Thick Sliced Bologna

By Bill Ferguson

The fraying edges and scuffed finish distort the photo, but since I know what to look for, the picture is crystal clear. The young Marine is frozen proudly in his dress uniform. Brass buttons, polished to perfection, line his breast. The royal blue jacket fits him like a glove. Beneath his snowy white hat, his young face yields a slight smile. The smile is quite familiar. I think about him often, not as the young Marine in the photograph, but as my grandfather. Like it was yesterday, I remember the first summer I spent with him.

  I was always excited to go visit him and my grandmother because, like most other grandparents, they were not as strict as parents. During the week my grandmother would entertain me while my grandfather worked; however, everyday he would rush home with thick sliced bologna sandwiches. His lunch break fell in the same time slot as "The Price Is Right"; therefore, it was dubbed his favorite television show. "I like that showcase showdown," he would say repeatedly. When in fact, he really liked watching the girls that demonstrated the prizes.

At the end of each week we would take a fishing trip. It was not a grand event, but it was special to me. We would park the car and walk about half a mile to the same murky pond every time. We would carry along pop, chips, thick sliced bologna sandwiches, and, of course, the tackle box.

Worms were for the "average" fisherman so we also brought cheese, peanut butter, Spam, and his secret bait. This strange concoction was of a pasty consistency, pinkish-gray color, and reeked of garlic. Hours would pass without the slightest nibble; however, we would find ways to pass the time. He would tell story after story of things he had done in life. He had possibly held every occupation in existence, from serving in the Armed Forces to welding, to working for the Logan County Board of Education. My two uncles would appear in stories about past fishing experiences. Sometimes stories would arise about me as an infant, a toddler, and a young child. In all our years of fishing, we never caught anything, but we ate quite a few thick sliced bologna sandwiches.

It was the best summer visit until my grandmother took me for a walk to the drug store. On the way home we stopped and through the tears in her eyes she said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but your grandfather is very sick."

"Can he take some medicine?" I asked.

"I'm afraid medicine will not help him. Nothing can now," she muttered as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Why not?" I inquired, just like any other eleven year old would.

"Your grandfather has cancer. It has spread throughout his body to his liver. He only has four months to live."

After placing the old photograph into a frame, I smiled in pleasure. It looked so much better this way. I miss him more every day. He was my hero, and my best friend. Tonight, just like every other night, I will relive the days of my grandfather. As I close my eyes in the darkness, I laugh softly. I could never have the heart to tell him I did not like thick sliced bologna sandwiches.