Grandpa

On Sunday I had a call from my Mom.  She was concerned about my Grandpa, who advised her and Dad on Friday that he ‘can’t do this anymore’.  His appetite had been non-existent for weeks.  So I chopped up apples and made up my apple crisp and down we went at 4pm. 

This turned out to be a special night for me.  As soon as  we arrived I went in to see Grandpa.  I reached out and put my young hand on his old hand and waited.  The room was warm and dimly lit with only the light from his chair stand.  His eyes were faded and far away and I waited until they slowly focused and began to see me. 

I told him I’d come to see him, that I’d brought my apple crisp.  He nodded and gathered himself and said “I miss her too much” as he twisted his wedding band.  My throat locked up and I took a deep breath as he continued and advised me in low gravely words, his eyes glancing away, “You’re Marji’s oldest girl.  I’m sorry but I am too tired for company. Thank you for coming by.”

I nodded, acknowledging his dismissal.... but I was determined not to push and to push at the same time.  I smiled at him sideways, appealing to him as much as I could, “Maybe you could come out in a little while and try a little of my apple crisp.  ...I made it for you.” I stood up only when I saw an infinitesimal nod that meant 'perhaps'...  but less promising was the click of the door that he stood to shut behind me.

I had put the apple dish in the oven when we first walked in and it was nearly done when dinner was done too.  When the smell of apple, cinnamon , nutmeg and brown sugar was intoxicating the house,  I heard his bedroom door click open and looked over to see my Grandpa standing there watching.

I had a moment.  There was my grey, faded and so thin Grandpa slowly straightening until he was the dark haired dashing man in the old photos I like to look at.  He knew he was dashing, he knew who he was, what he thought and for all his gruffness there was a wealth of intuition and kindness.

And then the moment passed and there was Grandpa again.  Clear sharp old eyes, eyes that saw how much I really wanted to see him once more and he asked aloud if he could have some of the apple crisp I had made for him.

We visited, we talked, we looked at pictures, he ate every single drop of sugar and apple, he told me I had some sense and teased me about my crooked front tooth. He reminded me how important it is to write down dates on my favorite pictures because someday, the summers would mix into each other and one could no longer be sure of when it was taken.

Reader, a while ago, in April of 2008 there was another moment with him.  I went in to visit with my Grandmother.  Her health was badly declined but she had Always rallied for visits with me.  As I had done so many times before, I knelt at her chair, I took her hand and I began to tell her a silly story about my Sally, or Daisy as she had liked to call my dog.

But she did not know me.  She could not come back from the world her faded eyes were looking into.  I was so caught by surprise I froze, in a child like panic, distraught and nearly in tears, I was ready to plead she see me –when my gruff Grandpa, a man I’d always been a bit wary of… reached over, patted my shoulder and said “Come visit with me child”, saving me from my embarrassing distress with his compassion.  

We started a conversation and I had the pleasure, for the first time, of really conversing with my Grandpa.  And since this moment, even after Grandmother's passing, this would happen again and again, we would talk about the people he knew, about the world as it was then and is now, about things I do (sports) and places we had seen.  We never had a serious or life changing conversation; but simple sunny, easy and breathing ones. 

Then, this last February, 2010, we celebrated his ninety fifth birthday.  He was excited to see all of us and so happy we were there.  He grinned and laughed quietly... but after that evening he has slowly gone away.  Throughout this year I see him less on visits and when I did, we talked very little and sometimes I felt he didn't see me at all.

Until this last Sunday, when he reached out and ‘patted’ my shoulder and let me talk with him again.  May I remember his grace Reader. May I be mindful of his kindness and hold on to the honor of being related to someone so insightful and gentle to me.

The Summer with Grandpa (2012)

I promise...

In three weeks and not one second more, this time of silenced hands and muted touch will flower to an end.  I will give to myself one day of entire day dreaming. 

