How Grandpa Lost His Wooden Leg at the Arboretum

My name is Cody Etu. I am 17.

One Saturday I was surprised when my parents announced that the family – including Grandpa and Grandma – were going to an arboretum.

I didn’t know what an arboretum was, but I was sure I didn’t want to spend my day there.

Frantically I texted my friends, but no one was available. My usual excuses, like I had to study, or the grass needed mowing, didn’t work, and pretty soon Grandma and Grandpa were at the front door.

On the way there I had to sit in the back seat between my grandparents. They pestered me with questions about school, friends, the television shows I watched, my cell phone, and why in the name of heaven above I wore my pants below my waist line.

I had answers for some, but not others. My Dad was nice enough to point that out: "Ask him why he wears his pants down his butt. Grandpa, see if you can get an answer."

We drove through Ohio for about an hour and a half then came to a small town with a roadside sign that gave its name as Elmore.

My Dad is always driving faster than he should, and we came into town at a racy speed, only to find the main road made a hard right and the car tires squealed their disapproval as we motored around that turn.

Elmore is a small but charming town. There are a couple of restaurants, and three or four second-hand shops, plus some other good stuff. In a minute we were through it and came to a fork in the road. A sign pointed us to the right to get to the arboretum.

"Here it is," Mom exclaimed.

Dad parked in the gravel lot across the road and the five of us walked to the Visitor Center. My Grandpa, he is a Vietnam War veteran, and had his left leg blow off by a bomb. He uses a wooden leg, an old fashioned type, that he has to strap on every morning. That causes him to limp a little, and I noticed it as we walked across the road.

Thank God my Dad paid the ten dollar admission because I didn’t have any money. Didn’t even bring my wallet with me.

I grabbed a Self-Guided Walking Tour brochure and noticed the name of the place was the Schedel Arboretum & Gardens.

Standing outside the Visitor Center, looking at the vast gardens and landscape ahead of us, my Dad said, "I’d hate to have to mow this much grass."

There were trees of every variety, big and tall, thin and small, and flowers that bore the colors of the rainbow.

We started in the Japanese Gardens. Streams and brooks. Little bridges and stone walkways. Tight fisted trees growing in pots called Bonsai. Tree scapes that hung like umbrellas. Tree trunks that were gnarled and sinewy. Ponds and small lakes. Lanterns and a red gate called a Torii.

"Dad," is this what the Japanese have for a back yard?"

"I don’t think it works like that," Cody, "because they have so little land to work with. This is more like a public park."

I was starting to get interested in this thing called an arboretum. I looked it up in the dictionary when I got home: A landscape of trees and shrubs for display or study.

Let me tell you that is not all that was here. There were all kinds of bronze statues, huge pots on pedestals, a greenhouse, plants you could buy and take home, vegetables and herbs, a farm house, a bunch of out buildings, with the whole estate butting up to the Portage River.

It was like a Fourth of July display of good old Mother Nature in all her shapes and colors.

We got down to a small lake and my Grandpa pointed out that there was bamboo growing across the way. Nearby was a lace-like tree that we later found out was a Japanese Maple. Also, a Birch tree with red peeling bark.

Right there along the banks of the lake were a bunch of stalagmite looking things that turned out to be part of the trunk system of Bald Cypress trees.

"That is the craziest thing I have ever seen," my Grandpa said, as he moved toward what looked like a stalagmite garden, with dozens of roots ends sticking up six inches to a foot.

Suddenly, there was a splash and we all turned to see Grandpa in the lake, waving his arms and kicking like a mule that had just been tied to a stake.

"Grandpa," my Dad yelled, "Quit kicking so hard. You’re going to drown."

We tried to wade into the water but the bank dropped off abruptly, and my Dad started to peel off his clothes so he could jump in. Trouble was, Grandpa, thanks to all his kicking, had propelled himself out into the lake a good piece, and there was nothing on shore – like a rope or a water hose – to throw to him.

Grandpa screamed to shore at my Dad. "You know I can’t swim."

Grandma yelled back, "You just keep fighting it. Don’t you dare go under."

Dad was down to his white under shorts, which was kind of embarrassing, but he jumped into the water and swam out to get my Grandpa, who was still kicking and screaming.

Dad grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and started swimming to shore. It was a slow journey, pulling Grandpa behind him.

When he got Grandpa to the end of the shore we all grabbed a hold of Grandpa and pulled him up onto land.

First thing Grandma said was, "Where is your leg?"

Oh my goodness. Grandpa lost his wooden leg in the lake.

My Dad seemed exhausted and sat down with his head between his knees. I wondered why he didn’t at least put his pants on to cover up his underwear.

"I’ve got to go back in," Dad said.

"There! There is Grandpa’s leg!" Mom said, pointing to an object floating way off shore.

I didn’t say it out loud, but good thing it was made of wood. The new metal ones would have sunk, and then what would Grandpa do?

"I’ve got to have that leg," Grandpa called out. "I don’t have my crutch with me."

Dad seemed to know what he had to do. But he wasn’t happy about it. He turned to me and said, "What are you doing, just sitting around like a bump on a Cypress tree?"

Was he comparing me to the stalagmites?

There was a splash and my Dad was underway, swimming out to the middle of the lake to get Grandpa’s wooden leg.

Dad held it in his teeth as he swam back toward us. It reminded me of our dog fetching a stick in the water and swimming back with it.

Finally, Dad got to shore with it, but was still in his under shorts. Other people were in the area now looking to see if they could help, or maybe they were just gawking.

Mom held Dad’s slacks out for him and he started getting dressed.

The whole thing was an embarrassment.

Now Grandpa was rolling around the ground trying to reattach his leg by pushing it up into his pant leg.

I texted one of my friends" "I would like to be so out of here."

Gradually we made our way back to the Visitor Center.

"Why, you are soaking wet," the woman behind the counter said to Dad.

"Yea, I decided to take a quick swim."

The lady turned to another worker. "Are they allowed to swim?"

My Dad went into the restroom to dry off.

Grandpa hobbled across the road so he could sit down in the car.

Grandma and Mom paid the lady behind the counter fifty bucks for a family membership.

"Your whole family will enjoy this," the lady said.

"The next time we come, it will just be us," Mom said of her and Grandma. They both laughed.

I texted a friend: "Grandpa lost his wooden leg at the arboretum."

My friend texted back: "What is an arboretum?"