Relatives and Memories

These are my grandparents, Bobbie and Pa. Those were my names for them and I miss them terribly. I think of them every day and now I think of them every time I walk into my mother's office where she keeps this photo on her desk. This photo was taken at my first wedding in 1984. They have both been gone for many years but they do live on in our hearts.

Today would've been Bobbie's birthday. I'm not big on visiting people's gravesites. I'd rather visit the memories in my mind. I can still picture her overly-stuffed house with a feast on the table for every holiday or family meal. I still don't understand how she managed it on her meager budget. I treasure every bowl or platter she gave me. For the rest of my life, any entertaining I do will include some of Bobbie's dishes. When dividing our household items, I have no interest (or moral right) to the silver we inherited from the Captain and the Belle. I will fight to the finish for my dimestore and garage sale glass items that my grandmother gave me with love.

On another note, we just concluded a visit with my aunt and her boyfriend. We only had a couple of days and they went way too fast. But, more memories were visited and more memories were made.

Everyone should have a teddy bear

My grandparents are gone and I miss them. I like to write about crazy grandma and Wild Bill because they have certainly provided the best stories. Bobbie (my name for her) showed us love and nurtured us all. Her husband, my Pa, took care of us also. I like to think that my creativity is a little gift from him. He could take a fallen tree branch and turn it into a Christmas tree. He was magical.

Years ago, probably at Thanksgiving, the family was discussing Christmas. Pa mentioned that he had never had a teddy bear. That year, he got one.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, I have lived this life without wanting for much. (Okay, nothing!)

Never underestimate stuffed animals. I have a floppy llama that Pa gave me when I was a child. Occasionally, I sleep with it. I look at it and get flooded with memories.

Hello Grandma

This morning I went to let the maniac dog outside and found a dead bird on my back stoop. You know how much I like birds. My windows are in serious need of cleaning so I have no idea how they can get confused enough to bash into them.

I felt a little prickle on the back of my neck. And not just because I will have to gather the courage to dispose of it. My superstitious grandmother thought a dead bird (or a wild bird that flies in your house) represents death.

About 30 minutes later, my mother called to inform me that her sister's husband had just lost his brother to an apparent heart attack.

I don't consider myself superstitious but hmmmm.

People With Influence -- Part Two

So many people impact me, even when they have no idea.

That first person, that boy or girl who you dreamt about and pined for ...

Your first love. We all define it differently but I know who mine was and he was definitely an influence.

The aunts and uncles who took you on dates, bought cute clothes for you and put up with you when your parents needed a break. Their influence in my life cannot be calculated. I still call or email and ask, "Will you help me?"

The cousins who forget that you're not a sibling. They drop what they're doing and say, "What can I do?" I have a cousin who occasionally sends emails to his family. It's his wife, mother and siblings. Somehow, I made the list and I get a little giddy whenever I see my name on the family list. Another cousin with an extremely busy life manages to make me feel important and relevant. She confides in me. And, she lets her daughter visit -- knowing I'm probably a bad influence.

The animals (okay -- technically, not people) who run to you, slather you with kisses, do the "I'm so happy you're here" dance.

Neighbors. We've all gotten so wrapped up in ourselves that we can forget to be good neighbors. I like it when a neighbor calls to say, "There's someone in your yard, is he supposed to be there?" I grew up in an environment where neighbors looked out for each other.

The children. Busy with their own lives and their own struggles. Yet, they manage to find time to email, phone or text. Somewhere in there is a message of love.

Grandparents. If you're lucky enough to still have them: hug them. call them. Soak up their love and their knowledge. (Ask them for money.)

In-laws. I miss the Captain and the Belle. They influenced me in a great and profound way.

Oldies. Take a lesson from me. Help that old woman with her groceries. Ask that man if he needs help across the street. Listen to their stories. You're not doing them a favor -- you're getting an education.

The husband. Maybe you have one of those marriages where you never disagree, you never get on each other's nerves and you never break a promise. I don't. I have a marriage that keeps me on my toes. (I tried it the other way -- I got bored.) I like learning from my spouse. If nothing else, he keeps me interested.

