Deflate.
My grandmother died this morning.
Unlike the death of my grandfather, this is an altogether complicated and flustered situation, so I don't know what to write here.
Until I do, here is an old essay I wrote about her.
Bluegrass With a Poker Face
For three years in a row, I drove my grandparents out past Sterling, New York to a small town the size of a quarter note, nestled next to a big white church of white shingles and warped windows. They had been going to see Andy Planko's band at various festivals for over 50 years, but when Andy got too old for the bumps in the road, he settled himself into a concert circuit that involved one annual church-potluck acoustic session. My grandparents refused to give up their yearly Planko, so we piled into the car and headed toward Sterling.
Snug in a plastic lawn chair, propped up against a divot in the grass, my grandmother let the music fleck over her in a wave of calm. Usually a fairly bristling woman, she'd forget the bite in her tongue and lean back to tap her fingers to the side of her soda can, sneaking breaks from singing along to take sugary sips. Bluegrass had a way of calming down her finer edges and reminding her of the warm summery things of life. Bluegrass brings her back to her roots in a way that makes her skin itch with the phantom pangs of digging toes into soil and the tickle of wildflowers against the tender part of the calf hidden beneath the knee. It sets her free to forget anything but the sound of those strings plucking, tucking notes to settle out in front of her. She'd lean against my leg to tell me the backstory to the songs or some memory she had of Grandpa at previous concerts. As they were a very popular couple, folks would stroll by beaming of how happy they were to see them, and my grandmother would lean back sated, puffing her chest like a bird of show and humming along with a soft smile.
The summer after my grandfather died, my grandmother decided she still wanted to take the trip. In the car she was more fidgety, adjusting the knobs on the air conditioner and pulling at the straps of her seat belt. Her hair even seemed to feel the effects of her tension as it coiled above her ears in anxious ringlets. On the lawn, we sat farther away from the crowd than usual and when people greeted us and asked where my grandfather was, my grandmother sucked her bottom lip in for support and gave them brief details of his equally brief passing.
She did a good job with the delivery. She dealt a fine hand of held smiles and declarations of doing fine; but it all lies in the subtleties of a passion wounded. When Andy started playing her songs, my grandmother did not tap her fingers and did not swing her feet, but her hands did shake a little when bringing up the soda can to that bottom lip.
(taken at above mentioned concert)
Unlike the death of my grandfather, this is an altogether complicated and flustered situation, so I don't know what to write here.
Until I do, here is an old essay I wrote about her.
Bluegrass With a Poker Face
For three years in a row, I drove my grandparents out past Sterling, New York to a small town the size of a quarter note, nestled next to a big white church of white shingles and warped windows. They had been going to see Andy Planko's band at various festivals for over 50 years, but when Andy got too old for the bumps in the road, he settled himself into a concert circuit that involved one annual church-potluck acoustic session. My grandparents refused to give up their yearly Planko, so we piled into the car and headed toward Sterling.
Snug in a plastic lawn chair, propped up against a divot in the grass, my grandmother let the music fleck over her in a wave of calm. Usually a fairly bristling woman, she'd forget the bite in her tongue and lean back to tap her fingers to the side of her soda can, sneaking breaks from singing along to take sugary sips. Bluegrass had a way of calming down her finer edges and reminding her of the warm summery things of life. Bluegrass brings her back to her roots in a way that makes her skin itch with the phantom pangs of digging toes into soil and the tickle of wildflowers against the tender part of the calf hidden beneath the knee. It sets her free to forget anything but the sound of those strings plucking, tucking notes to settle out in front of her. She'd lean against my leg to tell me the backstory to the songs or some memory she had of Grandpa at previous concerts. As they were a very popular couple, folks would stroll by beaming of how happy they were to see them, and my grandmother would lean back sated, puffing her chest like a bird of show and humming along with a soft smile.
The summer after my grandfather died, my grandmother decided she still wanted to take the trip. In the car she was more fidgety, adjusting the knobs on the air conditioner and pulling at the straps of her seat belt. Her hair even seemed to feel the effects of her tension as it coiled above her ears in anxious ringlets. On the lawn, we sat farther away from the crowd than usual and when people greeted us and asked where my grandfather was, my grandmother sucked her bottom lip in for support and gave them brief details of his equally brief passing.
She did a good job with the delivery. She dealt a fine hand of held smiles and declarations of doing fine; but it all lies in the subtleties of a passion wounded. When Andy started playing her songs, my grandmother did not tap her fingers and did not swing her feet, but her hands did shake a little when bringing up the soda can to that bottom lip.
(taken at above mentioned concert)