Strangers

The church bells are chiming, calling everyone to Mass. I'm skipping today, a fact that will add to my guilt tomorrow. But, for now, I'm trying to relearn just living in the moment and getting back that free-spirited, not anal person I was ten years ago.

Last Tuesday, I was having a crap day. Honestly, last week I walked around in the 9th circle of hell, with a solitary ray of sunshine. Four simple words from a few people gave me the only smile, "Things will get better." And, they will and are.

But, on Tuesday, I didn't want to cook. I didn't want to do anything once I got home but free the girls from my bra, save my feet from my heels, and stare off into space with a glass of Pinot. If I learned anything from the past week, its this: heels are torture to which I will no longer subject myself, no matter how awesome they make my calves look or how much longer they make the legs appear. Too bad Chico river shoes don't POP with slacks.

Anyway, I bought Chinese, and not because I necessarily care for it, but because I needed a damn fortune cookie. I love 'em and hang onto them until they come true, and when they do, I tape them in various places to remind me. I have a pile of them in wallet, waiting.

I ate too many deep fried crab thingies, didn't touch the rice, and gagged down some moo goo gai pan (what, exactly, is that sauce on Chinese food?!). All I had was cheap chardonnay, but what the hell. I wasn't about to hit the wine store. I didn't want to see people laughing and joking, or crying about a bad day at work. I didn't want to make a decision on which bottle to buy or have the too kind drummer, who knows too much about my past, recommend a bottle. I didn't want to swim anymore. Treading water sounded like a chore, and I was ready to sink--into a too hot tub of water filled with lavender bubbles.

My fortune, at the time, was a little bit of a let-down: "A chance meeting with a stranger will change your life." Humph. Nice to know, and I stuck it in the back of my wallet and retreated to my tub.

Wednesday, after the stress had peaked, I bellied up with a shot of Turkey and a Guinness, trying to be alone. A tall red-head came and sat right beside me; I had to move my purse and was more than a little irritated, thinking, "The whole damn bar is open; I'm not in the mood to chat." I had a shitty attitude, and didn't necessarily want it to change.

I downed my shot, about gagged, and pretended to text, still feeling the burn. She put a few bucks in the game at the end of the bar and lit a cigarette. I turned my glass, to make sure I kept the head on the Guinness the same all the way around, in that stupid neurotic way I have. She said, "You look really familiar," and asked my name.

"I get that a lot," and I told her. She told me I looked like Kelly McGillis. I laughed, bought another beer, and was irritated she was putting ice in her wine. One of my biggest pet peeves. "When I was young and thin, I used to get Kim Catrall," I chuckled. "Thanks."

"Sucks getting old, doesn't it?" She said.

She asked where I was from and what my maiden was. When I told her, her jaw hit the floor and her lips pursed. She got really quiet, so I asked what was up.

I had to pry it out of her and promised not to give her up, so I'll just say that after that conversation, I know I've judged people too harshly and that there is always another side to every story. When you know the laughter that leads to the tears, that people aren't heartless and really never mean to hurt anyone, that people really do love and lose, it can change how you've looked at a lot of things and people. And really, it wasn't that different from my own story and motives. I just wish I would have known her side, years ago. But then, again, I probably wouldn't have been accepting of it.

It feels good to forgive...it feels better to know you never had to, but sometimes we're too late to let the people that need to hear it, know that.

Its amazing, the web that weaves, the lives that intertwine. Compassion is a funny thing; how sometimes, no matter how much you or people you love have been hurt, you can still find it. Sometimes, no one is to blame.

I told her to go to his grave, that no one would care.

Everyone deserves to say goodbye and heal. Because, I told her, as I quoted my soul sister, "You can't help who you love. That's why they call it falling."

Waxing my lip

I had to take a "strengths assessment" a few months ago at work. I am convinced it was a direct result of me answering "no" on an "anonymous" survey regarding worker engagement to the question of whether or not I am given the opportunity, every day, to do what I do best. The fact that 5 people answered the same way, and I know a total of 5 people who were asked to take the strengths assessment kind of proves my point. My new "assignment" confirms my suspicion even more.

Anyway, my second strength was identified as "Connectedness." Which in lay terms, the book tells me, means I am accepting of all kinds of people, I see boundaries but look at them as fluid, see myself connected to everything in the universe, more than likely "know" a higher power, and am very unlikely to question why bad things happen to me rather than other people. I am "spiritual in nature."

I guess some of that Buddhist meditation has worked--though I am far, far away from enlightenment. For the record, I don't recommend TRYING to get this strength on any assessment, because it means you will be put into a position where you get to deal with the difficult people all day, EVERY day. It does NOT mean you will get to work with the gay guy who gives awesome advice about shoes and the best and cheapest wine.

To be honest, I was pretty shocked at how well that little quiz described me. Seriously, I am the type that will stand at the bananas at the grocery store, eying the regular bananas and the organic bananas. And, having had to read some paper in Environmental Philosophy back in 1999, regarding the amount of greenhouse gases produced to bring us bananas (I actually picture the boats and trucks in my brain), all the workers exposed to pesticides in the banana farms (I will actually see some guy named Pedro in red, faded cut-offs, and a blue shirt going home to his family on hard red clay, his children running to him), the labor, the lack of fair wages, and deforestation, and I will spend no less than 15 minutes debating whether or not to buy to the organic bananas for 3 more dollars or to say to hell with bananas all together.