One day of paint, wet and smooth, paint that will turn, that will become dry and caked; it will come off my fingers in flaking sighs of relief.  Dead skin dying and peeling back to let clean cells breath.  This panting heat of suppressed thoughts and coughing imagination will at last inhale the cool tender touch of a beloved friend who has been asked to wait, just to wait, just a little longer a little too long.

In three weeks I will create and gulp in the fragrant air of life and my art.

Unexpected Friend

Panting I press the button that increases the speed, the resistance level. The rhythmic sound of machines and feet is semi drowned out by my headphones. Next to me, I eavesdrop as an old man with a deep voice talks to a young man. His story telling voice mentions something about being grateful to be here, to be out of the struggle in the Sudan.

I glance up at the overhead television and the flashing pictures of Middle Eastern chaos. I am grateful too, I think. Without meaning to, I glance at him. He catches my eye, he nods to me and to himself. I smile back.

Somewhere around half way through, I realize he is struggling to keep going and that somehow we have established solidarity. He needs to stop to rest, to breath, to mop sweat from his silver white hair, before he can keep going. When he pauses, his thin arms shaking, he looks over at my machine's display. I pull the towel back from covering the summary, showing the level and time remaining. He nods again and continues.

For the last ten minutes I max out the level of resistance and push through as my heart flops like a soggy tomato in my chest, desperate to escape. I close my eyes in the last two and focus on just breathing, just moving. I am relieved as it mellows out in the ‘cool down’ and the setting automatically kicks down the level. Soon I can hear over the roaring blood in my hands.

I get to the end and remember my gym ‘friend’ and look over. He has made it too. He smiles at me and says quietly, “It is good. Good.” I smile back and go my own way.

Dreaming

EEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk..... The banging of loose ropes drumming the sides of this wooden ship is the only sound carried by the waves and wind. It staggers, heavy and creaking, through what is left of the wild storm.

Using my practiced sea legs I make it from one side of the lonely deck to the other.... where is everyone?

In the cabin I find a woman with long black hair wrapped in purple curled up on a bench, hands tucked under her. Beside her on the floor lies a tan and white dog who appears to be sleeping. Her lashes curl prettily along her high cheek bones but her exotic beauty is tempered by her ice white skin. She will not be waking. I leave them untouched in their permanent slumber.

What happened here? I search the rest of the ship. Gold coins lie scattered below deck, the hull is still sound but there isn't another soul but mine on board. The sky above is lit with the flames of clouds and dusk blended by the reflection of far off rain. The first stars study me on the horizon. I look back without understanding.

There are words in the wind behind me and I turn to see the faded translucent image of the girl and her dog standing behind me, her words scratch at my ears like a distressed kitten at a friendly hand, “What happened?”

The Wind Woman has come for her and she catches the girl up, jerking back her pleading hand before my puzzled solid voice can reply.

My dreams are my favorite part of sleeping. I love feeling rested and relaxed but I really love dreaming. Sometimes my anticipation is a little nerve-racking, especially when I have had a good set of nights in a row.

Skiing

Last winter we had a whole whooping two days on snow but my drill instructor danced down the ridges with me, repeatedly shouting, "Turn! Hands forward, drive with your hands! Turn again!" etc.

The result was that I graduated from easy greens to easy blues in those two days.

This year I was a grinning little kid as we packed up our car and drove up the mountain. Excited isn't the right word for my anticipation. Thrilled, giddy, silly; these might be better descriptive words.

What I lack in skills I more than make up for in enthusiasm. There are very few outdoor sports I have mastered.  Even hiking poises risks. I have the attention span of a gnat and it’s only a matter of time before I twist an ankle going down a hill because of my lack of attention.

But skiing is fantastic; bitter cold, blinding sunshine, millions of layers, and my upside down cartwheels in the snow when I missed the turn -! There aren't words for the fluttering fear and exhilaration as I study a 'steeper hill then usual' and conquer it with only a couple of good falls. Hyperventilating and triumphant I speed forward, stretching my arms and fingers out to catch the wind.

I love living.