Dying of a Broken Heart

Growing up in the neighborhood, there was the cutest old couple. Mr. and Mrs. Fox kept their lawn and home immaculate. They were extremely kind to each other and all of us. They put up with the neighborhood kids and genuinely seemed to like us. She was the epitome of the grandmotherly image -- handing out cookies and compliments. They died within a few days of each other.

My own maternal grandparents, who claimed ultimate disdain for each other, had a surreal fascination with the other. They died within a few days of each other.

I know many people who have lost a spouse, grieved, picked up the pieces and found joy again. I've witnessed many people who cannot do it. Is it sheer will for those who find the strength? Is it weakness or simply dying of a broken heart for those who cannot?

We were informed this morning that Hangdog is being transported from the Home to the hospital. His blood pressure is too low and his pulse is too high. Deja Vu. I know this road. I've traveled it before.

Walk the Walk

My mother and her sisters had two sets of parents. The first were their birth parents (Wild Bill and my Wacky Grandmother.) The second were their aunt and uncle (Bobbie and Pa.) Have I told you that Pa and Wild Bill were brothers AND Wacky Grandmother and Bobbie were sisters? Is this something that just happens in the hills? Having no siblings, I have escaped this fate.

It's the holiday season and I am flooded with memories of my grandparents. This is mostly about my mother's side of the family but I actually spend a teensy bit of time thinking about my dad's father and his wife. Then I get the willies and move on. (That's probably not fair. I do have some fond memories but they are overshadowed by the way my father and his sisters were treated.)

So, this is about Bobbie. Technically, my great-aunt but really and truly my grandmother. (The sane and stable one.)

In my childhood, holidays meant we went to Bobbie and Pa's... Christmas, Easter, etc. Farm living instilled in her that there had to be five kinds of meat and at least twelve side dishes.

As she aged, we were more likely to find something forgotten in the oven.

Forgetfulness also came in other visits. One year she gave my father and both of my uncles beautifully wrapped nightgowns. Some years she couldn't remember where she stashed the presents so we got them later.

Pa was in charge of the tree. As he grew older (and more creative) he could find the most interesting way to erect his version of a tree. My personal favorite is the year he found a gnarled tree limb, painted it and hung various ornaments on it. We have an absurd amount of ornaments and Christmas decorations in this house -- nothing will replace my memory of the gnarled, painted tree.

Bobbie and Pa lived in a house that was originally purchased by her father. As time went by, urban issues (like theft and murder) came to visit and my mother was often concerned about her safety, especially after Pa died. She was not fazed.

She was not only my grandmother -- she was the neighborhood mother and grandmother. She didn't just read the bible every day. She lived the lessons every day.

When my mother tried to explain that she shouldn't open the door for unknown people or let the errant neighbors in, she was adamant:

"It might be Jesus at the door."

At my house, it's more likely to be Elvis at the door but I still remember the lessons she instilled and modeled for me.

Mome

You never know who's going to influence your life. Or, who's going to give you a nickname.

I got to be the first grandchild on my mother's side of the family. I nicknamed my grandmother "Bobbye." No one knows why. My friend Carol's grandchildren call her "Grandma Chi Chi." Big S's grandchildren call her "Da." Her husband is "Boo." My friend Cynthia's mother is "Mome." I used to call her Mrs. Summers but after a few years of nudging us to call her Mome, it stuck.

It's been almost 20 years since I first met Mome. She has a full family, tons of friends and she certainly doesn't need me in her circle. Occasionally, I stick myself in there anyway. She has always welcomed me with open arms.

At her 90th birthday party, I was honored to sit beside her. She allowed me to cut her meat. She allowed me to dig through her handbag for something she needed. She trusts me and I feel blessed.

In the early days, we used to go to the lake cottage with our friends, little kids, dogs, etc. -- and Mome. We've spent many years sharing stories, sharing a bathroom, sharing books and gossip. She is always a sport. We might not eat until 9:00 or later. She just hung out like a trooper.

