I miss my Grandmother
I haven't posted in a long time. This is deeply personal, and probably a bit depressing.
Yesterday was Christmas day. I had gotten out of bed a bit before seven a.m. The plan had been: get up, check the EMail, make breakfast for the husband, open presents, call the relatives, go to church, come home, have a Christmas dinner, and relax all day. Like so many plans, this one didn't follow what life had to throw at me.
The phone rang shortly after seven. The caller ID showed my home. That was.... odd. You see, my dad is in the hospital, and Mom said they would call me from there. My thoughts quickly flashed that there was a problem with dad. "No," I thought, "Mom must have really liked her gift." I answered the phone and received news I hadn't expected. My grandmother had died that morning.
My grandmother was a force to be reckoned with. In person, or over the phone, or in a letter, you could feel the warmth, love, and laughter. I found it amazing that she could tell me about her aches and pains with the same amount of joy she talked about her great grand children. To her, everything was a great blessing.
She thought of others all the time. When I called, I was chastised for calling her. We were chastised for sending gifts. And unlike others I know who have said the same words, I always felt like some kind of disobedient rebel when ever I broke "the rules" and called or sent something.
Growing up, it seemed like I spent one night with her and Grandpa and Great-Grandma every weekend in the summer. We would go to local carnivals, here the band, and eat the food. (My parents sent me a book of photos and news clippings of my Great-Grandmother who passed in 1994 -- so both of these women were on my mind yesterday). If we weren't going to the carnival, Grandma would make chicken corn noodle soup. (Hers was the best in the whole world).
There are so many memories that keep flooding back to me: Her sending me to the garden to harvest saffron, raking the shag carpet in her parlor, massive games of Uno at Thanksgiving with the whole family around a holiday table assembled from many many tables so that everyone could be together. I remember phone calls of her telling me all the local paper had to say about anyone I went to school with (and she seemed to remember them better than I did!)
I think back to the things I didn't do. I remember refusing to play my piano recital piece for her -- I don't remember why, I just remember Mom being really mad at me. I think of all the times I didn't call her, and all the times when I did and was told "Hang up, let me call you back so you don't pay for the long distance."
In my mind I hear her familiar cadence of "Hello, Chris!" from the answering machine, or when I'd answer the phone. She brought such joy into the world -- joy that I find impossible to pay back. Most years for Christmas, I would get her a gift certificate to a favorite restaurant so she and a friend could go out for a nice lunch. She'd always give me a full report on what they had, and when they went (and I would still get told not to get her anything -- in fact I tried to avoid talking to her between the start of the Christmas season, and when I got her gift so if she told me not to get her anything I could tell her it was too late). This year, my husband and I thought we had the perfect gift -- one she wouldn't tell us we shouldn't have done. My second stream of tears yesterday was when Jim realized she never opened the gift.
My plans moved forward yesterday. Presents were opened, phone calls were made, church was attended, Christmas dinner was eaten and enjoyed. Jim asked if I wanted to skip church, and call the Christmas guests and tell them not to come. I said no. I could hear my Grandmother's voice telling me I would be wrong to cancel Christmas on her account. I'm glad her voice rang in my ear. The Christmas service was particularly moving, and Jim and Tucker (our Christmas guest), comforted me a lot. There was crying added to the list tasks. There is still more crying ahead. There is also remembering the joy.
And once the stores open, there will be a big pot of Chicken Soup on the stove. It won't be as good as hers, but it will help me to remember.
I love you Grandma.
Yesterday was Christmas day. I had gotten out of bed a bit before seven a.m. The plan had been: get up, check the EMail, make breakfast for the husband, open presents, call the relatives, go to church, come home, have a Christmas dinner, and relax all day. Like so many plans, this one didn't follow what life had to throw at me.
The phone rang shortly after seven. The caller ID showed my home. That was.... odd. You see, my dad is in the hospital, and Mom said they would call me from there. My thoughts quickly flashed that there was a problem with dad. "No," I thought, "Mom must have really liked her gift." I answered the phone and received news I hadn't expected. My grandmother had died that morning.
My grandmother was a force to be reckoned with. In person, or over the phone, or in a letter, you could feel the warmth, love, and laughter. I found it amazing that she could tell me about her aches and pains with the same amount of joy she talked about her great grand children. To her, everything was a great blessing.
She thought of others all the time. When I called, I was chastised for calling her. We were chastised for sending gifts. And unlike others I know who have said the same words, I always felt like some kind of disobedient rebel when ever I broke "the rules" and called or sent something.
Growing up, it seemed like I spent one night with her and Grandpa and Great-Grandma every weekend in the summer. We would go to local carnivals, here the band, and eat the food. (My parents sent me a book of photos and news clippings of my Great-Grandmother who passed in 1994 -- so both of these women were on my mind yesterday). If we weren't going to the carnival, Grandma would make chicken corn noodle soup. (Hers was the best in the whole world).
There are so many memories that keep flooding back to me: Her sending me to the garden to harvest saffron, raking the shag carpet in her parlor, massive games of Uno at Thanksgiving with the whole family around a holiday table assembled from many many tables so that everyone could be together. I remember phone calls of her telling me all the local paper had to say about anyone I went to school with (and she seemed to remember them better than I did!)
I think back to the things I didn't do. I remember refusing to play my piano recital piece for her -- I don't remember why, I just remember Mom being really mad at me. I think of all the times I didn't call her, and all the times when I did and was told "Hang up, let me call you back so you don't pay for the long distance."
In my mind I hear her familiar cadence of "Hello, Chris!" from the answering machine, or when I'd answer the phone. She brought such joy into the world -- joy that I find impossible to pay back. Most years for Christmas, I would get her a gift certificate to a favorite restaurant so she and a friend could go out for a nice lunch. She'd always give me a full report on what they had, and when they went (and I would still get told not to get her anything -- in fact I tried to avoid talking to her between the start of the Christmas season, and when I got her gift so if she told me not to get her anything I could tell her it was too late). This year, my husband and I thought we had the perfect gift -- one she wouldn't tell us we shouldn't have done. My second stream of tears yesterday was when Jim realized she never opened the gift.
My plans moved forward yesterday. Presents were opened, phone calls were made, church was attended, Christmas dinner was eaten and enjoyed. Jim asked if I wanted to skip church, and call the Christmas guests and tell them not to come. I said no. I could hear my Grandmother's voice telling me I would be wrong to cancel Christmas on her account. I'm glad her voice rang in my ear. The Christmas service was particularly moving, and Jim and Tucker (our Christmas guest), comforted me a lot. There was crying added to the list tasks. There is still more crying ahead. There is also remembering the joy.
And once the stores open, there will be a big pot of Chicken Soup on the stove. It won't be as good as hers, but it will help me to remember.
I love you Grandma.