I will give the guy on the corner by Wal-Mart the few bucks I have in my pocket, and if I don't have any, the whole way home and most of the night, I will lie awake in bed wondering if he would have taken a check and think about how cold he is right now, or how he had a shitty day and really needed a beer and ponder my Karma.

I don't usually view this as a strength. It drives me f*n insane! But, it gives you a little background to my day today.

Since Grandma died, well, honestly, since Sheridan's dad died, I have been trying to run from catastrophe and just tread water--which means I drown myself in things that take my mind off bad shit. So instead of finding center and listening to the universe, I run like a chicken with its head cut-off creating ever more stress and a higher bar for achievement while convincing myself I have conquered the OCD because I no longer wash the windows every two weeks.

So, I got a massage today, for the first time since I found out Grandma was sick, which my masseuse kindly reminded me was in '09, bought some new essential oils from her, came home, put some lavendar in the bath, and soaked with a glass of wine.

To be totally honest, I haven't been this relaxed since college when Treasure and I had that four-foot bong we named "Eddie," after the Iron Maiden skeleton, put a towel under the door, filled him with wine, and proceeded to see how big we could go without passing out. We then watched Oliver Stone's "The Doors" which somehow led to a deep discussion on Freudian theory. But, what you should really know is that when I got out of the tub and was as mellow as the Dalai Lama on 5 klonopin, I decided I needed a pick me up without losing the mellow, and mixed the lemon oil and a little more lavender with my lotion. I now smell like lemon scented Pledge. I. Shit. You. Not.

So, while being convinced this must have been exactly how June Cleaver smelled, and then convincing myself that I was one aromatherapy session away from my husband deciding we need separate twin beds, I was checking out the 'stache on my upper lip and the chin hairs that need only a big mole to grow out of to convince me I'm officially old.

See, before my brother was born, my great grandparents babysat me quite a bit. My Grandma Viv drove this huge car, but she was so short, she looked through the loop at the top of the steering wheel to see over the dashboard and out the window. I remember driving down Blattner Lane, for some reason I think it was summer, on the way to Wanda's, the lady with seriously PURPLE hair, (not tinted, F*n PURPLE!!) and the light was just right, and she had this mole on her neck with this LONG-ass black hair growing out of it, and being all of three or four (my brother was born when I was four and she died right before he was born, so I know I was YOUNG) I remember thinking, "She's a WITCH!" And, by God, she was a GREAT-GRANDMA so she was old--as in "Little House on the Goddamn Prairie" old!

So, my mind immediately went to all the women in my family who have these hairs in unnecessary places. I remembered the tiny pan my mom kept her wax in that she would put on the stove--usually a Thursday before Dad came home for the weekend. My aunts telling jokes about Italian women inventing Velcro when their sweaters stuck to their mustaches. The Pied Piper working construction and all the iron workers making fun of her for icicles, yes icicles, forming on her 'stache.

Which led to me to grab the wax and proceed to walk around the house with blue blobs on my upper lip and entire neck...a spectacle to which the four year old commented from the peanut gallery, "Dude! (yes, it is the new vocabulary word of the week) You really DO have a MUSTACHE!"

Yes, I have a mustache. And, just in case you suffer from ASSburger syndrome (SIC intended) or a mild case of autism and cannot read social cues, I'm pretty f*n sensitive about it. It immediately takes me back to when I was 6 feet tall as a twelve year old and all those smart ass little boys calling me an Amazon.

So, I was standing in the mirror, ready to pull that wax off, contemplating all the girl-power in the family that those mustaches symbolize, wondering if my great-great-great grandmother in Sicily ever worried about such trivial B.S., and if not, if maybe that was where all the no nonsense, take no shit or prisoners, attitude comes from in this long line of bitches, when I grabbed and pulled.

All I can say, is it hurt like a motherf*er; I said words I would like to say my children NEVER hear, but do, and the stream of profanity was only matched by the tears that welled-up in my eyes. All deep thinking ceased, all thoughts of anyone or anything outside of my own realm of pain stopped. Me, myself, and I were all that mattered in the whole universe.

For all of my "connectedness," I could give two shits about how this hair on my lip ties me to the women I love. It seriously, honestly, PISSES ME OFF!

My Mother

I had a prof in college, Dr. Cooke, who taught Community Economics. He never ironed his clothes; he wore khaki shorts, terrible plaid shirts, and, always, dark socks that went half-way up his calves with white tennis shoes. He had crazy hair that reminded me of Jim Morrison's Alexander the Great haircut, but it always looked like he just got out of bed. I learned a tremendous amount from Dr. Cooke, Jim, I think was his name, but I didn't like him. He always picked my papers to read and start some huge argument in class, made me stand up and defend them (and I was SO DAMN shy it terrified me), and once kicked me out of class (I had NEVER been kicked out, didn't show up on numerous occasions, but never told to get out) and told me not to come back until I had a plan to save the down-trodden women of Tonga, but not before he gave me a budget to do it--of a meager $100,000.

His words that day, slap me in the face almost daily. He SCREAMED at me, "There is no such thing as a helpless woman!" Which, now, as I admit I think Dr. Cooke was a major dick, even after he took me out for a beer after giving me an 'A', apologized, and then proceeded to tell me to get my shit together and not wallow in a failed marriage, because "it doesn't make you a failure, you do it yourself," I am famous for quoting that statement to my daughters, my friends, my husband, and just about everybody. He told me to get the damn chip off of my shoulder, which REALLY set me on fire, because my mother has been telling me that since I was way too little to even know what she meant. And, like all mothers and daughters, I held the opinion that my mother, of all people, had absolutely NO business telling me not to be pissed. Who was SHE?!?

