Death's Third Knock

Hubby's uncle died the first week of February. He lived in Conneticut.

I considered driving up with him and the in-laws, but between having some reports due for work and having a cold that had me carrying around tissues and drowning in my own secretions, I opted out. The thought of sitting in the back of a Buick, surrounded by boxes of tissues, with my nose running as if it was being paid to do so, my eyes all filmy and bloodshot, and not being able to snuggle down in a bed until we got to the hotel was not appealing and possibly life threatening to others.

Then there was the whole post traumatic stress from the Vermont trip 10 years ago. Let's just say that there are idiosyncracies that are better if you grow-up with them than marrying into them. I hate Cleveland, but it isn't Cleveland's fault, it's just where we ended up after spending 14 hours in the car. But I digress....

As events played out, I was glad I stayed home. First, for those of you living in a cave or in a foreign country who doesn't give a crap about weather in the U.S., we have gotten more than our normal share of snow and cold. Hubby and his parents were trying to thread the needle weatherwise. They wanted to get to Conneticut after the last snow storm and make it back before the next snowstorm. They were only 50% successful.

Because I could not go, I decided to knit a shawlette - Multnomah (II, as it is the second one I have started) - as a remembrance. I had hopes of getting it finished in time to send it with Hubby, but Stupid Cold made reading the pattern difficult so I had to unknit a swath. Let's just say that the only thing worse than knitting when you aren't feeling the greatest is th einevitable result of knitting when you aren't feeling the greatest -- unknitting and re-knitting.

Added to the physically feeling of crappiness was the mental aspect. Was Hubby surviving? Would he be the same?

So, I get a call Thursday evening from a tired, weak Hubby, decrying the day as the worst in human history. I had suspicioned that the roads through Pennsylvania would be an icemare. I had not thought that leaving Ohio would take on the tenor of Shackleton's Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. At least it wasn't the Donner Party. To top it all off, diinner at Ruby Tuesday was the last blow to his ego. The waitress preferred to flirt and chat up the hot, young, beer drinking dudes than wait on a middle aged married dude and his parents.

My enjoyment of the Opening Ceremony of the Winter Olympics was interrupted by Hubby needing reassurance that I would love him in spite of insanity and prison. We talked about how the family was doing and how they would face the following day of the burial and memorial service.

Jim started out as a community organizer in Harlem during the 60's. He suffered two great personal tragedies without a lot of space between. I could see the effects in a sadness behind his eyes. He found another life in the banking community and with his second wife and children. He was so proud of his sons, both clever young men. He loved his wife, Claudia. They were both smart, funny, and modern. Jim's dry sense of humor complemented Claudia's outgoing laugh and manner. We saw them mainly at the biennial family reunions. The last one in July 2009, Jim looked a bit less than his normal self. He still had his sense of humor. He clearly enjoyed being with his brothers and telling family stories. He enjoyed seeing his nephews and his grand-nephew and niece. None of us knew that it would be the last time we would be together.

I am comforted by the fact that we didn't know. I am glad that we were able to be together without the pall of Jim's sickness, without the need to make everything memorable because of circumstance, without the need to make everything of super importance. I am comforted because we got to be family together one last time.

By The Side of the Road Part 2

The one memory that I have as an adult that really changed my perception of my grandmother is related to her ladies' Bible study group. I would chauffer her to the hostess' house each week that summer. I was the youngest by a good half century. Anyway, each of the ladies would host the group. The other ladies would dress up to go. We would do the lesson for the week and then we ate homemade cookies, cakes, and tea sandwhiches. It was a big deal.


Up to this point, I knew my grandmother as a country woman with mad farmer's wife skills. She could can or pickle anything. She pasteurized her own milk and churned her own butter. She was thrifty. Nothing was too old to be used until it disentegrated. A simple plastic, disposible cup could be used for years.


So when it was my grandmother's turn to host, I saw something else entirely. For a week, I helped my grandmother clean. I moved furniture, stalked and destroyed dust bunnies - all two of them, washed windows, scrubbed floors and washed the good china, silver and crystal. Then there was the careful menu planning and trip to the grocery.


I didn't remember anyone but family coming to the house my entire life. I hadn't thought, until that point, of my grandmother as a house proud woman. I ironed and she started the napkins. She set the table just so after looking it up in the World Book to make sure she had it right. I served as maid and commie chef that day. I watched my grandmother and her quiet dignity that day. I understood her better after that, I think.

Later, when my grandmother couldn't cook holiday dinners any more because the arthritis in her knees and hips had gotten so bad. Of all the things she had difficulty remembering, my grandmother still remembered how to cook all the holiday favorites. I thought about how hard it must have been to be usurped in her own kitchen.

I saw her sitting at the kitchen table talking to us as we cooked and I thought again about that day she hosted her friends. I gave her a knife, the onions and the celery to chop for the dressing. I asked her to give me precise instructions so it would be the same. I served as her commie chef that day because something in me wanted to preserve the dignity of the woman from that day from just a few years before. With everything else that time and circumstance had taken from her, I needed her to keep her ability to participate in the holiday cooking intact.

By the Side of the Road Part 1

Many people know the story in Genesis about the infamous love triangle of Jacob, Rachael, and Leah. Jacob loved Rachel and agreed to work seven years for her father as a bride price. Then on the wedding night, Leah, not Rachael, showed up in the marriage tent. So, Jacob raised a fuss, got Rachael and worked for his father-in-law for another seven years. All for love.

What many people don't know is how the love story of Jacob and Rachael ends. Rachael died in childbirth while the family was on the road. They barely stopped to bury her before moving on. The beloved of Jacob was buried by the way in a foreign grave. Leah, the lesser loved sister was burined in the family tomb with Jacob.

In a lot of ways the death of my paternal grandmother was like the death of Rachael. Hubby and I had just closed on the house. We were in the middle of painting and doing all the prep work to move in. Then my mom phoned to tell me my granmother had been diagnosed with an aortic aneuyrism and didn't have long to live.

I went down to see her at the nursing home the week she died. I wiped her face and held her hand. I sat there while others talked around us I sat there knowing I had said my good byes long ago but needed to be there for me.

When my grandfather died five years ago, my grandmother was moved to the nursing home. She had dementia and could not stay by herself. With each passing year, the dementia diminished my grandmother. As she lost more of her memory, it became more apparent that she would reach the point that she would not know who we were. That day was fast approaching.

Instead, my grandmother died of the aneuyrism in November. She died surrounded by people who loved her and people she knew instead of strangers.

I saw her on a Tuesday. She died that Friday. I played for her funeral on Monday. We moved that following weekend.

At Christmas I noted her absence and that of my maternal grandmother like an ache in my heart.