Grandma

When Grandma opens her front door to greet us, I'm shocked.

Always tall and substantial, my 74-year-old widowed grandmother is suddenly rake thin and diminished before my eyes. I embrace her, feel her frail bones, and swallow a stab of fear.

She grabs my little brothers Tom and Jeff together into a bear hug, and that's when I notice the earrings.

"Oh my lord," I breathe. "Did you pierce your ears?" I can hardly take it in.

Grandma with our baby brother Jeff, 1971

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and she poses left and right to display the emerald colored rocks in her ear lobes.

"Why not?" she smiles at my astonished face. "Life is short."

This cheers me. It's been a long time since my adored grandmother exhibits interest in much of anything besides us. And Tom Schneider. She's so crazy about the late night television host that she removes his face from the cover of an old TV Guide and tapes it to the mirror of her bedroom vanity. In the three years since our mother's death, Grandma declines dramatically and never fully recovers from the loss of her only child.

"How are you feeling?" I search her face.

"Fine! Fine!" she lies. Two weeks ago my little sister Deb - just shy of her 21st birthday - marries Brian Durning, the sweet love of her life. Grandma, too ill with heart trouble to make the long trip from Beatrice, is unable to attend the wedding. I promise to load Tom and Jeff into my little Pacer and bring lots of pictures from the big day. She desperately wants to know all about Deb's wedding.

Deb and Brian

"But first," she beams at my little brothers, "let's have some macaroni and cheese."

We love Grandma's homemade mac and cheese - almost as much as the little silver dollar pancakes she makes when she comes to visit. Being with her is like the best sort of holiday.

"Eat your peas, Jeff," I nag my youngest brother during lunch. He pushes them back and forth on his plate, pouting, until Grandma pulls him to her and whispers in his ear. Jeff flashes a look of relief then sticks his tongue out at me.

"C'mon, Tom!" The two of them scrape their chairs away from the table and fall out the door. Grandma chuckles, and I rise to clear the table.

"Sit," she pulls me back. "Tell me everything. How'd it go?"

She doesn't mean the wedding. She means Dad. He's dating a woman. The revelation is a bolt from the blue, but I seem to have more trouble digesting the news than the rest of my younger siblings.

I drop back in my chair. "They're in love," I roll my eyes.

Grandma shakes her head. "You had to expect this. Your dad's a young man."

I instantly bristle. Dena, Dad's girlfriend, is everything I despise. She's a name dropper for one thing.

"Did I tell you I had lunch with the mayor?" Dena casually mentions in a conversation that has nothing to do with lunch or the mayor.

She owns a brand new Cadillac, for another thing. Not that I have anything against Cadillacs. But Dena hires someone to engrave her initials in gold on the driver's side door.

"Now why would you hate her for that?" my grandmother chides me.

I stare down at my lap and feel the hot sting of tears. The problem with Dena is not that she's a divorced, working mother of two filled with her own self importance. Under any other circumstances - if I'm completely honest - I wouldn't mind her all that much. The problem is that Dad loves her and seems to have forgotten Mom. For the first time in my life, I'm angry with my father. We can barely sit together in the same room. And I'm so jealous of Dena for presuming that she can dare to take my mother's place that I don't bother to hide my contempt. Never in my life have I behaved so terribly. I am ashamed and angry and miserable all at once.

Grandma sighs. "I saw Patti," she says out of the blue. I am shocked out of my misery.

Grandma, Mom (Patti), and Grandpa holding me, 1955

"Grandma," I croak. "You saw Mom?"

She nods. "You'll think I'm a crazy, old woman. Maybe grief does that to people."

I grab her hand. "You're not crazy."

She motions to her recliner. "I was sitting right over there a few weeks ago. The windows were open, and the birds were singing."

Instantly emotional, she fumbles for the perennial kleenex under her watch band. "I thought to myself, how can those damn birds sing when my Patti's gone?"

She smiles through her tears. "Then I saw her."

A column of light, she says, descends from the ceiling in front of her chair. My mother steps from behind it. "Oh, she was beautiful and glowing," Grandma breathes. "Her hair was lighter and swept over to one side, and she wore a beige colored gown with a rope belt around her waist. She smiled and reached out to me!"

I'm gripping my grandmother's hand too hard. "Did she say anything?"

"No. She stepped behind the column, and it all went back up through the ceiling."

We stare at each other in wordless wonder.

"Your mother wants us to go on with our lives," Grandma mops her eyes. "Don't you see? That's what your dad's trying to do."

I don't want to talk about Dad, but Grandma cups my face in both her hands. She makes me look at her. "He's taking the next step. Dearie!" She uses the old-fashioned endearment. "Let him be happy."

I sob like a little girl, and Grandma pulls me over until our foreheads touch. "It's time for you to take the next step."

We're locked together, connected at the head like conjoined twins. Grandma's gaze is close and penetrating, and I miss Mom very much.

"It's time," Grandma says, stroking my hair. "It's time to find your John Boy Walton."

I sputter and bolt up. "Grandma! Are you kidding? John Boy Walton!" I snort.

