Sixteen years ago today, my amazingly spectacular grammy passed away. My earliest clear memory from my childhood was at the age of four when my grammy married my step-grandfather. If I close my eyes, I can perfectly recall the white dress with the tiny pink, blue and yellow flowers all over it, the accordion pleats, and the way the skirt would lift as I twirled around. On the morning of her wedding, my grammy gave me my first pair of diamond stud earrings. They were chips, but I was dazzled by the real diamonds which my grammy always chirped, "were a girl's best friend." On my mantle is a picture of me wearing that dress photobombing before there was such a thing, as my grammy and grandfather cut their wedding cake.
My grammy by no means was a traditional grandmother, and I loved her all the more for it. She wasn't a very good cook, baking wasn't her thing, and the words shit, damn, and hell often fell from her mouth over the course of the day. She typically followed up her verbal slips with a sly smile and with a twinkle in her eye she would say, "Pardon my French." I always knew such words were off limits for my own personal vocabulary.
My grandparents owned an apple orchard, and many of my memories are tied to the farm. Growing up, I spent plenty of time helping out on the farm. In the late spring and early summer we picked strawberries, blueberries, and attended to my grammy's extensive herb and vegetable garden. In the peak of summer, we picked peaches, pears, and prunes, and when those late summer days were tinged with the cool crispness of the impending fall, we began the ongoing task of harvesting the different variety of apples they grew in their orchard. During the summer, I spent at least one day of the week with my grammy and on weekends it was not uncommon for my entire family to lend my grandparents a hand. I was not always overly enthusiastic at the start of the morning when my grammy would run through our "Plan of Attack" for the day. It almost always involved outdoor physical labor until lunch time followed by a short rest and then usually working around the house. My grandparents didn't have cable and using the bunny ears on top of their TV, they could sometimes get a clear picture from one local affiliate and the local PBS channel if the wind was blowing in just the right direction, so TV viewing was never really a viable option, but I honestly didn't mind. My grammy made work fun. She could make anything fun. Her enthusiasm for life was contagious. From an early age, she taught me the value of hard work by paying me 50 cents for dusting or $1.00 for picking apples. She kept a running tally on a slip of paper of the money she owed me in her cookie jar, and when I went on vacation or wanted to buy a new book, she would pay me my hard earned salary. She also encouraged me to cultivate my own interests and hobbies by signing me up for a summer French class and art lessons. I wasn't a fan of the French, but I loved taking art classes, which became one of my favorite hobbies. She always reminded me of the importance of being smart and doing well in school. I can still recall the summer between second and third grade writing my times tables ten times each as she made lunch for my grandfather and her quizzing me periodically, "What's seven times seven?" Those sevens tripped me up for a few weeks, but by the end of summer, I knew all my multiplication facts up to twelve times twelve.
I always loved when I would go to my grammy's on Fridays. Fridays were typically "delivery days" which meant we would ride around in her station wagon in the mornings, and there was the possibility of us spending some of the spoils from the deliveries. We would deliver fresh herbs and fruit to some local grocery stores and restaurants, which was one facet of my grandparents' livelihood. After deliveries, my grammy would sometimes treat us to lunch, and on many occasions, we stopped at the local dairy to pick up milk and two chocolate peanut butter ice cream cones which we enjoyed as the breeze blew in the windows of my grammy's station wagon as Doris Day sang in the background.
My grammy almost always had a smile on her face and a zest for life, which I loved as a child and have a greater appreciation for now as an adult. My grammy found herself a widow at the age of thirty with three children after watching her husband defeated by his illness. While my grammy did have the support of family, her life was by no means easy during this time which could have easily left her bitter or unhappy for the rest of her life. From personal experience, I have seen others allow their lot in life lead them to live a life of negativity and question "Why me?" But, instead, she made the choice to find the beauty in life and made the choice to be happy in spite of sadness.
