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.
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.
"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," 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."
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!"
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.
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.
 |
| Deb and Brian |
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 |
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.
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