Gone now is the day and gone the sun
There is peace tonight all over Arlington
But the songs of my life will still be sung
By the light of the moon you hung
~Emmylou Harris
My grandma died.
Of course, most people live long enough to see their grandparents pass away, but you see… my grandmother – she was special. And our relationship – well, it was special, too. More special than anybody else ever’s relationship with their grandmother. Hmph.
I was lucky enough to grow up within a half hour drive of my grandparents, which meant I got to see them very often. She mothered me (including the yelling – she didn’t particularly care for me using all her rubber cement to make big balls of bouncy… umm… rubber cement), coddled me (including the coddling), taught me how to gather eggs, how to tell a ripe raspberry from those not ready to pick, and how to design a particularly scary spook alley scenario. Not particularly difficult skills – and not skills I have an opportunity to utilize on a daily or yearly or decadely basis – but she took time to explain things, which, when you’re a child, means the world.
As children and teenagers, we enjoyed many trips to Yellowstone with my grandparents. My grandmother would always see that my hair was combed (she wouldn’t have me wandering about like a “ragchild,” camping nor not). They played Peter, Paul, and Mary while taking us to see their favorite sites, told us stories around the campfire, taught us to catch, prepare, and cook trout, and took us for canoe rides at sunset.
When I was in college, I often (very often… I was poor) dropped by to see my grandparents around lunch time. My grandmother invariably was “just about to make lunch” and invariably made “far too much for your grandfather and I to eat before it spoils,” and I was therefore the lucky recipient of homemade wheat bread, homemade casseroles and stews, home-canned jams and jellies, and – my favorite – Swedish shrimp sandwiches. My grandparents and I would chat over lunch about my courses, my boyfriends, my grades… the regular fare. I would often stay and study for a couple hours by their fireplace, during which time, my grandmother would bring me various snacks – bread just out of the oven, Pepperidge Farm cookies (they never taste the same when I buy them), or oatmeal cookies made with applesauce (actually, I love them).
A few weeks ago, my grandmother called me. We chatted about the upcoming baby, morning sickness, getting kicked, and about being a mother. She said if I made sure to love the baby to pieces, everything else would work out. She also jokingly asked me to remind Tim that she was counting on him to find a cure for congestive heart failure, because she wasn’t ready to leave.
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Well, I suppose she got ready, but I didn’t. Maybe I was in denial, but I didn’t expect her to go so soon. I expected her to be on the front row at my wedding (maybe she was, but I like to think she was running through a meadow of wildflowers), and… I miss her. I’m glad she’s not in pain, but I would rather she be pain-free here with us. I’m sad. I find myself shedding tears at random moments – doing the dishes, pouring a gel, trying to put my socks on.
And what’s not to miss? She was a remarkable woman. She raised ten children, helped run a farm, earned both bachelor’s and master’s degree in education (AFTER giving birth to ten children), worked full time helping disadvantaged children get up to speed in school, served her church and community, and made her home a haven for her children and 50-plus grandchildren. When I was at the funeral, I was somewhat astonished to see that all my cousins and siblings looked every bit as sad as I felt. Even though her life was supersaturated, she somehow took the time to make every one of us feel as though our relationship with her was more special than anybody else ever’s relationship with their grandmother. She had that much love in her heart.
2. I grew up in Utah, and now I live in Massachusetts. I am often displeased with our nations’ leaders and/or the manner in which the country is being run, but I am patriotic enough to consider it an honor to vote – even though in Utah and Massachusetts polls are so polarized toward Republican or Democrat votes, respectively, my vote probably isn’t all that significant (statistically speaking). So it was quite exciting to me yesterday to participate in a very close election – one in which the outcome truly wasn’t known until the votes had been cast. I won’t tell you for whom I voted, but I will tell you that even our borderline-communist sister crossed party lines yesterday because she felt like one of the candidates “looks like s/he eats kittens for breakfast.” I stood in line for a half hour at the polls (completely reasonable to participate in such an honor, right?). At one point, a youngish pretty gal walked in smacking gum and talking on her cell phone. She said, “Is this the line?” We nodded a communal “yes,” and she screeched into her phone, “Oh my (gosh), I am NOT voting today. It’s TOTALLY not worth it,” and stormed out in her 6-inch stiletto-heeled boots. I beg to differ, sister.
3. I cannot put on my socks anymore. Tim and I have a morning ritual where I sit on the bed and he lovingly covers my feet, usually with one of the 600 pairs of fabulous Smartwool stockings he gave me for Christmas. Though when I say, “lovingly” what I really mean is that with great love, he harshly runs his finger up the sole of my foot to test my “Babinski reflex” - if you can't recall experiencing this procedure, it’s more irritating than listening to hundreds of fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard, and is particularly tortuous for those of us blessed with really ticklish feet. It is performed on infants fresh out of the womb to make sure neurological systems are intact, and rarely thereafter from what I understand. He claims that he (depending on the day) either just wants to make sure everything is still okay, or is just trying to give me an “awesome foot rub.” 
