Grandma Lois
1973 (5 Years Old)
On the old farm, back behind the house. Going inside the chicken coop with you, looking at the birds sitting on their boxes of straw. A gentle prodding from you to reach under and take out some eggs. They won’t let me! They squawk and peck at my little hands when I try to touch them.
The memory of this, fond and scary all at once, sticks with me viscerally for decades.
1975 (7 Years Old)
At the new house in Sedro Wooley. Grandpa Harvey is gone now. We all say “this was more merciful,” but no one is relieved. We’re all saddened by his passing. Saddened by the passing his mind made first. And scared.
1977 (9 Years Old)
Conconully bible camp. My road trip alone with you in your green toyota. My constant, stereotypical query of “are we there yet?” You have no trouble with the drive but it’s obvious, even to my young eyes, that hosting the trip for a little boy is trying your patience and energy.
The camp has the best rope swing in the history of the known universe. In another ten years I’ll take my friends here on a road trip and everyone will agree that it was amazing for years after that.
I use the swing. I get baptized. I lose our family bible in the reservoir. I get a crush on a girl, learn songs, meet the camp caretaker that remembers my uncle John so fondly. I start thinking about becoming a priest myself. What an amazing experience.
1978 (10 Years Old)
Between my deadbeat dad and my abusive stepfather, no one has ever tried to teach me to play ball. You visit us in Alaska and help me break in my baseball mitt by running it over several times with my mom’s car. Then you play catch with me in the driveway every night until you go back home.
Further on
As years go by, you shift from being a spiritual force in our life to an honorary matriarch. We all pay our respects to you. You seem more tired and world weary.
Eventually you become a treasured source of stories, of family history and where we came from, rather than just a source of inspiration in the now. You tell us about your life at Seattle Pacific University as a young student. About meeting Grandpa Harvey, and about how shocked you were when he decided to buy a farm in Concrete, Washington.
Lisa and I have our own baby. You hold Isaac in your arms, and when we comment on how comfortable he looks there, you wryly say “I’ve done this a few times before, dears…” we flush with embarrassment, realizing you’ve had six birth children and foster children even beyond that.
One day I tell you how much Isaac loves music, and you say “we all do. I’ve always said I’ve got music in my soul.” Lisa and I feel closer to you than ever.
Then one day, at some unremarkable family gathering, you ask me “who’s child are you?” for the first time. I answer “Dellie’s.” You frown, deep in thought, and say “And your name is…?” and I reply “I’m Danny, Grandma.” You think for a few palpable seconds and then your face lights up. You say “Oh, Danny! You were always such a sweet boy! I remember when I got to take you to bible camp when you were little.”
I know what is happening. I try not to cry while I’m talking to you.
Coda
Now you’re in hospice care, on morphine, past 95 years old. I don’t even know if you’ll *know* me anymore. When I saw you a month ago, you remembered me after a bit, but wanted to lay down and sleep after an hour or so. I felt so bad for you. It was your birthday party, but it clearly wasn’t being held for you. And I think it required too much of you.
I’m told to expect the call soon. I’m going to scrap my plans tomorrow and see you. I hope that I get a chance to let you know that you’re loved and that, if you need to, you can go. I feel stingy but I don’t want you here just to please us, either.
I love you, grandma. Please be at peace. How could the world ever replace you?
-Danny