My Grandma didn't smile!

I gingerly approached my grandmother’s casket, not wanting to see her so old and frail, not at all the strong woman that I remembered from my youth.  Her snow white hair was styled just as she liked it, the loving work of a cousin that had done so for many years of Gram’s life.  The hands were clearly hers, gnarled as they clutched a crisp cotton handkerchief.  Those hands had prepared man wondrous meals for her family, quilted countless blankets, both played and taught the piano to unknown numbers of students, but would be most remembered (at least by me) for her obsession with picking every speck of lint off of the carpet. 

                The similarities ended there – the eyes closed in repose were sunken and hollow, the skin around them smoothed and softened.  Gram’s eyes had always been framed with soft folds and deep set wrinkles, the lids tucking into themselves around her bright eyes.  I remember her eyes as a steel grey color, although to be honest, I’m not sure what color they actually were.  Those eyes were both piercing and gentle, depending what you had done to earn her gaze.

                This woman, the one that they had placed in my grandmother’s casket, had high cheekbones and hollow cheeks with a wide smile.  I knew that it couldn’t be Gram, because my grandma didn’t smile!

                Oh, she did.  In her own way, but certainly not like this.  Gram had thin lips that I had always felt sympathy for, lipstick addict that I am.  Her smile was short and tight lipped, with full cheeks even when she had lost the girth of her middle age and shriveled to an elderly woman. 

                I understand the ravages of time.  The vibrant young woman pictured at the guest table as we entered the funeral home was gone long before I was born.  Her eyes smoldered, her smooth skin milky and radiant.  Gone, too, was the young mother who sat regally in family photos, coifed and made up, surrounded by her 7 children, ranging in age from young adults to mere babies.

                My Gram, the one that existed when I was young, had a healthy midsection.  Years of her own delicious meals had contributed heavily, as had her demand that nothing to go waste – even if she had to eat it herself.  She wore lipstick, on those thin little lips, and perhaps mascara and some “rouge”.  Groomed, but not overly so, her one indulgence was the regular visit to our cousin that kept her hair up for her.  She regularly wore dresses, long after it was the expectation to do so. 

                Through the years, I saw the damage that time and gravity can inflect on a body.  Her high cheeks became more jowly, and her skin thinned out and began to develop lines around the eyes and along her hairline.  Her hair faded and thinned, eventually becoming cottony floss.  Her body thinned out as well, as her appetite shrank and she no longer cooked for a family.  As I grew taller, she seemed to shrink, her bones succumbing to the pressure of living on planet earth. 

                This, I understood, and yet, I was aghast at how she appeared in death.  Unable to accept this representation of my Gram, I left without saying goodbye. 

                In later discussion with the family, I learned of the mortician’s signature style of presentation – preparing the body for burial with a peaceful smile. To me, it was reminiscent of the old adage, “never speak ill of the dead.”  He was painting a lovely picture of the departed, without regard to the life that they had lived.

                My grandmother was a saint, but she was not saintly.  She was valiant in her faith and almost fanatic in her desire to follow the commandments.  Her strict adherence to rules made her sometimes harsh with her family and occasionally judgmental with others.   Not in the least shy, the nickname “Marge in Charge” didn’t begin to describe the way that she managed those around her. 

                Lest you think that I am being disrespectful, these are the facts of her life, at least as I saw them.  She was also a wonderful cook that welcomed anyone into her home and fed them well when they were there.  She lovingly cared for a son with muscular dystrophy, giving him every opportunity to live life to the fullest, even before t hose with disabilities were invited to do so. 

                It is all of these things that I want to remember.  Good and bad, joy and tears.  To gloss over the imperfections is to lose sight of the full dimensional being that she was.  The angelic looking woman broadly smiling from the casket with smooth skin in no way resembled the woman that I had come to honor. 