Shortly before my sixteenth birthday, my grammy and my great aunt took my cousin and I on a terrifically memorable trip to London and Paris. We strolled through Harrad's, and my grammy's eyes were like saucers as she looked at the decadent desserts in the bakery. Her lunch that afternoon was comprised entirely of desserts. In fact, several meals my grammy enjoyed were almost entirely comprised of desserts. I remember after we touched down in Paris in the late afternoon, my grammy insisting we go steal at least a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower even if it meant we were late for our dinner reservation. Her face lit up as she gazed at it for the first time, and the following day we enjoyed the breathtaking view of Paris from atop it. We later strolled around the gardens at Versailles, and my grammy jokingly contemplated how she could replicate the same garden in her side yard. While those grandiose gardens were spectacular, I know she was supremely satisfied with her own simple flower garden and the flowers she plucked from it which often graced her kitchen window sill. No matter how great or small, the beauty and joy in life could always be found.
In the late summer of 1997, almost four years after burying her second husband who succumbed to cancer, my grammy wasn't feeling well. Completely out of character for her, she didn't have the same energy she once did, and her back was always aching. After having her gall bladder removed with no significant improvement to her discomfort, we began to worry. My grammy never complained about anything, so we knew something was seriously wrong. My brother, mother and I took her to a medical center in Hershey for some tests, and the doctors discovered she had pancreatic cancer. The oncologist's prognosis was two to four months without treatment and four to six months with treatment. After a few treatments and suffering from the debilitating side effects, my grammy opted for quality over quantity.
Knowing her days were numbered, we all made the most of the time left. Juggling my eighteen credits, tutoring at the Writing Center, and working fifteen hours at my part-time job, I would make a point of stopping to visit my grammy before dinner almost every day. I would stop by to check in to see if she needed help and fill her in on the happenings of my day which she listened to attentively. Her physical deterioration progressed; although, she did her best to stay positive. I remember stopping one afternoon when she was particularly weak, and her asking me to help her get in the shower. I told her I didn't think it was a good idea, especially since the trained nurse would be there in the morning to help her. I felt terrible denying her request, but I honestly didn't think I had the physical strength to help her. My grammy was tenacious, and she was going to take a shower with or without my help. As she tried to lift her body off the couch, I conceded and supported her weight. As she slipped out of her clothes, I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I, of course, knew my grandmother had lost a lot of weight as her clothes now hung from her frame, but seeing the shriveled body of a woman who was once so robust and full of life, my heart sunk. As she showered and supported her weight against the wall of the shower, she heaved a great sigh of relief. I wrapped her lovingly in the towel which engulfed her frame,and as she turned around and met my gaze, she said, "I feel like a new woman ready to face the day." I smiled and thought about it being 4:30 in the afternoon, the day almost over. But something as simple as a shower could lift my grammy's mood.
Another afternoon while visiting my grandmother and talking about school, she casually mentioned how if she had had the opportunity to go to college, she had always thought she would've been an English teacher. Nearing the end of my junior year of college and knowing I would be student teaching the following year as an English teacher at a local high school, I looked at her with a watery smile.
On Saturday, March 21, 1998, she took her final labored breaths as her first born son and first born grandson held her hands. A week later, we mourned her death with friends and family, which she specifically told us not to do, but we also respected her wishes to celebrate her life and toasted her with the case of champagne she bought shortly after she learned of her terminal illness. We shared stories about her beautiful spirit, and I will always remember a neighbor who said my grammy had the ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room. I count that among her many gifts.
Sixteen years have passed. I can't recall the cadence of my grammy's voice anymore. I yearn for her physical presence, but that of course, isn't possible. Seldom a day passes I don't think of her. She would've turned 84 this past New Year's Day, and I always thought she would have lived well in to her 90's given her spirit. I am grateful for all she taught me. In the deck of life, everyone is dealt varying degrees of heartbreak, sadness and challenges, which may make us feel powerless, but we can always control what we do with those cards. Happiness is always a choice a person can make even in the most difficult of situations. I also learned it doesn't so much matter where you are in life, as much as it matters who you are with. When you are standing beside someone you love, care or respect, the job you're doing doesn't quite matter as much. My grammy told me that when she was a little girl, she told her own grandmother who made her pull weeds in the garden that when she grew up, she would never pull weeds. Her grandmother responded, "Audrey, you know what's going to happen to you? You're going to fall in love with a farmer." My grammy married not one but two farmers. I know she enjoyed working outside, but she more importantly enjoyed working side by side with my grandfather. Likewise, I would gladly go back to the late afternoon in Paris when we spied the Eiffel Tower for the first time, but I would honestly be equally happy to just sit at my grammy's kitchen desk writing my multiplication tables if I could spend just one more afternoon with her.