For the record, I don't have a chip on my shoulder, its the whole pile of bricks that built the goddamn house, because I KNOW how things should be and I know everyone else knows it, too, and it really just pisses me off that no ones does anything to make this world right. Yes, I have a lot of anger, which 15 years of therapy have taught me to somewhat manage. I still, on occasion, retreat to the garage and have "pitching practice," where I once threw my back out and couldn't move for three days.

But, my daughter turned 14 yesterday, and for some reason, this, to me anyway, is a right of passage for both of us. Mostly, because this is the age that my mother tracked me down and kicked my ass for "riding in a car with boys." She even brought my father into the tiff, which, for the record, NEVER happened before, and when I mouthed off, he pushed me into the sink. MY DAD! The one who had NEVER, EVER, in my life laid a hand on me--and hasn't since. This is the age when my mother went from being my best friend to becoming the dumbest bitch I ever had the misfortune of running into, and who wasn't able to redeem herself in my eyes, and then only partially, until I was 19 and my GEO Storm died in the dorm parking lot, and I had no idea what to do, except call mom.

I have written, a LOT, about the ways that me and my mom don't see eye-to-eye, and in a lot of ways, we don't. I always thought there was no way to ever please her--I got a "B" once and she wanted to get me a tutor; I never dressed right--"You waited SO long for God to make you a girl, why don't you dress like one?"; I never had a date to prom so she could help me buy the dress; I never cleaned the bathroom right; I drove her crazy because I iron left-handed, which is "backwards;"I had too much fun, didn't go the right college; I had no business having a job when my husband could give me a life at home with my kids which was ALL she ever wanted, and I never seemed to catch the guy matching my potential. In all of it, I would throw back at her, like spitting in her face, "I am the product of my environment!" Spat once with enough tequila bile, as she was volunteering to stay with my children for the weekend so I could attend my best friend's funeral, to make the hair on Satan's neck stand on end.

And, as I was standing in line yesterday, with teenage fashionistas, for over 30 minutes to get a dressing room at The Gateway Mall, and my 14 year old daughter was rolling her eyes into the back of her head at EVERYTHING I said, I pursed my lips, got a look, and stopped just short of uttering words that immediately told me I have become...yes, my MOTHER.

To say that I hold a lot of things against my mother is an understatement. I judge my mother harsher than I judge anyone, which is a confession, because I try to make myself not judge anyone, but am very guilty of being a judgmental bitch.

I give my grandmother a lot of credit for giving me an education, but in all honesty, I was driven by the desire to NOT be my mother. Give me a few seconds before you judge that statement.

In all of my life, I don't remember asking my mother, ever, what SHE ever wanted in life. I saw a very kind woman, a woman who would have given ANYTHING for her children, come home, give us hugs and kisses and tell us how much she missed us all day, then act like a crazed schizophrenic because nothing was taken out for dinner or I had forgotten to dust the plant stand. I watched a woman work menial jobs for minimum wage to pay bills she sometimes hid in drawers from my father, so he wouldn't know they didn't get paid, because she bought one of the kids the latest, best jeans. I watched her throw pans across the kitchen, because we had called my grandmother to bring us bread or milk. To my defense, we called grandma 'cause we knew Mom had enough to worry about. In her defense, looking back, I understand how it made her feel...somehow, inadequate.

Of course, my mother may have a different view of the situation, I only know from my perspective.

Back then, my mother was a helpless woman--in my eyes--and there was no way in hell that was ever going to be me. Not ever.

I just know that I watched my mother fall asleep in the chair at 5:30, unable to keep her eyes open after getting up every morning at the ass-crack of dawn to haul cement up a mountain at a mine or after a day of hanging drywall in the old house she turned into a home. I saw her tired, sad, and angry--because she felt she wasn't there for us. I saw my dad take the brunt of it for drinking, and I remember thinking, "Shit, I wish I could drink, too!" or, more often, "Leave his ass!" And, then, thinking she has three kids and no money. She can't go anywhere.

She's stuck. I will never be stuck.

I didn't understand, then, that she made a promise and really loved him and family was everything--the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. I now have enough experience under my belt, good and bad, to understand the choices she made. And, really, as much as I blamed my dad and then blamed her in the same sentence for choosing that plot in life, I now know what it all meant and the juggling act they tried to follow. I realize, now, after the fact, that my mother just wanted me to have the very best of all I ever wanted, and as much as she doted on my brother, "The Golden Boy" as we call him, I seriously doubt she had those worries about him. His track in life was a given, and for me and my sister, it was up to the cards--and we have many more to choose from.

I stood there yesterday, waiting in line at the mall--and trust me, the irony of Ani Difranco playing on the sound system was NOT lost on me (thank you, nameless, faceless, "Forever 21" employee)--with my mother's look on my face that always seemed to scream in silence "You fucking idiot" and wondered what my daughter will have to say about me when she is 25 and then again at 35.

I imagine it will be something about how I was never there, only worried about my career and trying to make more money than my husband JUST to prove a point, and she was left to pick up the pieces, just like I thought for all of those years about my mother doing EVERYTHING, despite the fact that my mother WAS there, in spite of my blindness, to talk to my friends about sex because their moms REALLY weren't available for THAT talk. Despite our differences, I could, and still can, tell my mother everything and anything, and its priceless.

