I Owe my Life to a Pickle

I owe my life to a singular pickle.

When I trace back the events of my mother's life that lead to me, I am struck by what her life could have been.

An empty apartment.

A bunk bed.

She was alone.

Grandma married a new guy. Military man. Educated. Aerospace.

He wanted to meet her family.

He was struck. No furniture. One bunk bed. A singular pickle in the fridge.

A step-father for about a day, he moved his new daughter into his home. Got her enrolled in college.

My mom was able to work for a now defunct shoe company near her new house.

My dad was there.

Back to my grandpa.

Stepped up to be a father to an already grown adult.

Blasted Dolly Parton at 9am. "I hated when he did that," my mother says with a smile.

Made his grandkids sing the Oreo song.

Taught us to roll sleeping bags properly.

Would get us riled up but then also lose his temper.

Let us kick trees and called it "karate" so we could burn energy.

Teased me.

Pissed me off.

Taught me hard truths.

Saw me grow up. High school graduation and college. Both were worth the drive.

Him in his recliner, excited about his peppermint hot chocolate, recalling the singular pickle in the fridge that gave him:

a new daughter

grandkids

a son-in-law

and a family who would never let him go.