Was It Today? Remembering Grandma Mary

Was it today?*  I can’t remember.  If not, it was close to today, the day my Grandma Mary died back in 2000.  I was in the process of winding down my part in the law practice, off to seminary and the grand adventure of becoming a pastor.

I never had to solve the conundrum of what to tell Grandma (staunch Church of Christ, women cannot, cannot, cannot, be pastors) I was up to.

She was 87 when she died, but it feels like we got caught in mid-conversation – an abrupt end it seems still.  Her hip, ailing her for years, finally gave way and she was to have surgery – the thing she had delayed and denied and angrily forged past for a very long time until there was no more time.  We talked on the phone and I was on my way there after work, but Grandma tricked us all – she was like that – and died before she could get to the operating table.  Mary had her way to the very end – no surgery for her.

If I told you that she was buried in a body bag – by prearrangement – you might intuit quite a bit about this bestower of genetic materials and cultural, moral and familial ways I lay claim to.  You’d know a lot, but you wouldn’t know it all.

You wouldn’t know that her life-long dream of singing at the Grand Ole’ Opry was never to be but still brought her great pleasure to think about.  You wouldn’t know that she loved to travel and flew like a bird any time someone, anyone, suggested a trip.  You wouldn’t know that this West Virginia gal from the back woods talked with her husband about joining the Peace Corps in their middle age.  She was a big dreamer, my Grandma.  I like that about her.  If you got to meet her, you would have too.

I miss her, but I don’t worry about her – she’s in some pretty good hands.

Happy birthday, Grandma.

Love, Beth


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Actually, it was November 30, 2000 when Grandma died.  Her 87th birthday would have been December 2 of that same year (or was it December 3?  My Grandma actually had two different birth certificates, so I’m sticking with the 2nd.  My mother will set me straight if I got it wrong).

For a Friend Saying Good-bye to a Grandmother

Grammie, Grandma, Nana, Mimi, Ooma, Grum, Gran, Grandmother . . . know them or not, we all have them – those wonderful women who made us possible.  As a Gran myself now who long ago said her own good-byes to the ones who came before, I remember why I loved them so . . .

A grandmother is someone . . .

whose face lights up just because your face is in the frame . . .

who never forgets your birthday – chances are she was there . . .

who makes things just for you and saves them until you get there . . .

who stands on the porch and waves her good-byes and throws her kisses right into your heart . . .

who is always there – whether you’re thinking of her or not, she’s thinking of you . . .

who smells of magic – and cinnamon – and cookie dough – and love . . .

who will travel on airplanes even though she’s afraid to fly, just to come take care of you when you are sick . . .

who always has treats in her purse and never minds you digging around to see what you can find . . .

who, no matter how old she is, defends you against the world and all its bullies . . .

who laughs delightedly at your jokes and patiently listens to you read and claps at all your school performances . . .

who saves every letter you ever send her . . .

who never holds your mistakes against you, for she has lived long and seen much . . .

A grandmother is a best friend wrapped in an apron, salted with grey hair and etched with the lines of laughter down which have traveled the track of tears . . .

and her handprints are all over you . . . for as long as you’re here, you wear her love like armor and carry her gift of acceptance like a fine jewel in your heart.

Mothering God, I thank you for the grandmothers.

Amen.

Grandma

hands chapped from washing
wrinkled hand resting on the
ever-aching hip
walking, moving, never still
worn Bible covered with red
contact paper on the table beside
her chair
stubborn (I come by it honest)
loving to set on her porch and
visit with the old folks of
the family
cinnamon-rolls in the morning
maker
terrified of snakes – funny for
such a country girl –
never learning to drive –
funny for such an independent
girl who swore in later life
that she never needed nobody
thin-lipped when angry
silent in her punishment –
maybe the loudest silence
I’ve ever heard
I hated Grandma in old age –
not her, but what it did to her –
everything started to break
some days she looked like
a robot she had so many
screws and rods sticking out
of her
how she loved to sing
The Grand Old Oprey her
dream – I think Mom’s
right - she’s singing now
for sure – alto clear and strong
I hope she knows now that
existence isn’t all work –
that there’s play for her too,
the wee girl who got switched
the day her older siblings
(I still secretly hold this against
them – dead, every one)
dared her to dance
Well, Grandma, there’s no more
switches and I sure hope you
learned to dance to that music
you’re makin – loving you still,
I am


____________________
November 30, 2000 –
Yesterday, just short of her 87th birthday,
Mary Edra Tennant went to be with her Lord
before I could come and say good-bye
in person - she didn’t make it to the
surgery and I was coming, Grandma,
I was coming.  How I wish you could
have waited just a little while longer.