                It wasn’t until they had closed the casket and we had arrived at her burial place that I felt the desire to approach and tell her goodbye.  The dedication was given and the funeral director had invited the family to a luncheon back at the church.  The crowd was thinning; young children bouncing down the hill, dodging headstones, the elderly being lead gingerly by friends and family. 

                The pink casket glimmering in the sun, adorned with a lovely spray of rosy flowers interspersed with brilliant white blooms was, for the first time, alone.  A few feet away, the ground opened up, ready to envelope her.  Her headstone, shared with my grandfather, had been engraved years before with her name and birth date.  She had been anxious to join her sweetheart of 60+ years.  Now, his vault was clearly visible in the rectangular hole.  Hers would be beside his, and obscured from our view in a matter of minutes.

                “Goodbye, my grandma,” I whispered, my hand placed lightly next to the flowers, my head as near the lid as I could lean.

                A tiny hand touched me, my five year old standing beside me.  “What are you doing?”  He asked, no doubt aware of the tears that had finally come.  I knelt beside him to explain that we were saying our farewells to Gigi.  Giving him a moment to do the same, I gave Gram a final pat and made my way down the hall to follow the rest of the family.

                I left with reticence, wanting to go back to the funeral director to assure myself that he would stay with her until she was properly buried.  I knew that this was procedure, but I wanted to be sure that my sweet little grandma wasn’t alone there while the family partook of the feast of salads and goodies prepared by the ward Relief Society.  It seemed cruel to leave her behind alone.

                My baby must have been thinking the same thing, as he paused after walking just a few feet.  Running back to her side, he blinked a few times, and then burst into tears.  His little heart was filled with sorrow that spilled out in great heaving sobs as he stood near the casket, suddenly understanding that Gigi was gone and that he hadn’t even said goodbye. 

                This was his first experience with death.  He knew that there were times that people left us and went back to Jesus.  But he’d never seen a body before, and I wanted to be sure that he wasn’t freaked when he saw her. 

                I explained about her body and her spirit and how she would leave one behind, while the other would go on.  “She might look like she is sleeping,” I explained, “But it’s really only her body.  Her spirit, the part of her that makes her who she is – that part moved on.”

                He seemed to understand that.  But it’s hard not to think of her in terms of the physical body that she wore here on earth.  He found a display room of caskets at the funeral home and had asked if he could lie in the ‘beds’.  After all, Gigi was sleeping in one!

                It makes me wonder if we’ll even recognize one another in the hereafter.  Are we going to look much the same as we did here – mother’s eyes and dad’s short legs?  What does ME perfected look like?  The physical is what we ponder, often wondering if a celestial body will have brown hair, or if society’s idea of perfect will be instituted.  Wand which society?  Wouldn’t we all, then, look alike?

                No, my grandmother didn’t smile.  Her teeth were crooked and her lips too thin.  But she was MY grandma.  And that’s how I’ll remember her, with gratitude for the small things that make us unique.  The things that make us…unforgettable.    

                So spare me the angelic smile, save your smooth skin and perfect posture.  Let me remember my Gram in all her glory, perfectly imperfect as she was.  That is enough for me!

Different stokes for different folks

No, I did not spell that title wrong, I really mean stokes. As in, what stokes your fire? We had a very good example of that today at our house.

I was awakened at 6:45 this morning, as both of the big boys burst into my bedroom and shoved bumper stickers in my face. They were so excited, as their Seminary teacher brought them ‘last day of Seminary’ gifts in the form of “Ted Nugent for President” bumper stickers. Personally signed, no less, with their names, from Mr. Nugent himself. She runs in to him from time to time, as he comes to our area to hunt.

What is so funny about the story is that Tuxedo Boy would LOVE LOVE LOVE to spend time with him to talk politics. Ted is a frequent guest on Glenn Beck…a name spoken with some reverence in our house, and Tux’s favorite commentator. Ted’s new book is “Ted, white, and blue”, with essays about his views and thoughts. What a great conversation they could have, as Tux is the foremost conservative of his set. He is vaguely aware that Ted is a rocker by trade.

