Hurray for the Pumpkin Pie!

(Still warm!)



I hope you're all having a splendid turkey day!

Due to work pressures and so forth, I decided to forego cooking today. My family in town, such as it is, had other options anyway. Instead, since I'm going away for Christmas, I'm going to have a family holiday meal sometime in the next two weeks.

For today I've put together a miniature Thanksgiving meal: a baked chicken, a baked potato, corn, cranberry sauce, rolls. And of course the thing makes holiday meals holiday meals for me...the pumpkin pie.

Gotta have the pumpkin pie.

My favorite pumpkin pie story: one summer years ago, when I was about 10 and lived in Maryland, I went to visit relatives in Illinois. Because my great-grandmother knew that pumpkin pie was just about my favorite food in the universe, she baked one. She cut it into four quarters, one slice each for herself, her husband (Grandpa L), their daughter (my Grammie), and me. When the time came for dessert, Grandpa L was just so full! He just couldn't possibly eat another bite! He just didn't know where that pie was going to go! Could I possibly help him out by eating it for him?

I was so happy to oblige.

Eventually I was old enough to look back and realize that Grandpa L had not at all been too full to eat dessert, but had instead lovingly turned his share over to me.

That moment of my life and the memory of it, along with many others, is something I am thankful for still, 45 years later.

Hurray for the pumpkin pie!

Happy Mother's Day!

I wanted to post some flowers for all the mothers -- my mother, your mother, you, you who want to be mothers but aren't yet, and especially those who want to be mothers but can't be.

We all mother in our way.

I wanted to post a photo of flowers, but my parched yard doesn't have any, and I didn't want to pinch a copyrighted photo. Then I noticed the tiny basket of shell flowers that Grammie gave me years ago.

It seems appropriate.

Happy Mother's Day!

Put a loved one's mug on a free mug!

Publix, through Snapfish, is offering a free mug (must pay shipping costs of $5.99) until March 31. You must enter PUBLIXFREEMUG in the coupon code as you check out. Follow THIS link.

This is a real, dishwasher-safe ceramic mug, not a plastic thing with a paper insert.

It was hard to decide. The grandsons? Molly? Finally, I chose the last solo photo I took of Grammie.

Don't YOU need a new mug?

Time and loss

My work office is a mess. I moved out of the old one and into the new in August, in media res: trying to pack, unpack, plan, and start a new semester all at once. However, the most immediate chores always win the Bitty's Time Sweepstakes, so the clutter just keeps cluttering.

Little by little I unpack and rearrange: a pile, a box, an envelope here and there. I recently came across an envelope of photos that were formerly taped to my old office's wall and in them was a particularly beloved one of Grammie and her lifelong friend Reeney (who deserves a post all of her own someday), taken in my kitchen on May 20, 1995. (I know this because once upon a time I properly labeled my photos...). At the time, Grammie was a robust 82; Reeney was a few years older. I propped the photo in front of the monitor.

Looking at it today, I realized that it really is a record of the past: Reeney died in 1998, Grammie last year. I threw away the miniblinds a few months ago, and the chairs the ladies are sitting in now wait in my living room for me to take them to the local women's shelter thrift store this weekend. The only tangible objects in the photo still in my life are the door handle that peeks out from behind the blinds, the coffee mug in front of Reeney, and the blouse Grammie is wearing. (I kept a suitcase full of her blouses, a time capsule that comforts me even though I haven't opened it once since I packed it over a year ago.)

The things and people that surround us seem so permanent because we see them day after day.

And then suddenly we look around and everything is different.

A book meme-thingy

Meowkaat has tagged me on this meme, and I'm perfectly happy to comply. It gives me a prompt, pushes me out of the I-have-absolutely-nothing-to-say-and-no-time-to-say-it-in mindset, even if the second part of that description is too true.