When Shirley Died

More than twenty years ago, and more than ten years after the fact, I wrote about the death of my grandfather, Shirley Francis Pyles.  It was written at a time when his wife, my Grandma Mary still lived and I was far from being a grandmother myself.  As I look back, I realize I have for some years lived longer without Grandpa than with him.  It is a startling revelation.  For some time, a family is gathered around the bed of their dying mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Edna Mae.  Ministering to them and coming across what I wrote back then makes me think on my own times of loss, of family gathered around a bedside.

When Shirley Died

How well I still remember Grandpa’s dying, much more than his funeral.  What a time.  Grandpa died slowly and held on to each struggling breath even at the last.  I know because I was there.  We all were: a family sleeping in hospital chairs, I on the floor outside his room.

Looking back, I’m not even sure why I was there; but at the time, I knew it was important.  Not to Grandpa – he was asleep.  That’s how I think of it, anyway.  But to Grandma and my dad, there was no question of where I would be, so there I was.

How startled I was at his funeral.  The casket was open.  The service was comforting to some, not to others, as those things always seem to go.  But at the end, it suddenly occurred to me as I saw the men from the funeral home striding up the church aisle, that the casket lid would be closed on Grandpa as we sat there and watched.  

Up to that moment in my life, I thought I was strong.  In that instant as the lid came down, however, I wanted to scream, to run, to cry out, "No!"  But I was Grandma’s girl.  I said nothing, did nothing, allowing only the pressure of my fingertips in Mom’s arm to give me away – our little secret.

Whether time brings wisdom or not, I do not know.  But I do know that I can look back and understand that Grandma needed to see the lid close, needed the finality of that good-bye.  The more I think on it, the more I think we all need such simple and final good-byes in our lives.

Every time I leave Grandma’s house, she stands at the porch, the inevitable dish rag in hand, and waves good-bye.  Even after she’s gone, that’s how I will always see her.  And as I watch the next generation grow, I picture myself as somebody’s grandma.  I wonder if my granddaughter will pause and watch me standing on the porch and waving goodbye.*


_________________
*I have become the grandmother I imagined I would someday be.  It is a grandson, beautiful Rowen, who sees me waving now and I wonder if somehow, he sees the shadow behind me of my grandmother waving us all on.  I know I do.

Communion is like . . . Sundays at Grandmas

As an exercise thinking about communion, we were invited to think about the best dinner party we’ve ever attended and how that experience might be like God’s presence in our lives.

I love to cook and used to entertain a lot – not so much anymore – but of all the fine meals shared with good friends over the years, my own favorite meal experience has to be Sundays at Grandma’s house on a summer day when I was a little girl.

The food was a buffet of everything on hand, so along with ham, there might be pork chops. . . mashed potatoes and home-made noodles in chicken broth might be side by side . . . there was always enough and more besides.

The kids went first, getting through the line so the adults could actually sit down to the table.  Grace was always said first, but I have to admit that I viewed that more as the starting bell for the race than as a spiritual encounter with my Lord.  As soon as the Amen was sounded – only after what always seemed like an interminably long prayer – like horses out of the gate, we kids grabbed our plates and made our way jostling around the table – even though our heads knew there was plenty for all, somehow our bellies never believed it.

Cousin Mike & me begging my Dad for something -
probably ice cream

After we wolfed down our food sitting outside on the porch, we’d start pleading with the adults who had barely had time to get food on their plates to make homemade ice cream.  (Read about my adventures in ice cream at I Know Ice Cream ).

Being shooed away, we’d hurry back outside to play only to come back in and start the begging all over again, a cycle that repeated itself countless times until finally, it was time to make the ice cream.

Already stuffed from dinner, we’d challenge each other to see who could eat the most.  And this after the watermelon had been brought out and joyfully eaten (I prefer mine with salt - this was always the subject of much discussion among the cousins) and seeds spit the farthest and rinds tossed into the hay field – mine never went very far, but the arc they made was always satisfying, as if we had mastered some great mystery of engineering by tossing our dross aside.

After the adults had had a little time to rest and catch up, the younger ones would trudge onto the latest field of battle . . . badminton was a perpetual favorite.  Imaginary lines were drawn in the grass establishing boundaries; rackets were tested and when found wanting, traded to the unsuspecting younger ones (in my family, contests take no prisoners); and somehow, the decision as to who played first and who waited their turn was sorted out.