Musician, on the other hand, could care less if Ted favored gun control. He is completely and utterly in awe of the MUSIC, of course, and that Ted is a guitar player.

I find it so amusing that they both treasure these gifts, but for completely different reasons. It really speaks to the vast differences between the two boys, even though they have the same parentage, same genetic pool, and have been raised side by side in the same household. The old ‘nature vs nurture’ issue is a fascinating one when talking about them!

To show you how different my three boys are, let me tell you about a common scenario. When Tuxedo Boy was a toddler, he would ask for juice. I would tell him that on the next commercial, or when the show we were watching was over, I would get it for him. He would sit patiently and wait until the appointed time…then he expected you to hop to and get the juice.

Musician had his own style. He would ask for juice, and I would give him the same answer as above. He would then proceed to ask again…and again….and again…until I finally lost my patience.

Along comes the Baby, who is somewhat spoiled and definitely determined. In the same scenario, does he wait patiently like Tuxedo Boy, or keep pestering like Musician? No. He hears the answer that he can have juice when the show is over, so he says, “Then turn it off!” If only life could be so simple.

So today, I am celebrating the differences! Even though I had hoped for a matched set to make my job as a mother much easier, it is definitely more interesting this way!

"We don't ski too well...but we're real fun at dinner!"

If our family had a motto, that would be it. I think that it very nicely sums up what and who we are, and how we approach life!

I didn’t learn to ski until about the time that I got married. (It would have been far too easy to learn to ski when I was in college and living 20 minutes from a great resort. No, I had to wait until any mountain was four hours from home)

My dad was patiently teaching my brother, me, and my husband. The guys caught on all right, but I was really struggling. I’d go about ten feet, then crash and never could get the turns. Dad finally told me to “stop looking for a place to fall down!”

Then going down a hill once, I realized that if I shifted the weight on my foot, that I changed direction. It was an epiphany for me! It was all about weight distribution, just like in ballet. When I mentioned my great flash of wisdom, Dad looked at me like DUH. At which point I snarled that he should have told me that in the first place, as it would have made things much much easier.

I was also wary of the ski lift, which I was sure would be the death of me. I would palpitate waiting for it to sidle up behind me. I would sit stock still all of the way up the mountain, for fear of falling off. And the dismount was always an adventure. One of the first times up the mountain, I was sweating as we approached the end of the lift. I was very careful to keep my tips up, heeding the warnings as you approached the ramp. I slid off of the seat and started down the hill…to find some fat chick crashed in the middle of the ramp! In a panic, I turned to the left, thinking that I could just hop off of the side. Not a good plan. The lift was higher than I expected, and there was a wall with poles rising out of it to stop me. They had to stop the lift to rescue me before I fell over the wall and slid off of a cliff, and I skied off embarrassed, and greeted by my family, which was now rolling on the ground laughing.

By way of vengeance, my brother soon found out why they tell you keep your tips up, and he fell into the net that precedes the ramp. This time, I laughed.

One time as we got on the lift, I saw something drop as my dad got on the chair ahead of me. I looked down and realized that it was the lens of his glasses. Not only does he need those glasses, but I wasn’t even sure that we could get him down the mountain without one eye! I reached out in my thick Gore-tex gloves and managed to snag it as my butt plopped and I was lifted 20 feet into the air. I was so afraid to move the whole trip. I sat there with my fingers clenched so tight that they were cramping by the time we got to the top, but we saved the lens.

We had our fair share of crashes. Dad and I would collide frequently down a hill as I tried to stay with him, but still not very sure on my skis. Once, I struggled to stop and slid right up and into the arms of the cousin of a friend of ours – I didn’t know him well, but he was very nice looking, so it was all good.

We then began to tackle moguls. There was one particular mogul field that we felt that we could handle, so a group of about eight of us began the journey. About halfway down, I stopped to catch my breath. Below me were various stages of “wreckage”, my friends and family strewn about. A trio of skiers glided up behind me, in their stunning high-end ski attire and surveyed the sight. “I think you just better play through,” I advised them. “We might be here awhile!”