"Yes, John Boy!" Grandma shoots back. "He's perfect. John Boy adores books - you adore books. You're both devoted to your families. And he's a good boy!" She nods her head indignantly.

I laugh even as I cry. "Grandma," I shudder, "John Boy Walton just doesn't do it. I'm really sorry."

Debbie on her wedding day

She laughs, too - her low, throaty chuckle that I love.

There is no more talk about big next steps, John Boy Walton or celestial visions. Instead, I pull out envelopes of photos - photos of Deb and Brian's wedding, the rehearsal dinner, Dad's tuxedo that's too short in the sleeves, and Uncle Carl furiously decorating the church. Grandma pores over them in fascination. Pretty soon, my little brothers wander in to sit beside her to describe to my grandmother every little detail she craves.

"All that greenery we collected at the river? You see it?" Tommy points out Uncle Carl's foliage surrounding the altar. "Turns out it was marijuana, and we didn't even know it!"

Grandma belts out her big, low laugh. A few moments later, though, she weeps. "If only I could have been there. If only Patti could have!"

Debbie and Dad

She keeps one or two photos to hang on the vanity mirror next to Tom Schneider and gazes at them lovingly. "Isn't Debbie the most beautiful bride?" she shakes her head.

Later that evening, I tuck Grandma into my little car with the boys and treat her to dinner at her favorite steakhouse - actually the only steakhouse - in Beatrice. When we return home, Grandma is gaunt and exhausted. She sits on the side of her bed for a long time gazing at Deb's wedding photos on her vanity, and I help Tom and Jeff spread sleeping bags on the living room floor. Before I retire to the living room couch to sleep myself, I poke my head in Grandma's room to say goodnight.

She pats the bed next to her, and I sit. "I want to tell you," she says softly, "that you've been a wonderful granddaughter."

I feel that strange stab of fear again. "Grandma," I say uncomfortably.

"It's true," she says. "I want you to know."

I hug her tightly and plant a kiss on her cheek. "Goodnight, Grandma."

In the middle of the night, I am awakened. Grandma hovers over my little brothers in the dark and covers Jeff with a light blanket.

"Are you okay?" I am instantly alert.

"I'm fine," she shushes me. "Everything's fine."

I wake up again. This time Grandma leans over me.

"Grandma!" I sit up.

"Just checking on everybody," she whispers. "I'm off to bed now."

We all sleep late the next morning - even Grandma. Usually up before seven, she hasn't stirred.  It's nearly nine now. When I step in to check on her, she's sleeping peacefully on her side with her cheek resting on her hands. And she's smiling.

"Grandma's having a great dream," I whisper to the boys. "We'll let her sleep a while."

But as I shower, it's my sweet little brother Tommy who makes the terrible discovery.

Grandma is gone.

In the frenetic days ahead during preparations and the funeral itself, I never do cry for my grandmother. Not even afterwards as she rests safely forever beside my grandfather. Not even when her little house sits empty and soulless. All she ever wants, I know with certainty, is to be with Mom and Grandpa. How can I wish her back?

Grandma's taken the next big step, and I'm happy for her.

Now she's counting on me to do the same.

Bachelor Pad

Dad,Tom and Jeff exist solely on a diet of Hungry Man TV dinners.

When my little sisters leave home, any semblance of order at the old house leaves with them. Dad remains meticulous about his laundry and continues to prepare scrambled eggs and sausage every Sunday morning after Mass, just as he has every Sunday of our lives. But if it's not Sunday, Dad's too tired to cook, too tired to clean, and certainly too tired to ride herd on our two youngest brothers.

Tom and Jeff

My sisters and I worry incessantly about this state of affairs. Especially about the rodents. Mice, which always pose a problem because of the field across the street, now run rampant and even pause in the middle of the kitchen to ponder whether mashed potatoes or salisbury steak sounds more appealing. The remnants of stacked Hungry Man TV containers line the counter tops like a buffet line for rodents. Dad sets traps in every corner of the house.

One weekend, Mary and Terri come home from college and invite a few old high school friends over. In the middle of their laughter and chatter, Jeff strolls through the living room in front of the visitors delicately holding at arm's length a trap with a dead mouse locked in its hinge.

"Fourth one today!" he crows.

Mary and Terri wish only to die never to be recuscitated.

Something has to be done. If Dad and the boys refuse to clean the house, clearly my sisters and I will have to do it for them. In other words, we will be guilty of enabling terribly bad behavior. But what choice do we have? Mary points out that Dad's nearly 60, and the boys don't care. It would hardly be worth it to discover mice gnawing on their three dead carcasses one nightmarish day in the distant future.

And that's how the institution of Friday Night Pizza begins. Every Friday night, the entire family troops over to Dad's house to clean. The boys vacuum, Terri and Carry dust, Deb and Mary tackle the kitchen, and I clean the bathrooms. I can hardly believe Dad's talent for stuffing seven days of newspapers and an occasional Reader's Digest into one small bathroom waste basket.

