The Fabric of Our Lives

Today I spent most of the day running...errands, and scrubbing floors, and whittling down piles, and retrieving laundry from the basement, but mostly I ran from thinking about the significance of the day. 

Today, would have been my grandmother's 97th birthday.  She died on October 21, 2011 and I really thought I was fine with that.  She was 95 and had lived a long life.  She and I didn't have what I would consider to be a close relationship mainly because I had to share her with 35 other grandkids.  Much of what I know of her I gained from observing her.  

This is what I know...she was a giver.  Although she came from very modest means, she always made sure each and every one of her 10 children and 36 grandchildren received birthday cards and Christmas cards with money inside.  A devout Catholic, she faithfully tithed and for many years lent her quilting skills to create woven works of art for dozens of church raffles.

She was an empathetic soul...After she died, we discovered a stack of prayer cards six inches thick, representing a lifetime of funerals she had attended for friends and loved ones.

She was a wiz in the kitchen...Thank goodness she passed down her pie baking skills to her daughters.  They are now all gifted at making the flakiest crusts.  

She was green before it was ever popular...Empty Cool Whip containers could be washed and reused for storing leftovers and Pringles cans made excellent piggy banks.

She didn't hold grudges...I think part of her secret to living such a long life was that she had an enormous capacity for accepting people as they were and she was able to forgive those who may have hurt or wronged her.

Lastly, she always wore dresses.  In 95 years...she never owned a pair of slacks.  She grew up on a farm and all of her clothes were made by her mother who later taught her to sew.  She passed down her sewing skills to her own daughters, who in later years, helped keep her clothed the way she prefered, by making her simple cotton dresses to wear. 

When she passed she did not own many items that would traditionally be considered as valuable.  Apart from the Jesus plate (you know the one with eyes that seem to follow you) she always had hanging in her dining room, I have a few of her favorite every day dresses.  For nearly two years those dresses sat neatly folded in a bag in the bottom of my closet.  That is until I decided that Grandma Marie, the thriftiest woman I ever knew, would not be happy that her clothing was not being put to use.  Since I didn't intend on wearing them, I decided the next best thing to do would be to repurpose them.  I found Betty with Little B Bears on Etsy.  She helped me turn Grandma's dresses into three, adorable, patchwork bears.  I gave one to my Mom for Mother's Day and another to my sister for her birthday.  To me, they are a physical reminder for how Grandma remains a part of the very fabric of each one of her children, grandchildren and even her great grandchildren's lives.  I hope that I can one day leave such a legacy.

I'd Rather Talk About Sex

A couple weeks ago I attended a visitation for my friend's father.  Upon returning home from the funeral parlor Noah told me, "Mom, if it get's dangerous I'll just be sure not to leave home without my lightsaber.  And, if I die I'll come back as a Jedi ghost and I'll have my lightsaber with me and I'll never die."

Death is not an easy subject for kids to grasp, but it's 100 times tougher for kids on the Autism spectrum.  While I want Noah to understand the permanence of death, in that moment, I held my tongue and discovered I'd rather talk to him about sex than mortality.

I was about Noah's age the first time I experienced the death of a loved one.  I lost my paternal grandparents in a span of six weeks.  And, although that was 30 years ago, tears still stream freely down my cheeks as I recall that time.  Grandma was just 67 years old and died after spending more than a month in I.C.U due to injuries she incurred from being hit by a car.  I still remember the night of the accident.  I didn't cry because that would have meant I'd given up on ever seeing her again.  Instead, upon learning she'd been hurt, I went to my room and got on my knees and began praying...though it was more like begging.  I pleaded for God to let her be OK.  I would do whatever He asked of me.  I would be good. I promised.  I may have even suggested that I'd be willing to become a nun if he would just allow her to live.

While my parents visited her regularly, I did not, as I was told children were not allowed in the I.C.U.  The next time I would see her would be in a casket. She passed away on January 31, 1982...my 10th birthday.  I'd never seen a dead person before.  I looked at her sleeping face and concentrated hard on her waxy figure.  Struggling with the reality of the situation, my eyes began playing tricks on me.  I rushed up to my mom and whispered, "I think I just saw her chest move."