One notable crash happened on a thin catwalk trail at the top of the mountain. I was a better skier at this point, but still nervous. I was so paranoid about falling off of the cliff on the one side. The next thing I knew, Dad hit me from behind and there were arms and legs going every which way. We finally came to rest just at the edge of the cliff, with my arms stuck underneath him and my body on top. At which point he says gruffly, “Get off of me!” Need I remind him that it was HE who hit ME??

But I was in trouble even when I was alone. One day, I came to a fork in the trail and was pondering whether to follow one set of friends down the easier slope to the left, or take the harder route to the right with my dad. I hesitated a few seconds too long, and was soon sliding down BOTH sides of the hill. One leg was travelling to the left, and one was travelling to the right. Unfortunately, my ski pole was lodged between the two, and soon ended up underneath my butt as I slid to a stop. My right leg is facing east, my left leg is facing north, and my hand is stuck in the loop on the ski pole, which is now all of the way behind me. I couldn’t get any leverage to pull myself back up the hill, and I couldn’t get my hand out. All I could do was sit there, pathetically, with my hand stuffed in my crotch, as a parade of skiers sailed past me. I have no idea how I finally got out, I only remember being mortified!

As I got to be a better skier, I wanted to prove to the guys that I could keep up with them. (for some reason, we had few women skiers in our group…they stayed in the lodge and read books or something) My favorite trick was to stand at the top of a cliff and look over the edge. If the guys wavered even a little bit, I would drop over the edge and tell them that we wouldn’t know if we could do it until we tried. Then they were committed and had to follow!

We had the opportunity to ski in some beautiful powder one day. It’s rare in our area, so we were really excited. We took the lift as far up the mountain as we could, and began to take some difficult trails down the mountain. We were at our peak as skiers, and we thought that we were pretty darn cool coming down the face of a bowl shaped hillside. Until my brother bit it. He fell end over end and a ski snapped off. It was almost impossible to find in the fine, deep, white powder! He kept reaching into the snow and feeling around, muttering to himself.

We loved to ski in groups, with friends from our area. We would caravan to the ski resort in a variety of cars, then meet up at the lodge. After a long day of skiing, we would begin the long drive home, stopping for dinner at a nice little restaurant that served excellent chicken noodle soup and fresh bread. We would delight the non-skiers at our table with tales of our crashes and adventures on the mountain, exhausted ourselves some more laughing. Then we’d sleep the rest of the way home, and the poor driver had to fight sleep to get us home.

One trip, we were asked to take along a co-worker’s teenage son. We didn’t feel that we could refuse, so we agreed. But we all were concerned about him, as he was a very good skier and somewhat cocky. We knew that he would be disgusted at our mediocre skills and would probably make fun of us, then ditch us on the mountain. Which would be fine, as he was somewhat intolerable at times, and never very happy with anyone.

To our surprise, he stayed with us the entire day. Even when we suggested that he take the harder runs while we made our way down, he trailed along and waited patiently as we picked ourselves up and dusted off, only to crash again five feet further down. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t say anything negative, so we included him in our conversations and decisions.

When we stopped to eat, we were especially careful to make sure that he was a part of the conversation, and explain any inside jokes that arose. And of course, we had some great crash stories to share. We were soon laughing and carrying on, and he along with us. As always, the stories brought gales of laughter and squeals as we recounted our alternating daring acts of bravery and complete lack of skill.

When it came time to leave, the room came to a complete standstill when he proclaimed, “I wanna come skiing with you more often. You guys are FUN!”

We were stunned. He didn’t laugh at us, and he didn’t get crabby. He thought that we were fun!

Dad broke the silence by telling him, “We don’t ski too well…but we’re real fun at dinner!”

It’s okay to be a clutz on a mogul field, as long as we have a good laugh about it later. I used to say, “It wasn’t a good day skiing unless you have some good crash stories to tell.”