1. One book that changed your life- hardest question first.
Except, for me, this is the easiest question: The first one I read, whatever it was, because it lit the path for all the others. But my first “book” probably wasn’t a book. I could read when I was two, said my grandmother; all I can add is that I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t. I have two theories about that: it was a skill left over from a previous life OR I was so bored in my playpen, where Grammie penned me up until I was more than two because she feared I’d get hurt, that I broke the code on the cereal boxes she put in my playpen to entertain me. I like the second theory best.

For a more specific answer, however, The French Lieutenant’s Woman. I first read it in 1980. ((Not as) Faraway Daughter was an infant; that's how I know the date.) At that time, I was an unfocused reader. I read, just as Meowkaat described, whatever was handy, and that wasn’t usually anything approaching brain food. (My mother-in-law, for instance, had an impressive library of Harlequins – paper bags full – so I too got my fill of that genre.) FLW had been a big bestseller in the then not-so-distant past (which in retrospect amazes me; I can’t imagine an America that literate…), and I thought I’d give it a try. Be warned: John Fowles knows words not in your bookshelf’s dictionary. He knows a lot of them.

So I struggled through this book with the honkin’ big words and (to me, then) abstract themes and plotting about as far from Harlequin as books get, and I hated it. Hated it. Hated it.

Fast forward, 1995: my last semester of undergraduate work. I took a course called “The British Novel.” On the list? The despised FLW. I dreaded and dreaded it, but the day came when the novel must be cracked.

Two pages in, I recognized that it was brilliant.

The book didn’t change me, but it proved to me that I had changed. And that’s just as good.

2. One Book That You've Read More Than Once.
Beloved, by Toni Morrison, the best book of the 20th century. If I get two choices – and who says I don’t…who’s Hall Monitor here, anyway? – I’d add The Scarlet Letter, the best book of the 19th century. There’s far more going on in that little adultery book than the Letter A. And no Demi Moore in sight.

3. One Book That You'd Want On A Desert Island.
I'm practical. My complete works of Shakespeare would keep me busy a while, and it’s all there: “comedy,” history, tragedy. Plus it’s annotated, so I’d be able to follow the obsolete words and customs even though I (presumably) wouldn’t have internet access. Before I finish, I hope to be rescued. And if not, it’s always best to give Shakespeare a second read.

4. One Book That Made You Laugh.
They aren’t really funny books, but I enjoy Sue Grafton’s alphabet mysteries, starring Kinsey Millhone. Kinsey often makes me laugh. Garrison Keillor’s books make me laugh, too, although I’d rather hear him read them to me.

(Scary – my first thought was something I read decades ago: Joan Rivers’ Having a Baby Can Be a Scream. But it’s not my answer.)

5. One Book That Made You Cry.
One?
Bel Canto. That’s one.
Othello. That’s one.
Whichever of the Little House books that featured Mary's going blind. That’s one.

6. One Book That You Wish You Had Written.
The one I’ve been trying to write my whole life. I suspect if I ever do, I’ll be the Grandma Moses of the literary set.

7. One Book You Wish Had Never Been Written.
George W. Bush’s playbook.

8. One Book That You Are Reading Right Now.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, but since it’s my “car” book and I only read it when I go out to eat alone, I’m not getting very far. And it’s quite a hefty tome.

9. One Book That You Have Been Meaning To Read.
Cued up and ready to go, but unread: Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle and Alexandra Fuller’s Don’t Lets Go to the Dogs Tonight. Looks like I’m leaning toward memoir. And yes, once again that’s more than one. I’m an English major, not a math major. Or a control freak. Oh, and What’s the Matter with Kansas? I have the books. That’s not the problem…

10. Tag five others that you would like to do this meme. You and you and you and you and you. You know who you are. Feel free to post here in the comments if you don’t have a blog, Alanna.

I keep forgetting...

Especially on the weekends.

The thought lasts the tiniest fraction of a second, not long enough to form a complete sentence in my head (as if I think in complete sentences):

Oh, I need to call Grammie.

Except of course, she's been dead for over a month, so, of course, I can't.

Tomorrow is her birthday.

To everything there is a season

Grammie died Friday morning.