I imagine it will be something about how I tried to get The Sha to buy the Lucky brand jeans for $90 instead of the $19.50 ones at WetSeal, just to show her I'm not gonna freak out and hide the bill, and how all I worried about was not being poor. How I didn't realize poor in character and poor in an economic sense are different, when my own mother taught me that a LONG time ago.

I imagine she'll tell her therapist she never got a birthday for three years, from 11 to 14, because she had bad grades, and her mother was a hell bitch perfectionist who freaked out when the birthday cakes didn't slide right out of the pan and spent tear filled hours feeling inadequate for not being "Ace of Cakes" every year on the birthday. I imagine, most likely right on the mark, she'll tell the same therapist about every fight between her mother and step-father and just how much she thought of me as an idiot. I imagine she will choose a life-path totally different from mine, in an effort not to become her mother, only to stand there, one day, open mouthed, knowing she's mine.

And, when it does happen, that day she realizes she has become me, and I'm not all that bad, I want her to know the greatest lesson my mother ever taught me--in spite of what you see or what I say or what I do, I'm here, always and forever; I love you more than my luggage; and even though when that doctor smacked you on the ass and I wanted to slap him back, right before I said you looked like Yoda, or when you were 14 and I wanted to smack you in the back of your head for rolling your eyes at me on your 14th birthday, I think you are the most beautiful and wonderful thing God EVER put on the earth, and I want nothing more than the best of what you ever want in life.

I want her to know, more than ANYTHING, I'm here--for everything. I'm sometimes tired. I'm a bitch--most of the time. I don't always make the right decisions, but for me, at the time, they worked. And, most importantly, when you're embarrassed I'm gonna call the DARE cop about you HAVING to wear a dress on Tuesdays and tell him that is bullshit, and you beg me not to cause a scene over "my silly" convictions, just remember, I love you more than life, and you are NEVER, EVER stuck or helpless.

I learned that, li'l missy--not from Dr. Cooke, even though he did show me what I already know--from my MOTHER!

Today's letter to the editor

Thanks go to Stanton Anderson (letter February 2) for opening doors like a gentleman, yet the bad manners of a few are no reason to blame societies ills on the advancement of women. As women become more educated and able to care for themselves, the evidence shows they have healthier children and benefit society, not the other way around.

I take issue with a man defining "true femininity," but agree it is a source of "strength, wisdom, and admiration." I just hope that the values of compassion, service, and nurturing are not limited by gender, and men who put them into action can someday be free of the stereotypes with which they are often labeled when they do.

He asked if the cry on the Titanic--"Women first"--would or should be given today. That command pertained to upper class, white women. Women without suffrage who could not own property, whose wages belonged to their husbands, and who were forced to abandon their children if they divorced. A command that left many poor, non-Caucasian people locked with the rats--unable to even jump or try to swim.

Mr. Anderson, feminists don't want to be more like men. We ask you to open doors for everyone regardless of gender, race, creed, social class, or orientation. We prefer the opportunity to vote for representation and the opportunity to address leadership regarding the lack of lifeboats on this ship, so that every mother's child is afforded an opportunity to save themselves.

Grandma's Eulogy

Quite a few people have asked for this over the last few days--well, over the last year. So, here is Grandma's eulogy that I gave at her funeral.

I've been given the job of trying to convey how much everyone loved my grandma, but my words could never do her justice. But first, I want to thank all of you for the love and support you've given all of us over the last several months. Thank you for coming and filling this place with love and joining us in celebrating the life of our sister, mother, grandmother, and most of all, friend. There is a lot of love here, and I want you to know, we return it ten-fold.

Sorry she was so mean the last few months; I know she'd want me to tell you that.

Anybody who ever says with a straight face that a person can't make it through life on her own blood, sweat, and tears, never knew my grandmother. There were plenty of all three for her. Grandma always said there was no such thing as a helpless person, and now I know why. Superwoman wasn't Linda Carter. Superwoman drove around town on the green machine and liked Shalimar. Superwoman had four kids to feed with a waitress's wage, and the only superpower she had was love.

Henry James said, "There are women who are for all your 'times of life.' They're the most wonderful." My grandmother was one of those times of life women. She was always there, more than willing, with that twinkle in her eye, to have the time of her life--swinging from chandeliers, getting caught skinny dipping (and yes, she did!), breaking the law by pitchforking kokanees out of the Mackay Dam...but most importantly, to lend an ear in the rougher times, and to take your side, even when she knew better.

They say everyone needs someone to love them despite all the evidence, and if you know her kids and grandkids, you know she was that person for us. We ran to her in those times of life--the good and the bad. She was the rescuer and the keystone in this family--as we grew and arched, we all leaned in on her. She wouldn't have had it any other way.

Jeneane broke the one and only mold when she stormed like a whirlwind into this existence on May 13, 1936--I'm pretty sure she busted out of that mold and broke it because she had to sit too long to cure.

She was born to her parents, Verda and Leland; she was joined in her life by five siblings--Elaine, Leland, Lela, Betty, and Josie. She attended schools in Idaho Falls, Carey, Mackay, and Moore.

When she was four years old, her father passed away. Her mother was 28, had five kids under six, and worked the night shift at the sugar factory to feed and clothe her family. Life wasn't easy, but they don't call them the greatest generation for nothing. Times were tough, but tough times make tough people and strong families. My grandma was damn tough.

My mom was almost in tears in the hospital 'cause Grandma was in so much pain, but she looked at Mom, pointed her finger at her and said, "Don't you DARE feel sorry for me!" And, its really a sad story the day they took her to the hospital that last time after she threw her walker cross the kitchen and stormed into the living room. But, I can't help but laugh. that was just Grandma, independent 'til the very end and madder than hell she couldn't do EXACTLY what she wanted. I think that's just about the only time she couldn't out will-power something.