I feel particularly sad when I think that starting this year, I'll have more years of memories without her than with her. But when I miss her especially, I will wear the earrings she gave me the day she married my grandfather and the beautiful diamond pendant my grandfather gave her as a symbol of how precious she was to him. After all, "diamonds are a girl's best friend." Although, it was always clear who was her best friend. I will think of her when I eat chocolate peanut butter ice cream and when I look at my toes. I remember when my mother pointed out years ago, I had my grammy's feet, I certainly didn't view it as a compliment. But now when I look down and note the shape of my toes, I think of her and the connection and grounding we share. In one of my favorite essays, "Writing Three Thank-You Letters," Alex Haley writes about a letter he wrote to his own grandmother one Thanksgiving while he was in the service where he thanked her for having "sprinkled [his] life with stardust." I am so thankful for all the stardust my grammy sprinkled on my life.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Friday, March 7, 2014
Here Comes the Sun
One of my colleagues reminded me that this weekend it's time to change our clocks, music to my ears. For most of my life, I always preferred the fall time change. As a little kid, the time change meant I could stay up an hour later; as a teenager, it made my 11 o'clock curfew midnight, which was a much more respectable curfew in my teenage opinion; and in my twenties it meant another hour at the bar, which obviously meant another beer. Who doesn't want or need an extra hour in their day? The possibilities on what to do with that extra hour-- endless. Although in most cases, I spent it having an extra hour of fun followed by some good sleep.
My joy in the "falling back" though disappeared after having children. Before I had children, when parents would complain about the time change, I would respond with, "Just put them to bed an hour later." It's simple mathematics. However, when I had my own children, I quickly learned reason and logic, well, they run contrary to the daily business of raising children. After spending months establishing a clear, definite sleep pattern, the extra hour was no longer a blessing but a cruel, ridiculous curse. After changing the clock, I would hear the cries of my first born and look blearily at the clock which read 5:00 am. His body clock told him it was time to go, while my body clock told me it was time roll over. Some mornings I would bring him in to bed with me in hopes the warmth of the bed and the familiar smell of mommy would lull him back to sleep, which never seemed to happen. He would stare back at me with big, bright eyes and smile, and I would begrudgingly begin my day in the dark. These "shorter" days ironically seemed interminably long.
Before my children, the shorter days meant longer evenings watching TV or reading a good book curled up on the couch. After children, the shorter days meant longer evenings trapped inside the house trying to sap their boundless energy--an exercise in futility. Our two favorite activities on long winter evenings included "Pillow Pile" which involved pulling all the cushions off our couch and loveseat while the boys would precariously balance on the arm of the loveseat and gleefully dive into the cushions over and over and over again. Our second favorite indoor winter activity was called "Running Songs" where we would blast music videos and race around the house in the dark with glow sticks. I consider it a small miracle that we have avoided the ER for the past five winters.
To say this winter has been "a long, cold lonely" one is quite frankly the understatement of the year or perhaps this century. But I have noted the past few weeks the increasing glow of light in the mornings as I drive in to work, a welcome sign that spring will be here soon; although, not soon enough for most of us.
Even though I will be losing an hour of sleep this Saturday night, I know I will wake up on Sunday morning with a spring in my step, and there's a pretty good chance the clock will read 8:00 am instead of 5:00 am when I hear the pitter-patter of my children's feet. I know I'll be plunged back into the darkness for a few weeks during my morning commute, but I will gladly make this sacrifice for the daylight after dinner, the prospect of the fresh air that tires my children out, and the happy laughter of them playing with the neighbors.