Yesterday, my girlfriend (Mome's daughter,) took her to the lake to see the improvements they've made to the cottage. A wheelchair and a walker were involved. Her vision is extremely limited. Her range of movement is skewed. Yet, a trip to the lake was thrilling, I imagine. I've spent some time moving oldies in wheelchairs and dealing with walkers. I've coordinated it with airlines and hospitals. I need to buy this girl a drink!

During their visit yesterday, Mome told her daughter that it was her last visit to the lake. That's probably true. When someplace has been a part of your heart and history for 90 years, I can't imagine making this declaration.

Here are some of the things I've learned from Mome:

Milk cartons do not belong on the table
BenGay cures it all
Good manners will carry you a long way
A little gossip is ok, as long as you're not malicious

Calling someone Grandma seems to be passe. I'm not anxious for grandchildren but when they come ... if I get a vote ... I want them to call me Mome.

Pa Comes to Visit

One of our bedrooms has served many purposes. It's been a guest room. It was the daughter's room for a short period while she was in law school. Now, it's the oldies' room.

For people living in that room, they can change it or decorate it to their heart's content. I have a few photos on the wall that have stayed ... until now.

There's a great photo of my grandfather (the sane one, not Wild Bill) that has been in there forever. He's in full military uniform. He's young. He's handsome.

I came home from a trip a few weeks ago and that photo was propped on my bedroom mantel. I didn't think much about it. Maybe Big Daddy moved it. Maybe it fell down and no one knew where to put it.

Tonight I was sitting on the patio with the mother-in-law. Out of the blue, she said, "That man hasn't been coming around anymore." I am totally clueless. Is it houseboy? Is it my father? Is she stroking? I took a deep breath and asked the dreaded question -- "What man?"

Her response was, "The man in the photo. He kept appearing in our room so I took the photo down and put it in your bedroom."

I choose to believe he was looking for me.

Collections

I don't think of myself as a collector. I don't own Hummels or Precious Moments figurines. I don't have the desire or the energy to dust all of those things. Once my mother told people that she thought pigs were cute. Every holiday involved another pig collectible. I learned a lesson there.

My weakness is china and glassware. My grandmother (the sane one, not the zany one) used to give me a bowl or a platter for every occasion. This started when I was about 12-years old. On big occasions like a wedding or graduation, she taped $20 in it but I still received a bowl. My mom used to say, "Mother, she's 15. What is she going to do with a bowl?" I have them all. I use them all the time.

I have four sets of china. (Plain with gold, plain with silver, floral and holiday.) I'm in love with several other patterns. When the oldies moved out of their home and set up camp with us, I had my eye on Big Daddy's grandmother's china. Much to my dismay, it didn't come here.

My crystal is Waterford and I'm thrilled that my goddaughters are in love with the same pattern. I know what to buy for their weddings and I know what to do with my crystal in my will.

I had someone cleaning for me once and she accidentally knocked over a wall hutch with glassware in it. She left me a note saying that she was sorry and she hoped there was nothing of value in it. At that moment, I wished I had been collecting pig figurines.

The He-Man Women Haters Club

When the Baby was little, my parents used to babysit a lot. Movies were a great distraction and The Little Rascals was a favorite. Later, the Baby and my dad started fishing trips -- no girls allowed. They still call it the "He-Man Women Haters Club."

I feel the same passion about girl trips. No boys allowed. If they were allowed to join us, someone would want a sandwich; someone would want to discuss the golf game. Someone would change the channel during a great Lifetime movie right when we are ready for the man to get his just reward in the end.

When Big Daddy and I travel together, we have a great time. He gets the remote control and we take care of each other. When I travel without him, I get the remote control and I watch Lifetime to my heart's content.

I'm pretty sure I'll never be invited on the fishing trip.

You'll See

I miss my madcap grandmother. She made me crazy in a lot of ways but she never failed to make me laugh.

My mother was always trying to get her out of the house. Once we went to lunch and an over-attentive waiter kept bringing us unneeded soft drink refills. At one point, there were at least 12 Diet Cokes, Cherry Cokes and regular Cokes on the table. My mom said to me, "He's flirting with you." My grandmother replied, "No, he's flirting with me." She was probably right.