Grandma was a fighter, and God watch out for anyone that said a cross word or picked on anybody she loved. She learned by example though--her mother put the gloves to the neighbor lady once for calling Leland that 7-letter word for illegitimate. Apparently, the neighbor was a large woman, and if you ever knew Grandma Paulus, you know she wasn't any bigger than a minute. But, she had that lady straddled on the sidewalk, so you know Jeneane came by it honest--not to mention the rest of us. Grandma's life mirrored her mother's in many ways.

One thing about Grandma, you never told her she couldn't do anything. "Can't" wasn't in her vocabulary. Leland was once left in charge of Grandma, Lela, and Betty, obviously before their reputation as a threesome was widely known, while Elaine and Grandma ran errands. Well, Lee decided he was going swimming with friends, told those three girls two words he'll never forget, "You can't," and locked them in the house. Seeing the unfairness of this situation, and realizing that the basement would make an awesome swimming hole (that's their story, I think they were proving a point), the girls plugged the sink and let it flood. Elaine and Grandma came home to a foot of water in the house.

You never messed with anyone she loved either, even if you were right. Grandpa Paulus was in the hospital in Salt Lake and Grandma Paulus was with him when Betty June decided to throw food at the boy sitting across from her in the lunch room at the old Moore school. Mrs. Malotte didn't think this was funny and tried to make Betty leave. But, Jeneane came from across the cafeteria and told Betty to "HANG ON! You paid for that lunch, and you CAN eat it! Don't let that old bag tell you, you can't!" So they both hung onto the table for dear life as Mrs. Malotte tried to drag them out.

Apparently this situation got even worse, and they were both kicked out of school. I knew Grandma after she got a lot tougher and meaner, and I can only imagine the hell she gave that Mrs. Mallotte. They both got a pretty good whippin', but I'll bet Grandma didn't care. She took one for the team that day.

You didn't make Grandma mad, either. She NEVER forgot. I think the maddest she ever got at one of her siblings was when Aunt Lela got a speeding ticket for following a cop when her speedometer was broke. They were working at the Royal Cafe at the time, and Lela wouldn't pay the ticket, because of the principle--following a cop 'cause she KNEW he wouldn't speed. Well, she went to jail, and Grandma didn't want her to lose her job, so she and the rest of the girls took Lela's shifts and saved all the tips to get her out of jail and pay the ticket. Lela wouldn't take the money. They still fought over that 10 years ago when I was tending bar. Grandma said Lela was just too stubborn--a typical case of the pot calling the kettle black.

On November 21, 1952, Jeneane married my Grandpa, Bud Gamett. She never went to school after her sophomore year. My grandma kicked herself forever for not finishing school and going to college. She always wanted to become a nurse, but never thought it was an option. "My mother couldn't get me there," she said. "And no one told me about financial aid or any of that. I just figured I couldn't go." She pushed us all to go, and if it wasn't for her, I never would have gotten that little piece of paper. She used to pay us for making the honor roll, she paid for books and tuition, and she always told us how important an education was. She finally got her GED when she was 36.

She was the mother of four children: Buddy, Randy, Judy Anne, and Brent. Brecia sat down with her after we found out how sick she was and asked who her favorite child was. Well, she dodged the question and instead said what she loved about them all. Buddy--he's the big mouth. He argues just to argue. Randy--he never talks at all. Judy--I boss around and tell what and how to do things. Brent--easy going, good natured, and let's everything I tell him roll off his back and then does whatever the hell he wants.

Let me just say that Grandma was all of those things and the apple never falls far from the tree. Big mouth? Jeneane had an opinion about everything and she wasn't afraid to share it. Never talks? That was Grandma is you made her mad--sometimes for months. Get bossed around? The Grandkids bossed her steady and she obeyed because she loved us that much. And, I think everyone else knew that Grandma was pretty easy going as long as you towed the line, and she sure as heck did whatever she wanted and HOW she wanted.

Her kids were her life and she loved them very much. Every decision she ever made in her life was made with her family in mind and their welfare first. She always told us grandkids we never knew how spoiled rotten and lucky we were. We still don't.

One Christmas, she didn't have enough money to buy any presents for her kids, so she and Bud raided the dump for bikes and trikes, took them home and sanded and painted them for the kids for Christmas. She used to steal their Halloween candy and save it for the Christmas stockings, and she says she was never able to buy her kids an Easter basket. If it hadn't been for the Bowden's, they wouldn't have gotten one.

She sold milk to make a little money, and my dad and Randy will tell you the worst beatings she ever dished out came after she'd send them to do the milking and they'd come back with nothing, because they got in milk fights. Milk went everywhere but the bucket. I asked dad how often he did that and got whipped, and he smirked and said, "'Bout everyday."

She was always able to look back on those days and laugh--even though she admits she'd be charged with child abuse today, and she says that it all made her a better and stronger person. She knew what it was like to go without, so when she was able to, she helped everybody she could--whether you wanted her to or not.

In 1968, her and Bud divorced, and she took a job at the Royal Cafe. She started running the Village club that same year. She used to give us dimes to play the jukebox, and she taught us to jitterbug on the tile floor in front of it.

