Those of you who follow me on Twitter or Facebook likely saw the news that I posted about my grandfather dying early Tuesday morning. He had been suffering for a long time now, and his physician had been predicting that he “wouldn’t last the week” for almost two years – almost since the day my grandmother died. Those of you who sent me condolence emails or messages through Twitter or Facebook, thank you very much.
I moved away from Boston when I was three, and can count on one hand the number of times I saw my dad’s parents after that. They came down and visited twice and we went up to visit them three times. I wasn’t particularly close to either of them, although my grandfather and I communicated during college quite a bit. Even though he only had a sixth-grade education, he would write me letters and send money every few months. I would always reply with my own letters, and we communicated like that during my entire college career. It was a very sweet gesture, albeit an occasionally indecipherable one, and I took every chance I had to tell him how much it meant to me that he would send those letters.
Until the last several years, my grandfather was in amazing health. Before a hospital visit in 2001, the last time he was in the hospital was in the Korean War when a jeep he was driving exploded. He walked away without a scratch but they insisted on taking him the hospital anyways. He was probably the toughest person I’ve ever met, and it was always difficult to see him in a weakened condition. The last time I saw him, he was staying in a hospital room with my grandmother and was raring to get home. He also handed me the last letter he’d ever write me and asked me not to open it until after he had died. I searched through my file cabinet on Tuesday and finally found it, a normal-looking 8X10 envelope with “Adam Heath Avitable” scrawled, barely legible, on the front. I smiled at the fact that he uses my full name just like I do, and began to read:
If you are reading this, then I have finally passed on, hopefully to a better place. Or so it would seem. However, it is likelier that I will crawl from the ground a hungry brain-eating monster, shambling from victim to victim in my never-ending quest for a meal. You were my first grandson, so I am entrusting you with this letter in order to avoid a zombie plague like the famous Undead Attack of ’66.
Here are directions to my pre-purchased grave site. I need you to fly to Boston and come to the grave, where I have hidden a shovel. Take the shovel and dig up my coffin. When you open the coffin, be very careful to keep your hands and fingers away from my mouth, as zombies can be quicker than they look. I need you to separate my head from my neck, put my head in a box or bag, and then bury it in a separate location.
Two years ago, when your grandmother died, I had to go through this same process and she almost got me. In fact, she managed to turn two groundskeepers into the undead before I could stop her rampage. Zombies are serious business, and you cannot take this responsibility lightly!
I cannot ask your father to do this, as I know it would be too difficult, so the burden rests on your shoulders alone. Tell no one of this letter, as we do not want to cause a panic in the streets about future zombie attacks.
May God have mercy on our souls.
So, I’m off to Boston. Wish me luck?
In other Avita-news, tonight we’re having a Britt-free installment of “Clearly, You’re Retarded!” Stepping into Britt’s highly capable fashionable shoes is the intelligent, although not quite as smart as me, Faiqa!
The show starts tonight, Wednesday, at 9 PM EST, and our topic is about destroying children’s dreams. More specifically, should parents encourage and support a belief in fictional characters like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy? Is lying to your children okay in this situation?
If you’re going to listen, I strongly suggest that you download the TalkShoe Pro software – it’s free and much more stable than the web interface. Listen live online here: Clearly, You’re Retarded
*This letter may or may not be fabricated and I am not actually going to Boston to do any such thing.