I have no adequate words of my own, so for now I'll borrow a few:

To everything there is a season
A time for every purpose under heaven
A time to be born, and a time to die...
A time to break down, and a time to build up
A time to weep, and a time to laugh
A time to mourn, and a time to dance...

That sums up where we are right now: sad, but joyful that we had her in our lives and that she's no longer suffering.

Proper elegy later, probably much later.

One thing I got from Grammie

She has insanely soft hands; touching them is like caressing silk.

I have those hands, too.

Missed opportunity

I have never asked my grandmother these questions (and more), and now, as she's too feeble to carry on conversation, I can't:

1. Were you there when I was born? (Yes, I can ask my mother, but that will be my mother's version.)
2. When and why did you move back and forth between Illinois and Maryland? (I know why she moved to MD at one point in the 60's -- to get out of my uncle's way when he married, even though he would NEVER have asked her to do so; that's why she did it. I know why she moved back to IL for good -- to care for her aged mother. But she made this move numerous times. Why did she move the other times?)

3. Tell me about your lousy marriage. (She once told me she would, but she never did. I never pushed it because I didn't want to dredge up her painful memories. Now I think that was a mistake.)

Then there's a question she probably couldn't answer -- what took away your boldness? She was a girl who routinely rode a horse standing on its back. By the time I knew her (and she was only 40 when I was born), everything from physical items to social situations was an occasion for potential disaster: slamming car doors, negotiating stairs, taking on positions of responsibility, choosing to be educated.




I'm going to think about the questions I want to ask my mother, and this time I'll ask them and get my answers. I won't make the same mistake twice.

The bitter with the sweet

Christmas was a gentle day; even Tall Son, whose girlfriend recently broke his heart, seemed to find the day pleasant, even if he would rather have spent it with the woman who has sent him away. Far-Away Daughter -- still far away -- and her family were ill on Christmas Eve, but recovered by the big day, and she and her husband, Semi-Doc, had an exciting time with the kiddies and her inlaws. Marine Son and his wife, Indian Princess, drove down just for the day. We ate until it hurt, we opened gifts (a stunned Bitty received a new computer via gift cards and an IOU; we picked it up yesterday), and then overwhelmed me napped. While I was sleeping, Marine Son picked up his boy, First Grandson, and later in the day the three of them drove home. First Grandson is spending the week with his father and stepmother. A good time was had by all.

Before Marine Son and family went home, we called Grammie. Uncle G answered the phone. When I said I was glad he was still there so I'd get a chance to talk to him, he said softly, "Oh yes, we're all still here. We can't leave her alone any more." When I talked to Grammie she sounded weary (as she had the last time we'd spoken, on the 23rd), but she sounded cheerful. She catalogued all the people who had called her -- quite a long list since my mother alone has 10 children -- and when she was finished, she catalogued them at least two more times. Then I talked to Uncle D, who promised to call me privately later to tell me what was really going on.

My mother called me yesterday. Uncle D called her and asked her to pass the message on. Grammie must go to a nursing home. She has reached a point -- details not necessary -- that she needs someone nearby at all times, 24 hours a day. Uncle D and his saint of a wife, A, wanted to take her to their home, but she refused. So sometime -- very soon -- she will leave her home for good and pass into the care of strangers. I hope they will be kind strangers. Although there are so many nursing home nightmare stories, I've also heard that if relatives are involved, the patients get good care. My uncles will probably be there daily...and none of us expect her stay to be very long.

Death brings people together in all sorts of interesting ways. Because of Grammie's cancer, Marine Son and I went to see her in October, and in doing so, I reconnected with my uncles and Aunt P, and I met Uncle D's wife. I never got around to writing about that. Maybe I will someday; maybe what I'm saying now is all I need to say about it. Although I sent Christmas cards to them over the years, and when Grammie would be visiting any of us, she'd call the others and make us talk to one another (an awkward situation since we didn't know each other well enough to do much more than discuss the weather), I hadn't seen my uncles and Aunt P since I was a teenager. That was a very long time ago. So Grammie's illness has reconnected me with these relatives and made me a member of the family again.