Chastity, Ben, Chad and Darin
gathering for supper

I don’t remember exactly when I was old enough to take a seat at the grown-up table or when I became one of those first on the field of play rather than last – but I do remember looking back at my younger cousins and feeling delight at leaving them behind.

As the sun started to lower in the evening sky, everyone would be gathered on the porch and sitting in the grass – adults talking about sickness and worries and teasing about when they were young and kids bopping up and down randomly as one then another would have another burst of energy.

Then one or two would announce, “I’m hungry,” and amble off to the kitchen for a supper of leftovers still waiting on the kitchen table.

Supper found us less organized, more mixed – adults and kids – as we determined our own level of hunger and sought help from the nearest relative as parents continued rocking on the porch in contentment that their own were off their hands for a moment or two.

I suspect I’m not alone in feeling different from other people – and that goes for my family as well.  But different as each of us are from the other, we are nevertheless known, connected, cared for, and at that table we gathered around, over and under, welcomed not as guest, but as one whose presence is taken for granted and whose absence would be noticed.

I don’t think I could describe my own connection with God any better: I am known by God and my presence at God’s table is taken for granted and my absence would be noticed.  And like the little kid I was at supper, whether it’s the one I expect or not, someone will always be there to help me navigate the table when I am too small to reach.

Grandma* Gone Bad

Three maple donuts
                                                  
Half a bag of cotton candy

Two hot dogs – with bun – and ketchup

One Mountain Dew

Two pancakes - with maple syrup

One brownie

One capri-sun

This beautiful woman is who Rowen
should have had for a grandmother -
she looks kind, but I can just tell that
she knows how to say ‘no’ to cotton
candy . . . and maple donuts . . .
and pop tarts (especially pop
tarts) . . . well, you get the picture.
Creative Commons:  by Jane Rahman

Countless glasses of juice - mango/peach

Two pop tarts

One Pepsi

Popcorn - with lots of butter & salt to offset all the sugar

And did I mention the maple ice cream?

In 38 hours, I managed to avoid pretty much all the major food groups when feeding my grandson.  In my defense, it was Maple Festival weekend and fair food was pretty much the order of the day.  And who can say no to a charming 4-year-old who has never before experienced cotton candy?  Not me!

So if you want to know how to get what you want out of me - state secrets and all – skip the waterboarding and splinters under the fingernails and just send in the grandson.  I’m putty in his hands.

_______________
*Actually, in my case, the name is ‘Gran’

Hard Good-Byes

I’m big on good-byes.  I really don’t know why, because they’re so hard; but I have always felt that good-byes, literal, in-person partings, matter.  I'm the Mom who stands waving until you're out of sight, even to the point of running from the back door to the front to see you up the highway with a smile on my face and tears in my eyes -- Shakespeare knew what he was talking about -- it really is sweet sorrow.

I’ve experienced comical partings, as when I said good-bye to a summer co-worker and friend, Molly, at the train station.  Molly is young enough to be my daughter.  Even though we had only known each other for a short time, as the train pulled out, I broke down sobbing.  A sympathetic man asked, “Your daughter?”  Still sobbing, all I could manage was a choked “No!”  I’ve always worried about that poor man who must have thought all sorts of horrible thoughts, having no idea that I’m just a big cry baby when it comes to good-byes.

And like all of us, I’ve experienced the heart-breaking good-byes: saying farewell to friends and family as they were dying.  Being there, being able to have the recognition observed between us that this really is a good-bye mattered; hard as it was, I always knew I was where I should be.

But perhaps the hardest good-bye of all wasn’t my own, but one I witnessed.

I didn’t know it would be, but it was the last time I saw my Grandma Mary.  I had taken my son Ben to see her at the nursing home where she was an unwilling resident.

We said our good-byes at the front door where Grandma had walked with us.  I had taken a few steps towards the front door, where the sun was streaming through the glass.  Then I turned back.

Grandma was holding onto Ben, her arms around his waist, clinging to him as if she were clinging to life itself.  Under the protection of his embrace, she was so small.

Ben’s face was full of sadness; Grandma’s, determination: if she just held on to him tight enough, he would carry her out of there and away from her broken body.  All her strength of will, always considerable, was locked in that hug.

And just for a moment, the two of them were melded together – one.

I have often thought that walking away from her was one of the hardest things Ben ever did.

All good-byes are hard, some more so than others.   And some catch us unawares.

But somehow, they all matter.