Our family has always been like that. We’re not the richest, the smartest, the most well-read, or the most interesting. We’re not highly successful or famous or even perfect at what we do. But we enjoy our time together, and love and accept the limitations that we have. Rejoice in them, at times, even.

I think that I have forgotten that to some degree over the past years. I had forgotten that it’s all about enjoying the ride, not getting to the bottom first, or even making it without tearing out the seat of your pants as you land in a heap in front of a bevy of snobby skiers. At the end of the day, it’s okay if you can laugh about it and share it with your family.

No, we don’t ski too well…but we’re real fun at dinner!

Make Your Own Kind of Music

My son (previously discussed as Tuxedo Boy) is getting ready to graduate in a mere 2 ½ weeks. To say that I am unprepared for this chapter in our lives is an understatement! I am trying very hard not to think about it too much, because it will be the most difficult thing in the world for me to let my children go out into the world. I have just recently become comfortable with Tuxedo Boy separating from me when we go to Wal-Mart, and he’s been 18 since November!

So our house has become a flurry of deadlines and gatherings and events such as you can imagine. Mother’s Tea was last night, Senior Boards tomorrow. We are mailing out announcements and planning gifts for his friends…it’s crazy.

Their graduation has been a tightly guarded secret, or so one would think. As parents, we have had little communication from the school, and we have had to trust that everything was going along and being planned. And in some respects, it has been, but there are a few holes.

Tonight, Tuxedo Boy told me that he would be playing a song at graduation. Now, mind you, he doesn’t play an instrument. (For years, he told me that he was “not a band kind of guy”…but relented and played keyboards for a couple of years just to make me happy) He and two friends will be playing a song on Rock Band, the music video game that is ubiquitous these days. It seems that no one else had come forward to present special music on this night.

I was thrilled. Let me tell you why…

When I graduated some…oh, ten or twelve years ago…hee hee…we wanted to use a more jazzed up version of Pomp and Circumstance to walk out to. We were flatly refused by the school district, who said that this was a solemn occasion, and therefore, something that we could not “mess with”. We came back with the benign request to graduate in black gowns, as opposed to girls in white, boys in black. Again, we were refused. This time, because our parents had spent so much time and money raising us, and if we all wore black, they wouldn’t be able to tell the boys from the girls. I’m pretty sure that after 17 years with me, my parents would recognize me in any color, but apparently there are some real challenged parents out there that we had to accommodate.

We were frustrated that the ceremony was planned by and for someone else, and not us. At the last minute, my classmates chose a little-known song from the movie “I am the Greatest”. No one had ever heard it: it was called The Greatest Love of All, later made popular by Whitney Houston. (Go ahead, look it up and you’ll see how many years ago that was) I was asked to sing, and of course, I agreed. What an honor to sing at graduation!

Well, like I said, it was a new song. No one knew it. My pianist – my grandmother – was not arriving until late on Friday afternoon. We had about an hour to practice before I had to leave for the ceremony. I thought that I had it down pretty good, and kept singing it in my head. I was confident.

And then they rearranged the ceremony! I would not be singing early in the evening, as planned, but after the scholarships. A regional scholarship was being awarded, very prestigious for my school, and the honored guests would be allowed to present this scholarship early so that they might leave.

Okay, okay. I’m still singing in my head. I’ve got this. Just keep working on it until it’s time to sing, and I would be fine. Ignore the speakers…just sing.

Trouble was that the regional scholarship was being awarded to…ME. Oh, wow. I was ecstatic and surprised, and thrilled and overwhelmed. And mind blown. Uh oh.

The moment of truth arrived, and I stepped up to the podium. The lyrics were right in front of me, I just had to concentrate on the tune. I heard my grandmother begin to play, and I sang the first words.

The piano was across the gym floor on the opposite side of the stage. The speaker, which was now blaring my voice, was right next to my right ear. Not good. Not only could I not hear the piano, but I was hearing way too much of me, and I was completely unnerved. And mind blown. And had no idea what the tune of the dang song was!!!