I was so sure there had been a mistake.  My mom looked into my worried face and gently explained that I only thought I saw her move because my grief was so great.  I wasn't convinced and went back to check on her again.  Months later, I shared how angry I was at not being able to see her in the hospital.  I believed that if I'd been given the chance to talk to her, that she would have fought harder.

During the time grandma was in the hospital, grandpa stayed with us. While grandma was boisterous and chatty and knew no strangers, grandpa was quiet, gentle and put a lot of thought into his words before he spoke.  He taught me to play checkers and how to make cracker and cheese towers.  He was also diabetic and had poor eye sight, balance and circulation.  But, his health, never stopped him from traveling the country with grandma via Bi-State.  That is, until her accident.  The longer she remained in the hospital, the less interested grandpa became in games and in consuming my creations of saltines and salami with Philly cream cheese.  I watched as my mother began tending to his leg sores more frequently.  Bathing his bruised, discolored feet in Epsom salts soon became a daily routine.

We had to wait a week to bury grandma because Mother Nature had recently dumped three and a half feet of snow onto an already frozen surface.   The day of her funeral I sat in a folding chair, shivering under a red and black plaid, fleece blanket with my parents and siblings next to me. The words of the clergyman were far away and hollow-sounding to my ears.  He didn't know grandma personally and to this day I can't recall a single word from his generic benediction. That afternoon at home, dad and grandpa began arguing.  It was a sight I'd never witnessed before.  What happened next, would forever be branded into my long term memory.  Dad had had enough talk and simply lifted his father in his arms and carried him to our family car.  Grandpa wept like a child and begged his son to let him stay while I obediently followed dad outside and numbly opened the passenger door for him.  After they left, mom explained that grandpa was very sick and needed to be in the hospital. His feet were dying.

At first, the doctors only removed a few toes, but within a couple of weeks, grandpa lost part of his leg.  We also learned that he had cancer.  Every Sunday my parents would take us to visit him.  My  sister and I spent most of our time in the rec room drawing pictures to cover up the sterile walls of grandpa's room.  Each time we returned, he seemed smaller and less connected to the here and now.  Mom explained that he was on heavy painkillers.  However, when we visited him on March 14th, he was alert and even joked with us.  For the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful that he would be back home with us very soon.  But, when I waggled my finger at grandpa for snatching a few shamrock-shaped cookies mom had brought for us to snack on, I heard, "Andrea, he can have a few.  It won't hurt him," said Mom.  Her permissive words didn't sit well with me and hinted at something grim to come. Grandpa died a few days later.  Though his death certificate states cancer as the cause of death, I believe he actually died from a broken heart.

Today, I am the same age my only-child dad was when he buried both of his parents.  I can't even begin to fathom the grief, he was left to shoulder. I struggle with how to explain death to my children in a way that is real, but also hopeful and provides comfort rather than an increase in anxiety and nightmares.  Also, who am I to tell Noah lightsabers aren't allowed in heaven.

With Loving Hands

Today is my grandmother’s birthday.  She passed away last October at the age of 95.  She was a spunky lady who raised 10 children and had 36 grandchildren and 28 great grandchildren. 

She even shared her birthday with her granddaughter, Molly and her great-grandson, Nick.  Happy Birthday Molly and Nick!

With Loving Hands

My grandmother’s hands were colossal to my preschooler eyes.
Thick, knobby digits marked by years of weathering
They tickled the ivories on Christmas Day.
Jingle Bells and Silent Night were favorites 
Strong and familiar
They once washed my newborn skin and made me boloney and mustard sandwiches.
A blur of activity
Palms doubled as measuring cups with fingertips for teaspoons.
They rolled, punched and produced a bit of heaven from flour and lard.
No blue ribbons sought
Her handiwork reserved for feeding an army of kin.
Family squabbles forgotten momentarily
Goodness spread with each airy morsel consumed
They threaded countless needles to create quilted heirlooms
Scraps of colorful fabrics elaborately embroidered
She inherited her mother’s green thumb
Flowering plants and tomatoes thrived under her care
They clapped for me when I blew out candles or donned a cap and gown
They embraced me when I said “I do” or shared news of a baby’s arrival
They counted my newborn’s toes
Her touch skilled at quieting the fussiest infants
I see them folded peacefully across her chest
Her legacy now lies at the end of my own arms
I recognize them.

Grandma shows her granddaughter, Marie, how to make biscuits