I've also had long conversations with people whose loved ones have died like Grammie, not suddenly but due to lingering illness, and their stories are remarkably the same. One friend described it as the reverse of birth: the dying person acts much like the newborn, sleeping all the time, unable to converse coherently, dependent on others for food and basic hygiene.

I haven't called Grammie yet. I'm afraid I can't without crying. But I must before the end of the day.

This is life, though: great joy and love alongside deep sorrow. The secret of life, I suppose, is learning to deal with that juxtaposition.

The culture of death

I've been telling colleagues and students about my grandmother's terminal illness, not to garner sympathy, but for pragmatic reasons. I need to find someone to cover my classes for a week so I can visit her, and I need simply to explain my sudden, seemingly random bouts of teariness.

Oh man.

As I said in my earlier post, I've been almost weirdly untouched by death. A very few friends and dear but not intimate family members; sweet though remote great-grandparents; a baby sister who had barely begun life. No one truly, truly close until now. Because I teach very young adults, no semester (indeed, almost no month) goes by without someone's grandparents, and sadly even parents, dying. Some of this falls into the joke category. There are those students whose grandparents routinely die when papers and projects are due. But most of it is genuine. I've seen real pain and confusion on these students' faces, in their eyes, in their words. I've even cried with them. I've offered sympathy and an ear for mourning friends. Still, I've only experienced this as an outsider. Until now.

Now I, too, am a member of the culture of death.

The death or impending death of a loved one is new territory and difficult to navigate. The maps seem to be disjointed and printed in Russian. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to act? The two conversations I've had with Grammie since I heard the news have been weirdly full of laughter and optimism. For instance, it's damned funny that her step-great-granddaughter B (who never visits) has been by the apartment like the vulture she is to sniff around at the spoils of death. Grammie was so alarmed by B's coveting of a particular figurine that she insisted she get "later" that after B left, Grammie promptly wrapped it up and gave it to V, another great-granddaughter. B's tasteless behavior is occasion for a good belly laugh; Grammie's checkmate is even funnier. My son M and I are going to travel to see her in a few weeks (God, please let her still be ok in a few weeks), and she was thrilled by the news; it gives her something to look forward to.

Grammie doesn't want to die. And I am utterly unable to imagine the world without her any more than I can imagine the world suddenly without gravity.

Now students are not telling me stories of the parents and grandparents who just died or are dying and whose deaths are interfering with their schoolwork; they're coming to me in droves telling me about the parents and grandparents who died a few months ago. They're still mourning, but they're also joyful over the parts that were blessings: the swift deaths with no suffering; the situations like mine where there was still precious time to say and do things that ought to be said and done. These people know what I don't fully, yet: what the road ahead looks like and how it feels to travel it. Today I have shared a half a river of tears with people I only slightly know; I would never have considered doing this last week.

However, now, like it or not, I too am a member of the culture of death.

For Grammie

Sometimes when I was young – ten or so – in bed at night I would think about the fact that my grandmother was old, and that she would die, and soon. I’d cry myself to sleep over this inevitability. I was big on imagination and small on perspective at that age. Fifty certainly seemed old and next door to the grave.

Yesterday I learned that my grandmother, now 92, has pancreatic cancer, for which there is nothing to be done. She will die, and soon.

Considering my age (and simple math will now reveal that to you), I’ve been remarkably untouched by death. I’ve certainly been aware of this. Only a handful of people who were extremely close to me have died. I’m also certainly aware that many people have never known their grandparents at all, let alone have known them well into middle age.

Maybe this – this long lifetime with a grandmother -- is why this news is so surreal. It’s as if suddenly the sky turned purple and the grass orange. Of course the situation is recognizable, but it’s also utterly foreign. My grandmother has frequently declared her intention to live to be 100. This is obviously not to be.

So in bed last night I tried not to think about the fact that my grandmother is old, and sick, and that she will die, and soon. And I cried myself to sleep over this inevitability.