Grandma was a HARD, HARD worker. Betty claims there wasn't a better spud picker around. Jeneane could fill her own bag and half of Betty's and be back from the truck before Betty got half a sack full. But, despite how hard she had to work, she claimed it was harder to be a mom in this day and age. "Kids don't know how to go without anymore," she said. But we all know that by kids, she meant her grandkids, and we never went without because she never let us.

She called us spoiled rotten, but she knew it was her fault and loved it. If there was ever something we EVER wanted or needed, and our parents couldn't get it--she made sure we got it. Even if it meant going behind their backs a few times. She always kept a few bucks in the sugar jar in case we needed money for a pop with friends or whatever, and besides tuition and books, she helped with divorces and lawyers, bail a few times (that wasn't me, BTW, my other Grandmother was called in the middle of the night for that one). She paid for sports camps, basketball shoes, trips, and she NEVER missed a single game, home or away, until she got sick. It was Grandma we ran to when we got in a bind.

Don't get me wrong, if you ever messed up, facing Grandma struck more fear into us than facing the good Lord himself. Nobody ever gave a better butt-chewing or could send you on a bigger guilt trip. She thought so highly of us, and bragged us up, and when we messed up, well, hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Jeneane.

Over the last week, I've gotten so many letters and emails telling me, "You're grandmother was SO nice, when nobody else was. I was down and out, and she always gave me a smile." She tried hard not to judge anybody, always said it wasn't her place to do it. She knew she did it though, and when she did, she'd always throw her hands up int he air and say, "Shut up, Jeneane. Just shut up!"

But when you needed a shoulder and someone to tell you to get it together--Grandma was the lady. That time of life woman. She didn't mince words and wasn't about to feel sorry for you...she always had the right words and a way of letting you know you were master and commander of your life. She helped in that way more than any other.

Sometimes, as her children in law will attest, she could come across as a busy body or like she was sticking her nose where it didn't belong. After Brent and Laurie bought their first house, she told Laurie she needed to move some flowers from one flower bed to another, 'cause they weren't getting enough sun. Laurie ignored her, only to come home a few days later and see that Grandma had moved them. So, Laurie moved them back, only for Jeneane to do it again. Her boys somehow managed to marry women as head-strong as their mother, and it led to some interesting family memories.

But, her heart was in the right place, and she was just trying to help. She always told me that she appreciated the tiny little bits of help she got, and she knew what it was like to struggle, and if she could make one burden a little less for someone, she felt her life was a success.

She was always trying to help. Giving money to the family whose house had burned, or who lost a loved one, or to someone who was sick and couldn't cover the bills. It wasn't just family she helped.

But, most of all, we loved to give her hell, and she loved giving it right back. Grandma was a fun lover, and she loved a good joke--especially at her own expense. She always bought the cereal our parents wouldn't, and we hung out at her place a lot after school, eating cereal and harassing Grandma.

Radley was just little when she bought him a rubber snake at Diers. She HATED that thing. He was helping her out in the tree farm and buried it then forgot about it. Three years later when he got home from school, she tore into him. "Radley! I found you damn snake!" she said. Apparently she got so scared when she dug it up, she fell on her butt.

The boys tied firecrackers to the fridge once (Drew was convinced they were going to give her a heart attack) and then demanded she get them cereal. First, she told them they weren't helpless and could get it themselves, but like always, they got her to do it, and she threw the fridge open in a fit and the firecrakcers popped. I think it did about give her a heart attack.

She had me, Adrienne, and Randy spend the night one time when we were pretty little, and as we were driving down main street, Randy kept telling her to spin a cookie. I was little enough I didn't even know what a cookie was, and she kept ignoring him--until she turned the corner by the bank and the bakery. All I know is that Adrienne and I flew from one side of that giant white Lincoln to the other quite a few times before we stopped, inches, and I mean INCHES, from the bank wall. I don't think we three kids have ever been that quiet as we stared gape-mouthed. She never missed a beat though, and she non-chalantly put it in reverse, mumbled "G-dang kids!" and drove home.

When we were little, I know she got a kick out of it when we acted up. She saw a little bit of herself in all of us, and Grandma loved a good dose of harmless mischief. If I had a nickel for every time she screamed "You G-DANG KIDS!!" I probably wouldn't have had to borrow so much money. But, she loved it, and would throw her hands in the air after marching around for a minute and then she'd get the giggles.

While she was in Chemo, she got a real kick out of chasing frightened children through Fred Meyer on her electric cart. she'd tell them she was a witch and they better get the hell out of her way before she ran them over. I'd talk to her on the phone and she'd laugh and laugh about it.

Grandma loved a good laugh. Her house was always full of laughing, hell-raising kids.

Her favorite hobby was flowers and her garden, and she enjoyed tending the little park on Main Street. We had kind of a running joke there for a while that in the summer, you couldn't recognize Jeneane by her face. She was always bent over in the flowerbed, so you had to look at her butt to make sure it was her. she had beautiful flowers, though, and she loved to play in the dirt.

She took care of everyone's yard--not cause she was asked either. She loved RoundUp, and, boy, did that cause some heated discussions.

She loved to gamble and play cards, and I think Aunt Josie always knew when a poker party was going 'cause all the Gamett kids ended up sick on the same Wednesday. Grandma always had to pick us up when we were sick, and we loved those poker parties! We all liked to play rummy with her, and she cheated, ALL the time, just so you know!

One thing I think everyone knew about Jeneane though, was that she didn't take any crap. My grandmother was known to chase her grandchildren with a broom, as Wes and Case can verify...and she broke one across Brent's back. Judy swears she had the speed of an olympic sprinter and is pretty sure the football team that was practicing across the street from the house the day she mouthed off and though she could out run Grandma will back her ups when she says Jeneane could run a 4 second 40.