Last week as I was driving in to work, I found myself subconsciously humming The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun" and released a great sigh. This simple song so fully encapsulates my physical and mental state, and I know soon it will feel "all right."
My joy in the "falling back" though disappeared after having children. Before I had children, when parents would complain about the time change, I would respond with, "Just put them to bed an hour later." It's simple mathematics. However, when I had my own children, I quickly learned reason and logic, well, they run contrary to the daily business of raising children. After spending months establishing a clear, definite sleep pattern, the extra hour was no longer a blessing but a cruel, ridiculous curse. After changing the clock, I would hear the cries of my first born and look blearily at the clock which read 5:00 am. His body clock told him it was time to go, while my body clock told me it was time roll over. Some mornings I would bring him in to bed with me in hopes the warmth of the bed and the familiar smell of mommy would lull him back to sleep, which never seemed to happen. He would stare back at me with big, bright eyes and smile, and I would begrudgingly begin my day in the dark. These "shorter" days ironically seemed interminably long.
Before my children, the shorter days meant longer evenings watching TV or reading a good book curled up on the couch. After children, the shorter days meant longer evenings trapped inside the house trying to sap their boundless energy--an exercise in futility. Our two favorite activities on long winter evenings included "Pillow Pile" which involved pulling all the cushions off our couch and loveseat while the boys would precariously balance on the arm of the loveseat and gleefully dive into the cushions over and over and over again. Our second favorite indoor winter activity was called "Running Songs" where we would blast music videos and race around the house in the dark with glow sticks. I consider it a small miracle that we have avoided the ER for the past five winters.
To say this winter has been "a long, cold lonely" one is quite frankly the understatement of the year or perhaps this century. But I have noted the past few weeks the increasing glow of light in the mornings as I drive in to work, a welcome sign that spring will be here soon; although, not soon enough for most of us.
Even though I will be losing an hour of sleep this Saturday night, I know I will wake up on Sunday morning with a spring in my step, and there's a pretty good chance the clock will read 8:00 am instead of 5:00 am when I hear the pitter-patter of my children's feet. I know I'll be plunged back into the darkness for a few weeks during my morning commute, but I will gladly make this sacrifice for the daylight after dinner, the prospect of the fresh air that tires my children out, and the happy laughter of them playing with the neighbors.
Last week as I was driving in to work, I found myself subconsciously humming The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun" and released a great sigh. This simple song so fully encapsulates my physical and mental state, and I know soon it will feel "all right."
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
A Simple Kind of Life
Two weekends ago, a few girlfriends and I headed out to Deuce's Wild for a much needed Girls' Night Out. If you told me ten years ago I would excitedly and willingly go to a "country music" night club, sing along to the music, and enjoy myself, I would've responded with a sarcastic, "Not gonna happen."
Growing up I loathed country music with every fiber of my being. My father, who was and still is a farmer at heart, loved to torture my brother and I by waking us up on Sunday mornings to the twangy tunes of Froggy 101, the local country music station in good old Scranton, PA. I would roll over in my bed, pull my pillow tightly over my head, and groan in pain as my ears began to bleed. Country music was like nails on a chalkboard, and in spite of my father's best efforts to teach his daughter to appreciate country music, my anti-country stance would remain firmly entrenched for years.
When I first met my husband, I counted among his few flaws his love of country music. He, fortunately, had an eclectic music palate, so it wasn't a true deal breaker. We negotiated a contract where no country music was played while I was riding in the car with him. My husband did manage to negotiate a country music detente at one point, and I agreed to attend a Toby Keith concert with him and his brother. Before the show began, the sprinkler system at the then Tweeter Center accidentally came on. Luckily, I was almost sitting directly on top of a sprinkler and spent the entire show shivering due to my soaking shirt and jeans. It was awesome. As we left the venue that evening, I cursed country music and renewed my vow of hating the genre with a new vigor.
