Last week I was informed that my biological father’s mother had passed away on December 27th. The short version of that is that she was my grandmother until I was 13; a woman who had doted on me my entire childhood, taught me how to gather eggs from chickens, pick strawberries, make jam, and on more than one occasion on a back country road in Idaho at the age of 9 with a phonebook under my bum and the tips of my toes barely reaching the gas pedal, how to drive. I’m fairly certain that her and I had a deal that I was never supposed to tell anyone just how often that lesson happened, but given that I am now a most excellent driver, I think she would be proud to have me share this little illegal fact with my blog peeps. She clearly recognized my driving talent early on and knew that I was the kind of kid that could handle some serious responsibility.:)
All families are complex and complicated and messy to some extent and mine is no different. Maybe the only difference is that the extent of the messiness of which I speak is vast and as unregulated and unpopulated as, say, a back country road in Idaho in the 80s. While there is sadness with any death, there is great comfort that this woman died an old woman in her bed, surrounded by her family. She also died an old woman in her bed with a granddaughter that had never really made peace with the roles they would play in each other’s lives when it wasn’t all strawberry picking, egg gathering, and grandparent supervised and sanctioned illegal activities
anymore.
Our last exchange several years ago wasn’t pleasant and can be easily marked as when I started referring to her rarely and also as Carol. Looking back I would have handled that differently. But looking back, I would have also paid more attention when she tried to teach me how to cook, garden, and about a thousand other things she was great at that I still to this day can’t do.
I wish this could be a blog post where I go on and on about what a wonderful woman she was and how she shaped my life by injecting it with her best qualities and beautiful lessons. It can’t be, but not because she wasn’t wonderful—she absolutely was to the extent of which I’m certain she never could have begun to realize—but because I didn’t really know her for the last 15 years.
Lately when people in my life die, which is happening all too much, I get this manic-like live-for-the-moment feeling and throw myself out there in a way that I would never even consider any other time. Vulnerability isn’t my strong suit; I get that there is a bit of humor in that statement due to the very fact that I put quite a bit of my personal life out there for the world on this very piece of internet real estate. But true vulnerability, the kind that comes with taking a risk or falling in love or…I don’t know…..allowing people to support you when they want to and you really need it…..that shit ain’t easy for me.
While I never expected my divorce to be a giant bucket of chicken, I did expect that 2 years later I would be a little better spot. Don’t get me wrong—I still really enjoy getting to eat cereal for dinner and not having to explain myself. Or share it. And if I want to stay up reading until 4am with my bedside lamp on, I sure as hell get to and that’s pretty damn great. I have the whole freaking closet to myself and if I left a half gallon of milk in the fridge, it will be there when I get back. (Or I’ve had a really odd burglary happen.) The flip side of cereal for dinner and not sharing a closet is that when something happens, something like someone dying, there is no one around that gets exactly what that means to you like a partner would. Sure, I have friends that are beyond supportive and I have a mother that would do anything in the world for me. But part of how we have been wired as grown-ups is that you share a certain history and feelings with your partner. Maybe at 4am in bed with a bowl of cereal. And that way when events transpire, you aren’t having to start from square one, telling people how exactly the whole thing went down just so they can understand and try to support you. It also means that when you have to go to a funeral that is going to be the most emotionally demanding and exhausting event you’ve attended in a while, you won’t be doing it alone.
Carol, who in death I will refer to as my paternal grandmother, did not have an easy life. She was rarely appreciated like she should have been and never received the enormous respect she deserved from some. But…..she was a wicked cool chick. So much so that I knew it at 9 (and not just because to this day I can still drive a boat of a Buick like it’s a sports car). I also think she would have been one of the few people who realized that there is often great loneliness in acts of bravery and tremendous confusion in acts of risk….and that it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t
act, it just means it’s okay to question things or have doubts afterwards. And that’s my only take-away from this one. The regrets are obviously plenty—I should have attempted to have a relationship with her as an adult. I should have told her at some point that even though I was no longer part of her family, I still cherished the time I got to spend with her. That for the last 2 decades I haven’t eaten a strawberry without thinking of her. But mainly that I knew she was braver than she would have ever given herself credit for. So maybe in some small way, now I get to be brave enough for us both.
