Wednesday, April 25, 2007

WWWD

It’s times like these in life when I’m often reminded of the cottage gospel industries acronymic moniker “WWJD- What Would Jesus Do?”

My guess is that he would be laughing, praising All Mighty God and welcoming Russell Woodrow Rose into his arms. In that same breath, I would think that with a morose and empathetic nature, his hand would also touch the hearts of those who have awakened and begin to mourn Woodrow’s passing this morning.

Most people called Woodrow “Russell”- it was, after all, his first name. Having been named after the 28th president of the United States and arguably one of the greatest presidents of his time, perhaps it would have led to another form of greatness within the Rose clan- one will now have to leave that notion to both histrionics and to his son’s and grandson’s verbal legacy...

If I reach to the furthest reaches of my memories- pushing past birthdays, holidays, school-times and those “fertile years” when the conquest of women was more the stuff of self gratification than fulfillment, I remember my grandfather by his blessed moniker. A name he refused to let go of for all his days once uttered by his cherubic twin grandsons- a name he wore with the tartan pride of a Midwesterner who’d just been knighted- certainly “Woodrow” being that of “lesser stuff”...

Crappaw!

My mother was incredibly embarrassed by our inability to call him “GRAND” pa. My grandmother was quoted as saying, “Yeah- those two are definitely your grandbabies!” and Woodrow/Crappaw? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The name stuck to him like the excremental element that his nickname developed from and he absolutely relished the aroma of it!

The coal miners whom he worked with absolutely roared when they learned of his grandbabies bestowal to his already lengthy name- but as they’d chide Crappaw, they were also inwardly jealous as hell that their grandkids weren’t as ‘inadvertently clever’ as Woodrow’s...

As of this writing, he’ll have been “gone” no more than 12 hours ago; though it could be said that in the week of his declining health, perhaps he’d left all of us much earlier than my self imposed timeline would suggest.

Russell “Crappaw” Rose worked for 60 years [yes, I said “sixty”- no stuttering here] in the coal mines of Illinois. He was the only boy in a gaggle of 8 children and by the tender age of 13. His mother having died far long ago, his father was both sole provider and ‘mother hen’ to 7 girls and one boy in the foothills of the Ozarks. With the Great Depression looming over most everyone at that impressionable time in my grand-pa’s life; the best way to keep a single parent house warm in the winter was to either pick up coal off the railroad tracks, or go to work for the coal company. He chose what made the most sense even though that meant missing out on a high school education.

Never shirking responsibility, inevitably he would go on one day to get his high school diploma- at 40 years of age he was the first man to do so in the nation. He didn’t stop there though- he went on to attempt his doctorate only to miss it by one thesis paper. His “failure” was not because of lax time, attitude or ability... Crappaw’s professor, who would have inevitably [and by his own admission] aced the paper, pleaded that Crappaw simply “slap the damn bibliography on this thing and get your diploma!” The paper wasn’t good enough for Crappaw though- invariably it was never ‘finished’ in his eyes.


With this notion of “business left unfinished” perhaps that sums up the passing of Crappaw. He planned well in advance for his own demise- no illusions of immortality or some fantasized Fountain of Youth. But there’s the most troubling for me personally his written [and verbal- as he’d told me more than once some time before] that he have no funeral. He wanted no words spoken on his behalf and he refused any manner of wake or memorial. One could chalk up this requirement to his generation- practical, pragmatic and matter-of-fact. Or perhaps there’s some martyrdom left untapped.

Perhaps his refusal to all the trappings of death was his last life lesson to teach not only his son, but his grandkids as well...

He had come into this world unknown- one day his mother only a scant few years gone and his father remarrying not once but twice. With such historic events as The Great Depression, WW II, Vietnam and man landing on the moon, the only thing he ever mentioned that he felt newsworthy was his grandsons coming into this world.

Now, with his time spent, his job long since done and his grandchildren safely and competently fending for themselves- like the robin of spring one day falls to the earth, it’s soliloquy that of his progeny taking flight; he passes on from this mortal coil, his legend more than satisfactorily secure on the wings and song of his children.

“What Would Jesus Do?”

Most likely Jesus would ask in return:

“What Would Woodrow Do?”

I have missed my time with Crappaw. I’ve missed him based simply on homesickness- now I have moment to pause and realize that truly there is no going home anymore.


Though heartbroken today...

I continue to be...

Russ