In April 2007, about seven weeks after his birth, my beautiful, blue eyed-baby boy Nate began to cry with abandon, pulling his legs up tightly to his core. Colic. Anyone who has had a colicky baby knows you will do ANYTHING to stop the crying. I have never felt so helpless and frustrated in my entire life. Almost every night from 7:00 to 9:30 for two and a half months, he cried and cried and cried. We tried different bottles, different formulas, Mylicon, Gripe Water, and any and every suggestion anyone gave us. Anything to stop the crying. I vividly recall one epic-ally horrible evening when my husband had an Awards Banquet to attend. Feeling frustrated, angry and helpless, I loaded my screaming baby into the car and began to drive up and down 422 in hopes the drive would lull him to sleep, one of the tactics which had worked in the past. After twenty-five minutes of screaming, I pulled in to the Target parking lot and went in to the store to buy a different brand of formula. As my son continued to wail in the store, the clerk looked at me sympathetically and said, "Someone's hungry." I shook my head as tears pooled in my eyes, and thought, "If only it were that simple."
Most evenings during this two and a half month trial, we discovered the best method to soothe him. Holding him vertically in our arms, placing the precise amount of pressure on his tummy and swaying him back and forth in our living room, we would pass Nate back and forth. One evening as I was switching laundry upstairs, a momentary reprieve from the crying and fussing, my husband turned on CMT and continued to sway back and forth to the music. When I returned downstairs, my husband jested, "I think he likes country music. He's not crying." I rolled my eyes. But I was a defeated woman, and if country music stopped the crying, I was okay with it. An hour later, Nate finally drifted off to sleep, and so began our evening colicky ritual. I, of course, would gripe to my husband how ridiculous Taylor Swift was whining about her stupid, histrionic "teardrops on [her] guitar," but then again her whining was slightly better than crying.
Over the next two months though I inevitably began to sing along to some of the songs. They were catchy. And the next thing I knew, I started to enjoy country music.
Growing up I loathed country music with every fiber of my being. My father, who was and still is a farmer at heart, loved to torture my brother and I by waking us up on Sunday mornings to the twangy tunes of Froggy 101, the local country music station in good old Scranton, PA. I would roll over in my bed, pull my pillow tightly over my head, and groan in pain as my ears began to bleed. Country music was like nails on a chalkboard, and in spite of my father's best efforts to teach his daughter to appreciate country music, my anti-country stance would remain firmly entrenched for years.
When I first met my husband, I counted among his few flaws his love of country music. He, fortunately, had an eclectic music palate, so it wasn't a true deal breaker. We negotiated a contract where no country music was played while I was riding in the car with him. My husband did manage to negotiate a country music detente at one point, and I agreed to attend a Toby Keith concert with him and his brother. Before the show began, the sprinkler system at the then Tweeter Center accidentally came on. Luckily, I was almost sitting directly on top of a sprinkler and spent the entire show shivering due to my soaking shirt and jeans. It was awesome. As we left the venue that evening, I cursed country music and renewed my vow of hating the genre with a new vigor.
In April 2007, about seven weeks after his birth, my beautiful, blue eyed-baby boy Nate began to cry with abandon, pulling his legs up tightly to his core. Colic. Anyone who has had a colicky baby knows you will do ANYTHING to stop the crying. I have never felt so helpless and frustrated in my entire life. Almost every night from 7:00 to 9:30 for two and a half months, he cried and cried and cried. We tried different bottles, different formulas, Mylicon, Gripe Water, and any and every suggestion anyone gave us. Anything to stop the crying. I vividly recall one epic-ally horrible evening when my husband had an Awards Banquet to attend. Feeling frustrated, angry and helpless, I loaded my screaming baby into the car and began to drive up and down 422 in hopes the drive would lull him to sleep, one of the tactics which had worked in the past. After twenty-five minutes of screaming, I pulled in to the Target parking lot and went in to the store to buy a different brand of formula. As my son continued to wail in the store, the clerk looked at me sympathetically and said, "Someone's hungry." I shook my head as tears pooled in my eyes, and thought, "If only it were that simple."