All families are complex and complicated and messy to some extent and mine is no different. Maybe the only difference is that the extent of the messiness of which I speak is vast and as unregulated and unpopulated as, say, a back country road in Idaho in the 80s. While there is sadness with any death, there is great comfort that this woman died an old woman in her bed, surrounded by her family. She also died an old woman in her bed with a granddaughter that had never really made peace with the roles they would play in each other’s lives when it wasn’t all strawberry picking, egg gathering, and grandparent supervised and sanctioned illegal activities
anymore.
Our last exchange several years ago wasn’t pleasant and can be easily marked as when I started referring to her rarely and also as Carol. Looking back I would have handled that differently. But looking back, I would have also paid more attention when she tried to teach me how to cook, garden, and about a thousand other things she was great at that I still to this day can’t do.
I wish this could be a blog post where I go on and on about what a wonderful woman she was and how she shaped my life by injecting it with her best qualities and beautiful lessons. It can’t be, but not because she wasn’t wonderful—she absolutely was to the extent of which I’m certain she never could have begun to realize—but because I didn’t really know her for the last 15 years.
Lately when people in my life die, which is happening all too much, I get this manic-like live-for-the-moment feeling and throw myself out there in a way that I would never even consider any other time. Vulnerability isn’t my strong suit; I get that there is a bit of humor in that statement due to the very fact that I put quite a bit of my personal life out there for the world on this very piece of internet real estate. But true vulnerability, the kind that comes with taking a risk or falling in love or…I don’t know…..allowing people to support you when they want to and you really need it…..that shit ain’t easy for me.
While I never expected my divorce to be a giant bucket of chicken, I did expect that 2 years later I would be a little better spot. Don’t get me wrong—I still really enjoy getting to eat cereal for dinner and not having to explain myself. Or share it. And if I want to stay up reading until 4am with my bedside lamp on, I sure as hell get to and that’s pretty damn great. I have the whole freaking closet to myself and if I left a half gallon of milk in the fridge, it will be there when I get back. (Or I’ve had a really odd burglary happen.) The flip side of cereal for dinner and not sharing a closet is that when something happens, something like someone dying, there is no one around that gets exactly what that means to you like a partner would. Sure, I have friends that are beyond supportive and I have a mother that would do anything in the world for me. But part of how we have been wired as grown-ups is that you share a certain history and feelings with your partner. Maybe at 4am in bed with a bowl of cereal. And that way when events transpire, you aren’t having to start from square one, telling people how exactly the whole thing went down just so they can understand and try to support you. It also means that when you have to go to a funeral that is going to be the most emotionally demanding and exhausting event you’ve attended in a while, you won’t be doing it alone.
Carol, who in death I will refer to as my paternal grandmother, did not have an easy life. She was rarely appreciated like she should have been and never received the enormous respect she deserved from some. But…..she was a wicked cool chick. So much so that I knew it at 9 (and not just because to this day I can still drive a boat of a Buick like it’s a sports car). I also think she would have been one of the few people who realized that there is often great loneliness in acts of bravery and tremendous confusion in acts of risk….and that it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t
act, it just means it’s okay to question things or have doubts afterwards. And that’s my only take-away from this one. The regrets are obviously plenty—I should have attempted to have a relationship with her as an adult. I should have told her at some point that even though I was no longer part of her family, I still cherished the time I got to spend with her. That for the last 2 decades I haven’t eaten a strawberry without thinking of her. But mainly that I knew she was braver than she would have ever given herself credit for. So maybe in some small way, now I get to be brave enough for us both.
(I don’t have a picture of my grandmother. What I do have is this—a picture of my 3 year old self and another brave woman in my life, my Aunt Bebe, taken in a massive field in Idaho that serves as the backdrop for many happy childhood memories.)
1 comments:
Ok. You have many childhood memories in Idaho? See, I knew we were meant to be friends!
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