonic icons. Surrounded by the sterile pinks and plaids was the quiet evidence of a laborious craftsman. Leaving only oddments of unfinished projects, my frail-looking eighty-nine year old grandfather continues to toil as he constructs new hallways, remodels kitchen shelves, and finds other clever ways to continue expanding their quaint one-story home.
During our brief conversation, my grandfather made us pancakes. Soon after we went to our separate sleeping arrangements.