Uncle Brent says that if you did something good you never heard about it, unless it made the paper. Then you got a laminated copy of the article from the Arco Advertiser. We had quite a laugh over all of the stuff that old bird laminated. But, like he says, if you ever did wrong, you never heard the end of it.

She raised four kids, worked her fingers to the bone her entire life, and i don't ever remember her complaining. If she knew how many times people have said, "Poor Jeneane," in the last seven months, she'd beat us for sure. She was always telling me, "Jeni, you bitch about your shoes until you see the man with no feet!" And I'm pretty sure, even at the end, she would have known someone that was having a harder time than her--in her mind, it was probably us.

People keep telling me, "You grandmother was a character!" Yes, she was. As the saying goes, "Good character is more to be praised than outstanding talents. Talents are a gift. Character, by contrast, is not given to us. We have to build it piece by piece, by thought, choice, courage, and determination." That is exactly how my grandmother faced everything in her and lived her life--with thought, courage, and determination. You don't get down and you never feel sorry for yourself. You put on your boots and you go to work and fix the stuff that needs fixed. I don't think there was ever a more determined woman that Jeneane on a mission.

Brecia was brave enough to ask Grandma if she ever wished she would have done anything different in her life, and all she said was, "I would have loved and appreciated my kids more."

But, love is not measured in amounts. You can't have more of it or less of it. You have it or you don't.

Love knows no limit to its endurance, no end to its trust, no fading of its hope. It outlasts everything. Love stands when all else has fallen.

Don't ask if you ever loved ENOUGH. The fact that you did, that you have it, is all encompassing.

I think grief is a secondary emotion. As we grow attached and learn to love people as much as we loved Grandma, that love grows and grows and grows. When people pass away, we mistakenly think there is nowhere for that love to go, and it swells up in our chest, and runs out through our tears, and we feel empty. Its like the keystone fell out or the pillar crumbled. But, love, unlike life, isn't impermanent. It is always and forever. It never dies, and it never fails, and it never, ever goes away. Love is the keystone. Love is the pillar.

They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery, and if we really want to show the world how much we loved her, we should learn from her example. Share your love. We have each other--the family she supported like the center stone. Lean on each other, and use that love to give you strength in the hard days ahead. Remember that the center stone was held up by the pressure of love and EVERY other stone around it. The stones in the arch hold each other up. Be that center stone for someone else. Share your stories with each other and with us; that's where your love of my grandma will always live on. When it overwhelms you, reach out to others and help. Look for that man with no feet. Don't cling to your love--build more arches. Use it to help the needy, the poor, the sick. Make the sad laugh. Tell a joke. Play a prank. Spin a cookie.

Please join me in a moment of silence in rememberance of one of those wonderful "times of life women." Love you, Grandma.

A mark on the label

Writer's block has severely been a plague. For a while, I've tried to blame this on a change of career path, instead of working against The Man, I became The Man and the burden of proving I can be superwoman--upstanding citizen, supermom that volunteers at pre-school, yada-yada-yada--has stifled my creativity. This isn't true. This line of thought allows me to run from my true feelings and avoid writing about what I really feel.

When Treasure passed away, I spent weeks, months really, chain smoking and writing every thought that passed through my head. I have to admit, it helped me cope and allowed me to move on. With Grandma, its been a little different. There is a part of me that wants to think she's just on vacation, and will be back shortly. A normal part of grief, but a part I haven't been able to get past, which is holding me back. I don't think I'll ever get the writer creativity back, until I get it out. But, there is also a part of me, that little demon on my shoulder, telling me to move on without it. I know better.

I'll never get back the writing until I get the thoughts out that linger in the twilight as I try to push them back into the darkness. Anais Nin said that the role of the writer is not to say what we all feel, but to say what no one else can.

A year ago, I sat here in the morning, chatting on Facebook, with several friends...all of them telling me to stop putting off the inevitable and head to Arco. I had promised my cousin that I would come help her take care of my Grandmother, who, two days prior, had been sent home from the hospital to die.

Months before, I woke up from a dream of scrubbing Grandma's bathroom with Ajax (she always had Ajax by the sink) while she laid in a hospital bed in the middle of her living room, hooked up to a breathing machine that I could hear in the background as I scrubbed a yellow tub. I'm not normally a superstitious person, but that day as the dream resurfaced, there was something that told me Adrienne and I weren't just going to spend the night with Grandma in order to try on her shoes and tap-tap down the hall before we watched a scary movie and couldn't sleep all night.

I drank a pot of coffee before I showered, and another after. I chain smoked, even though that is the habit that killed my grandmother. I did not want to get in the car. I could see her bald head and blue eyes--eyes that were cloudy the last time I saw her, the time we sat and watched soccer (in Spanish--something that told me she was dying before anyone else seemed to grasp it) and she kept falling asleep and waking up and telling me not to leave.

I remember I packed pajamas (the ones from U of I, back when they actually made you show up on campus for three weeks a semester to get a degree and grandma paid the tuition and gas) and nothing else--clean underwear, and a toothbrush, only because I remembered her being mad I didn't rinse out the sink that one time.

I remember arriving. The terrified look in everyone's eyes they tried to cover with stoic strength--something severely lacking in our gene pool. Grandma's room was blue; the lamp on the dresser was on, giving everything a green hue with its yellow glow. I remember thinking about art classes in 4-H--yellow and blue make green; yellow and blue make green. I sent my sister across the street with a check for a double greyhound--then another.