Fortunately, if we all work together, it only takes an hour to clean the old house. Then Dad springs for pizza and drinks for everybody. Friday night pizza is a tradition that continues for many years and is destined to become our favorite night of the week.

Truthfully, my sisters and I would like nothing more than to overhaul the entire bachelor pad. Short of moving back in, however, we don't have much influence over the day to day lives of Dad and our little brothers. The most exasperating issue, Dad confides, is persuading Jeff to get out of bed for school.

"Jeff!" Dad hollers every morning, "For the last time, get up!"

Jeff's always been notorious for sleeping past the alarm. My sisters have sometimes dragged him out of bed and shoved him, half asleep, into the bathroom. For the first time in his life, however, Jeff is reveling in the freedom of a household devoid of females. 

"Yes, Mother Dearest," he whines sarcastically whenever Terri or Carry nags him to pick up his room or take out the garbage. But those days are now behind him. Jeff regards himself as a 14-year-old free agent, and fortunately for him, Dad makes few demands on his time. Except in the mornings.

"Jeff!" By now Dad's lost all patience. Every school day, it's the same scenario. Seething with fury, Dad will eventually be forced to lay on the horn as he and Tom wait in the running car in the driveway. It's the sound of the horn that at last rouses Jeff. He falls out of the house in various stages of undress always clutching his shoes.

On this particular morning, Dad's had enough. After five minutes of blaring the horn, a sure sign Jeff's unable to locate his shoes, Dad pulls out of the driveway.

"That's it!" he hisses. Just as he accelerates down Capital Avenue, Jeff appears half naked running toward the car. Dad drives on. Tom can hardly bear the sight of Jeff frantically sprinting after them in the middle of the street. Jeff must foot the three miles to school and doesn't arrive until 10 o'clock. After that terrible morning, however, he's much better about rising with the alarm.

Except for the drama-filled mornings, life is pretty much a breeze. Dad and my brothers toss their Hungry Man dinners into the oven and flop in front of the TV every evening. They bond over The Cosby Show, Miami Vice and even an episode or two of Dynasty.

On Sunday afternoons, Dad's only day off from the travel agency, the three of them while away the hours mesmerized by televised golf tournaments. One such afternoon, Tom - who's grown suddenly tall and feels the heady confidence of his 16 years - issues a casual challenge.

"I'm pretty sure," he muses almost to himself, "that I could drive a golf ball farther than you, Dad."

The words are barely out of his mouth before he realizes his mistake. It would never occur to any of us - indeed, it would be unthinkable - to bait our proud, zealously competitive father. Tom and Dad, however, are more than father and son. Over the last several tumultuous years, they've become relaxed friends and boon companions. Even Tom, though, hasn't thought this one through.

Ten minutes later he finds himself with Dad and Jeff at George Park a few blocks away.

"I'll out-drive you by 50 yards, Mr. Cocky," Dad throws Tom a club. "You first."

It doesn't matter if it's basketball, checkers or a card game. Dad always tries to mess with our heads. He'll do anything to win.

"Don't be nervous, Tom," Dad repeatedly clears his throat in a ruthless attempt to distract him. "I'll try not to humiliate you." Just as Tom starts his back swing, Dad breaks wind. It's a peculiar talent that never ceases to amaze us. Dan can pass gas like a thundering explosion at will - any time he chooses. He chooses now.

Tom, in a surge of teenage anger, does his best to ignore Dad and instead concentrates on Jeff who's acting as ball marker 250 yards away. Swinging with focused fervor, he blasts the golf ball. Straight as an a arrow, it arcs into the sky, sails over Jeff's head, and finally drops some 10 yards behind Jeff. Tom looks over at Dad flashing a smile of triumph.

Jeff and Dad having fun with the camera.

Decidedly feeling the pressure, Dad sets his jaw in determination and steps up to the ball. "You'd better back up another hundred yards, Jeff!" he bellows for Tom's sake.

Dad lines up, and after a moment of deliberate concentration, swings with everything he's got. The golf ball takes off and rises quickly in altitude. Tom looks on with a sinking heart. It lifts into a cloudless blue sky just like it does for the pros teeing off on television. Dad grins gleefully looking 30 years younger. In an instant, though, he's frowning. At the pinnacle of its ascent, the ball takes a sudden veer to the left in one of the worst hooks Tom's ever witnessed. Like a rocket, it changes course and swerves directly to a cluster of neighborhood homes. Homes with lots and lots of windows.

Dad wastes no time.  "Grab the clubs and get in the car," he orders. He shouts to Jeff to hurry back, and without a backward glance, the three of them hustle into the car and beat it out of the park.

It's only as they're nearing home that Dad dares to glance sheepishly at my brothers. Like guilty school boys, the three of them burst into laughter.

"Technically," Tom suggests as they pull into the driveway on Capital Avenue, "I guess you could say I did win the contest."

The laughter and good natured ribbing ends abruptly. Dad gazes back at Tom with steely blue eyes. "Maybe," Dad acknowledges. "If I'd had a good club, though, we both know I would have murdered you."

The moment is over, and Tom sighs.

Our father is back.