Most evenings during this two and a half month trial, we discovered the best method to soothe him. Holding him vertically in our arms, placing the precise amount of pressure on his tummy and swaying him back and forth in our living room, we would pass Nate back and forth. One evening as I was switching laundry upstairs, a momentary reprieve from the crying and fussing, my husband turned on CMT and continued to sway back and forth to the music. When I returned downstairs, my husband jested, "I think he likes country music. He's not crying." I rolled my eyes. But I was a defeated woman, and if country music stopped the crying, I was okay with it. An hour later, Nate finally drifted off to sleep, and so began our evening colicky ritual. I, of course, would gripe to my husband how ridiculous Taylor Swift was whining about her stupid, histrionic "teardrops on [her] guitar," but then again her whining was slightly better than crying.
Over the next two months though I inevitably began to sing along to some of the songs. They were catchy. And the next thing I knew, I started to enjoy country music.
At the time, I think I began to enjoy country music because the genre in many ways reflected my life at that time. Country music is simple, and so was my life then. Now when I use the word simple, I do not by any means mean easy. I have been a teacher for nine years and have become frustrated or upset to the point of crying probably five times. During my six years as a full-time stay at home mom, it was a good week if I made it through with only breaking down in tears five times. When I say simple to describe my life then, I mean uncomplicated. My simple, uncomplicated goal every day was the same--do everything in my power to make this small human being happy.
Similarly, country music tends to focus on the basic, simple common emotions of the human experience--the sheer bliss of falling in love, the pain of losing a love, or the complete satisfaction of keying that cheating ass hole's brand new truck who you thought was your true love. During many of those long days, country music filled the void of silence in between my one-sided conversations with my son. I heeded the lyrics of Trace Adkins and Darius Rucker who reminded me, "you're gonna miss this" and "it won't be like this for long." Nate will turn seven this month and while I certainly don't miss those colicky days, I did make sure to enjoy all those moments in between the crying--the toothless smiles, the belly laughs that shook his whole body, and the afternoons spent on the couch with his warm body pressed to mine as he peacefully napped. Those moments carried me through the long days. And on the exceptionally rough days when those moments weren't enough, well, I could always follow the sage advice available in country music regarding the healing powers of a cold beer, a couple glasses of wine, or a margarita. Some days I could have used the trifecta.
This past Sunday morning, I came downstairs to find my husband reading the newspaper with CMT on the TV. I paused to think how so many years ago, the sound of country music on a Sunday morning made me bristle. Now country music makes me feel a little nostalgic for those "simple" days and still reminds me to enjoy those simple wonderful moments--whether they be with my beautiful family, my wonderful friends, or an ice cold beer.
Similarly, country music tends to focus on the basic, simple common emotions of the human experience--the sheer bliss of falling in love, the pain of losing a love, or the complete satisfaction of keying that cheating ass hole's brand new truck who you thought was your true love. During many of those long days, country music filled the void of silence in between my one-sided conversations with my son. I heeded the lyrics of Trace Adkins and Darius Rucker who reminded me, "you're gonna miss this" and "it won't be like this for long." Nate will turn seven this month and while I certainly don't miss those colicky days, I did make sure to enjoy all those moments in between the crying--the toothless smiles, the belly laughs that shook his whole body, and the afternoons spent on the couch with his warm body pressed to mine as he peacefully napped. Those moments carried me through the long days. And on the exceptionally rough days when those moments weren't enough, well, I could always follow the sage advice available in country music regarding the healing powers of a cold beer, a couple glasses of wine, or a margarita. Some days I could have used the trifecta.
This past Sunday morning, I came downstairs to find my husband reading the newspaper with CMT on the TV. I paused to think how so many years ago, the sound of country music on a Sunday morning made me bristle. Now country music makes me feel a little nostalgic for those "simple" days and still reminds me to enjoy those simple wonderful moments--whether they be with my beautiful family, my wonderful friends, or an ice cold beer.
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