Adrienne and I were able to get Grandma to take her medicine for the first time i two days. I cradled her bald head in my lap--I remember how fuzzy her head felt, and the look of recognition in her eyes when I asked her to take it, and how she opened her mouth for us after. We didn't turn on the T.V., and I don't know why.

We sat at the kitchen table, in semi-darkness, listening to her labored breathing through the baby monitor, listening to aunts and parents tell us what to do. It's all surreal now, "If she dies..." I remember, for the first time in my life, feeling like an actually grown-up and thinking, "I am going to be the one that tells my dad his mother died."

And it happened.

The evening waned into night.

Aunts and uncles came and went.

I learned from cousins ALL the uses of a toilet paper roll and a dryer sheet.

Then, everyone left. Adrienne went outside to smoke, and I went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and saw the Shalimar. I sprayed it on my wrist and inhaled as I heard the door open and Adrienne come back inside. We were getting ready for bed, and as she entered the bathroom and I left, I took deep note of the quiet, went to the kitchen sink and grabbed the Ajax from under it to scrub off the perfume.

I opened the bedroom door, and the labored breathing was gone. We felt for a pulse that wasn't there. And, we looked at each other in shock--I don't know what came over me, but calm was a part of it. Grandma's mouth was open, and we tried like hell to get it shut, then as bad as it is, we kinda got the giggles when Adrienne said, so matter of fact, "Well, we could tie it with a hanky," and we actually started to methodically look for one. Then we stopped, mid-step, looked at each other, reality hit, then shock. I remember wanting tears that would not come. She looked so much better, so much NOT in pain--out of the dark.

And, I called my dad. There is not strength enough in me to do it on my own, and I only know that God gave me words I do not remember.

I remember sitting in the chair by the bed, and how warm she was. I stared at the wall and my life with her flashed in front of me, and still, no tears. Family came--Judy first.

I've seen television with muslim women wailing--part of their culture--and it was similar. I WANTED to wail, but nothing came. I rubbed her back while she held my grandmother and wailed. I had no tears.

My favorite emotion is laughter through tears, and my tears finally fell when my dad showed up. He came to Grandma's room and I left him alone there. My dad the rock, who when he reappeared and tried to make coffee, had a tirade and slammed the coffee pot, numerous times against the counter, and screamed at whoever had shut off the Bun--"You DON'T shut it off!! I have said this for weeks! Now we're an hour away from coffee!!"

The tears came, because I saw his pain, but at the same moment, I started to laugh. The irony of it all was too much. The mortician checking her pulse with wailing in the background as I sat there and told him I tried to find it. Probably the only person to ever look me in the eye and know I knew, as I asked him, "Can we please get her mouth closed, she'd hate everyone to see that...except she was proud of her teeth." Which made me laugh again when I said it. I think they all thought I was crazy, plus my dad worried about coffee when SO much heavy shit was going on.

I have a gift for disengaging and watching, and as I watched, it did turn humorous. Aunt Laurie looked at me and said, "don't tell him, but I shut it off!" And, finally, through the midst of our grief that had lasted months, we had a laugh. Even dad laughed when she said, "It was ME, Buddy! ALRIGHT?! I did it! Good God!"

And we sat there all night, remembering. We remembered in tears and we remembered in laughs and we remembered in-between, but we remembered. Even the cops showed up and remembered. Even as much of an out of body experience as it was, I remember thinking how much I LOVE my family--every single one of them. Family--they get you through it all.

My mom likes to say that Grandma heard all of us grandkids sitting around her table as she lay dying, laughing and talking about memories, and it gave her the strength to take her leave. She says she knew at that moment that we were all going to be alright.

I have a friend that says Adrienne and I were what she needed, she babied us so much, knowing our potential.

I don't know which is true. I sometimes wonder if the stories we were telling that night around the table gave her a heart-attack.

I do know, that I never gave her enough time, and I pray she has forgiven me that fault, like she did my many others.

I know too, that I cannot believe its been a year...it feels like yesterday.

Love, it gets cheapened and degraded by greeting cards and Hollywood and Disney telling us the only place to find that unconditional love is from a dream-like romance. That, in and of itself, is the stuff of fairy-tales. About as realistic as gnomes, fairies, dragons...

But, we are, always, blessed with people that really do love us, and in a way that makes romantic love pale in comparison. They love us, as the cliche goes, in spite of ourselves. They are privy to every horrible weakness and prejudice, and take our side in spite of it all. No conditions, no strings, attached. For me, on that level of love, I don't think anyone will ever surpass my sister Treasure or my grandmothers, and I mean that in all seriousness.

Friday, I walked into the Village for the first time since Grandma's funeral. It smelled better, but I wanted her to be sitting there at the end of the bar, to get up and give me a hug and a kiss.

Mom took the cover off the liquor rack, and I could still see Grandma's writing on a few of the bottles--the ones that don't get used much.

And, it reminded me of all the people she helped, me included. How we don't use all of our capabilities all that much--despite the potential she saw in us. I love those unused bottles, because, like me, they still hold her mark.

I dislike the ones that take up space she used to use, and look at me like she never existed--the ones that say I'm here on my own. No one is here on her own. Not ever. Someone nursed you, someone taught you to read, someone fed you when you could not do it yourself, physically, spiritually, or emotionally, and like all of those bottles in the cabinet, we're all connected by someone who gave us room and left a mark on our label.