I couldn’t run, couldn’t hide. What was I to do? I kept singing the lyrics, to a tune that I believe that I made up on the spot, and somehow, Gram followed along. We started together, we ended together, but in between…not so much. My mom was sitting in the audience thinking that I was a little pitchy. Thank heavens that no one knew what the song was supposed to sound like.

I sat down after the song with great relief. I had completely massacred it, but it was OVER. My classmates raved and thanked me for singing this inspirational song, and all I could say was, “But that wasn’t the song that you asked me to sing!”

Flash forward 5 years, and my brother is graduating. As they discussed options for music, he insisted that I would sing for them. I have no idea why, if he really loved my voice, I was the best option at the time, or if he was hoping that I could redeem myself…but again, I was honored beyond words.

The song that they chose was a current Whitney Houston hit, “One Moment in Time”. This one, I knew. I practiced. I was ready. I was ready to prove to myself that I could take the pressure of another graduation. Two days before the big event, I caught a cold that settled in my throat. I pressed on, with a pocketful of Hall’s Cough Drops.

This time, we used a background tape, so the speaker blared not only my voice, but the music, as well. One hurdle down! The cough drops had done their job…I remembered and knew both lyrics and tune. It was flawless. As the graduates marched out of the gym, my voice boomed across the crowd…

“And in that one moment of time, I will be…I will be…I will be free!”

They fell into place for the reception exactly as the song ended in a crescendo of voice and music. The graduates flung their caps into the air and screamed. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life.

Friends sitting in the audience gushed my praises. Except for Dennis, who noted that I had sung the entire song with a blue tongue. Dang those Hall’s!

When Tuxedo Boy mentioned that they would be playing, I was so happy that they were able to do something innovative and personal for their graduation ceremony. No stuffy principal to tell them that they had to be completely traditional.

I do believe that graduation is a…perhaps not solemn…but rather, important occasion. I am not for showing up naked under your gown, or tie dying your gown to your own color scheme, as it is a serious event. But I do not believe that this needs to be so set in stone that they cannot see the ceremony as their own. Kudos to the administration that allows this creativity.

Rock Band is a staple in the American household, let’s face it. Who doesn’t own this or Guitar Hero? Or two or three versions of Guitar Hero? That it is here and now and very representative of their generation makes it all the more interesting.

Who doesn’t want to be a rock star? We’ve all sung into a mirror or played air guitar at some time. We all wanted to be able to perform and hear the crowd roar. Rock Band allows even the most musically challenged individuals a chance at fame, if only for a moment on the screen. To feel that they are talented and worshipped.

We are in some tough times, both economically and socially. The future is uncertain, and our graduates face challenges that we never dreamed of when we were wearing a cap and gown. Their situation is much more grave than ours was. They are entering an educational system that is bogged down with budget cuts and unable to accommodate all that wish to attend college. The work force is not much better. With nearly a 10% unemployment rate, these young, fresh faces have a great deal of competition in any field that they may be pursuing. Rising political situations threaten to destroy our way of life.

But on that night, our kids will be rocking out to a graduation-appropriate song, even if the instruments they play are nothing short of joysticks. They will be rock stars, playing to an adoring crowd that understands the power of the video game. This is their time, their world. They will be making music in their own unique and contemporary way.

Sure, it’s out of the ordinary. Maybe even quirky. The way that I look at it, they are good kids who have worked so hard to get to this night, against all odds. They have avoided drugs and alcohol and have not only finished their high school education, but have done so without reproducing or ending up in jail. They do not have piercings, tattoos, or brandings. Their hair, albeit long and shaggy on some, is not blue or shaved or anything aberrant in any way. If this is the worst that they have done in their short lives…I think that we should be darn humbled to be in their presence. Tradition is overrated in some respects, anyway.

If we can give them one night of glory, one night of good, clean celebration…I say, bring on the X-Box!