Her life was not easy and she made some poor choices. Luckily, she had three daughters who took care of her to the bitter end. I'm not making fun of old age, illness or dementia. I was a coward who ran the other way. Then God tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Here are your in-laws and they are going to live with you."

Zany ol' grandma believed that people were regularly breaking into her apartment to do madcap things like dent her coffee cart or move pillows around. When ANY of us would doubt her, she would say, "You'll see."

She lived for her trashy magazines. Heaven forbid that it was a holiday week and they might come out one day late. My mom tried to explain it to her but she would just nod her head and say, "You'll see." She kept a death calendar of all the famous people who perished. When there were only two, she would say to us, "Another one comes tomorrow -- you'll see."

She used to always tell us we would find her dead one day. Those crazy people were going to do her in. She was sure of it. We all blew off these comments. Her constant mantra was, "You'll see." One night/morning, she died in her sleep. We all rushed to the apartment and waited for the proper officials. Through our tears, somebody said, "You'll see" and we all cracked up laughing ... just for a minute.

And One MoreThing

Think of it as brain cells on a 30-seoncd delay. I rarely have a conversation or send an email without thinking of one more thing. My zany grandmother did this and my mother and I have kept it going. We never have one phone call; we call back and say, "Just one more thing..." We also say, "Yes, it's Grandma."

The oldies have a different phone ritual. Anyone who calls is immediately asked, "Do you want to talk to Da/Pop/Gramps?" Everyone is very polite and says yes. I'm guessing they want to say no but I'm in admiration of their manners.

The "one more thing" is usually what you called about in the first place.

Wild Bill

I rarely use names in my postings. This is an exception. Wild Bill was my grandfather, my mother's father.

When I was a child, he flitted in and out of our lives. No one was ever sure where he lived. Once someone figured it out, he had moved again. Then he would just show up on our doorstep and my parents would always take him in.

You know what Robert Frost said, "Home is the place where they have to take you in."

He might stay 2 days or 2 months. He had a gypsy soul and was soon off again.

Everyone seemed to know him. He made friends easily. Age was not a factor. About the time I was finally allowed to attend parties in high school, it was not unusual for me to show up and hear someone say, "Oh, your grandfather was just here."

Wild Bill invented drunk dialing. If he was with friends (and he was always with someone,) he would put them on the phone to talk to you. My mother has accused me of inheriting this gene. She would get so frustrated with him and that's when he nicknamed her "The Prosecutor."

My father had a little more patience. He would allow Wild Bill to work with him or he would often take him fishing. Dad lost more fishing equipment to overturned boats than he would care to remember. Once, Wild Bill ducked behind my dad's truck and Dad ran over him. On the way to the hospital, Wild Bill was moaning and groaning. In a rare moment of zero-compassion, my dad told him to stifle -- he wasn't having a heart attack! After several hours in the emergency room, they informed my Dad that -- you guessed it -- Wild Bill had a heart attack.

He was a skinny wisp of a man. He had a bad eye that he always taped shut with Scotch tape. It was a bizarre look. My dad tells the story of him calling the house, needing a ride, etc. My dad would go to pick him up and he would announce to a bunch of hooligans, "This is my son-in-law and he's going to kick your a**."

Later in life, he worked with the Sheriff's Department and played Popeye for sick children. They would helicopter around the state and bring joy to kids in the various hospitals. As a perpetual kid himself, he was very good at it.

At the end of his life we were called to the hospital repeatedly, always told that he may not make it through the night. He fooled us for months. My parents would go in after the doctor and ask how he was doing. The answer was always "Great!." Finally, my dad asked him if he had understood the doctor's diagnosis. He said, "Well, I know I'm dying but I still feel great."

My grandmother was the love of his life, although they had a twisted and demented relationship. She left him when the children were very young. When he was in the hospital dying, she agreed to see him one more time. He was unconscious, but she visited and talked to him. She reminded him of their fun times together. They had not seen each other in over 30 years.

When he passed away, I didn't believe it for a while. Just like my entire life, I thought he'd pop back in eventually. He must have still had some pull with my grandmother. For no logical or medical reason, she died 5 days later.

Maybe they're in heaven avoiding each other.