Baby Chuck Is Dead and Grandpa Killed Him
The truck wouldn’t budge; Grandpa Charley used the last of his strength to move the truck from his dead son. It was no use. His human strength was not enough to move the 6,000 pound truck.
Grandpa Charley stopped in at Clines Bar in Rudyard to have a few drinks before he made his final trip home for the night. Home was 20 miles down a dusty, dirt road and a few beers would sure taste good before bed. Grandpa Charley didn’t have a drinking problem. He could stop anytime he wanted, and he did many times. He was sure he didn’t have a drinking problem and besides, he loved to be with his friends tilting a few even while his two year old son was sleeping soundly in the back seat of the truck. Charley was loved in the community as a wonderful family man. At the bar, he was considered a true friend.
About midnight, Grandpa Charley and baby Chuck left the bar and headed south towards home. At the 16 mile mark, there was a 90 degree left turn, but Grandpa Charley didn’t see it. He continued on toward a dead end ravine that was destined to change his life forever. In his drunken stupor, Grandpa Charley drove headlong into the 15 foot ravine and rolled the truck. Baby Chuck was thrown out of the window and smothered by the truck.
Grandpa Charley, in a most helpless fearful panic crawled out of the broken front window and screamed for his baby boy. It was pitch black with no reflection from the moon or stars. Grandpa Charley fell to the ground feeling with his hands in a most desperate effort to locate his precious son. While screaming and crying, he listened for any sign that his little boy, his only son, was alive. Silence, and then more silence. Grandpa Charley panicked even more when he realized that his son was crushed under the truck. Grandpa Charley, with a herculean effort, pushed and strained to move the truck, but it was no use. Grandpa finally threw himself against the truck.
Reality finally sunk in, his son was dead. Grandpa fell face first to the ground and wept. He groaned and cried for over an hour, then he picked himself up and began the longest journey of his life. It was a straight road with zero deviation directly leading to the farm house where his wife Janice, 10 year old Jean, 8 year old Shirley and 4 year old Joyce lay sleeping. It was a four mile road but seemed like an eternal road to pain and misery, one that would never end and yet end too quickly.
Grandpa Charley’s mind now reverted to his family. What words could he use? What anguish was awaiting those who slept? He had destroyed so much over so little. As he neared the house he collapsed again to the ground. He couldn’t go in. He had to delay their pain to the last minute. It was nearly daybreak; no more time. Grandpa Charley entered the house not wanting to wake his family. He tip-toed to his chair and sat in stunned silence, listening to the peace of those who slept.
Grandma Janice noticed that Grandpa was there and went into the room. Grandpa Charley let the bad news flood out. “Chuck is dead and I killed him. I rolled the truck and Chuck flew out the window and is dead under the truck.” Grandma Janice could barely understand him in his drunken state of mind; however, she finally understood what he was trying to say. Grandpa Charley let out the most pitiful sound of suffering and agony one ever heard. “I’ve killed my baby boy! I’ve killed my baby boy!”
Grandma Janice left the room and came back quickly. She placed baby Chuck in Grandpa Charley’s arms. Grandpa Charley thought he was dreaming. He held his sleeping baby boy in his arms and wept great tears of joy. Grandpa Charley never drank again for the rest of his life.