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.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Love and Grandmas
I haven't really been me since my Grandma died. I haven't written a single thought since I wrote her eulogy, which is odd for me. I used to write everyday.I don't know why.
Before, I was scared of death, probably because I've lost so many people over the years to violent and tragic accidents that I just had this aweful, painful, and scared view of it. To be completely honest, I'd never seen a dead person before that. I always refused to look; I guess, because in a way, if I couldn't see it, I didn't have to believe it. Not believe it all the way, anyway.
But, I was with her when she died, and I know, after seeing her in so much pain, that she was alright. The pain was gone and as cliche as it sounds, she finally looked peaceful. I was grateful for death for the first time in my life. A part of me found a great peace in it. I was thankful for it.
Terry Tempest Williams said, "If the desert is a holy place, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every trip to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found."
I've been able to sit in the desert almost everyday, sometimes in the snow, and look at the sky and breath. I've been able to watch the sun come up and paint the Buttes pink and orange, and smell the sagebrush, and remember better days and be reminded of how much I love what most think is waste. I was lucky enough to be able to sit on the banks of the Big Lost in the middle of nowhere, where no one else is allowed to go, and listen to the river and smell the wild roses blooming beside me. It reminded me that I have family and place and Love. The beauty of love is that it is something that is given. You can acknowledge it being given, but the only love you hold is the love you are capable of giving.
I was lucky to be able to tell my grandma I loved her and she was able to know what she meant to me. I'm grateful for that opportunity since I missed it with so many others.
I guess what bugs me the most, is looking at my other grandma, the one still living, after writing that eulogy.
These are the women that taught me to be strong. They made me walk for hours with books on my head so I wouldn't slouch and told me that no matter what, I had to be strong and proud and able to take care of myself because no one else was going to do it. They taught me the value of love and kindness and never to look down on anyone, but instead to get down to the same level and give a sister a push to her feet.
What bothers me, is looking into both of their eyes and seeing a life of regrets. I can't stand seeing my once proud grandmother drown herself in whiskey because my grandfather left 20 years ago. I hated watching my other grandma become mean and bitter. Love isn't supposed to make us feel that way.
I am a firm believer that my Grandma Jeneane sacrificed a lot of her wants and desires in life to make a better life for her kids. It's crazy, but I think she would have fought the cancer a lot harder if she hadn't have fought that stupid divorce. My Grandma Renae sacrificed everything for the love of a man who walked away from everything for someone else. They gave everything to people who didn't deserve it and didn't love them like they deserved to be loved. It makes me angry, but more than that, sad. They gave more than love; they gave their lives and refuse to acknowledge all the love that is still around them.
My Grandma Renae turned 74 last weekend. She can't breathe enough to walk to the patio, and what scares me is she doesn't care. I think she wants to die whereas my other Grandma, as we were walking across the parking lot one day, looked at me and said, "You know, its sad that it takes someone telling you you're gonna die before you realize how great life is. Look at the sky! What a beautiful day." She wasn't ready to die.
I helped my grandmother to bed last Sunday, and helped her with her nebulizer since she shakes too bad to get it in her mouth. She was shaking pretty bad, and said, "I'm sorry," as she started to cry. I wiped her tears and helped her with the oxygen, but the look in her eyes told me it was more than the shaking she was apologizing for. I think she feels shame, but I'm not sure for what. Maybe its that she's never been as proud as she let on; I don't know.
But, I can't help but look at my own life and wonder--what will I regret when the reaper calls?
The part of myself I think I've found in the desert over the last several months, is the one that finally realized that I'll probably have a lot of regrets in life. But, no matter how much it hurts in the end, or how many pieces my heart breaks into, or what I sacrifice for it, I'll never regret loving anyone with all of my being. Nothing lasts forever, not even broken hearts. There's a plan behind every heartache, a lesson in every loss. Life is too precious and short. Love is the only thing no one can take away from us--not even when they leave--and it's too sacred to allow it to turn bitter.
Before, I was scared of death, probably because I've lost so many people over the years to violent and tragic accidents that I just had this aweful, painful, and scared view of it. To be completely honest, I'd never seen a dead person before that. I always refused to look; I guess, because in a way, if I couldn't see it, I didn't have to believe it. Not believe it all the way, anyway.
But, I was with her when she died, and I know, after seeing her in so much pain, that she was alright. The pain was gone and as cliche as it sounds, she finally looked peaceful. I was grateful for death for the first time in my life. A part of me found a great peace in it. I was thankful for it.
Terry Tempest Williams said, "If the desert is a holy place, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every trip to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found."
I've been able to sit in the desert almost everyday, sometimes in the snow, and look at the sky and breath. I've been able to watch the sun come up and paint the Buttes pink and orange, and smell the sagebrush, and remember better days and be reminded of how much I love what most think is waste. I was lucky enough to be able to sit on the banks of the Big Lost in the middle of nowhere, where no one else is allowed to go, and listen to the river and smell the wild roses blooming beside me. It reminded me that I have family and place and Love. The beauty of love is that it is something that is given. You can acknowledge it being given, but the only love you hold is the love you are capable of giving.
I was lucky to be able to tell my grandma I loved her and she was able to know what she meant to me. I'm grateful for that opportunity since I missed it with so many others.
I guess what bugs me the most, is looking at my other grandma, the one still living, after writing that eulogy.
These are the women that taught me to be strong. They made me walk for hours with books on my head so I wouldn't slouch and told me that no matter what, I had to be strong and proud and able to take care of myself because no one else was going to do it. They taught me the value of love and kindness and never to look down on anyone, but instead to get down to the same level and give a sister a push to her feet.
What bothers me, is looking into both of their eyes and seeing a life of regrets. I can't stand seeing my once proud grandmother drown herself in whiskey because my grandfather left 20 years ago. I hated watching my other grandma become mean and bitter. Love isn't supposed to make us feel that way.
I am a firm believer that my Grandma Jeneane sacrificed a lot of her wants and desires in life to make a better life for her kids. It's crazy, but I think she would have fought the cancer a lot harder if she hadn't have fought that stupid divorce. My Grandma Renae sacrificed everything for the love of a man who walked away from everything for someone else. They gave everything to people who didn't deserve it and didn't love them like they deserved to be loved. It makes me angry, but more than that, sad. They gave more than love; they gave their lives and refuse to acknowledge all the love that is still around them.
My Grandma Renae turned 74 last weekend. She can't breathe enough to walk to the patio, and what scares me is she doesn't care. I think she wants to die whereas my other Grandma, as we were walking across the parking lot one day, looked at me and said, "You know, its sad that it takes someone telling you you're gonna die before you realize how great life is. Look at the sky! What a beautiful day." She wasn't ready to die.
I helped my grandmother to bed last Sunday, and helped her with her nebulizer since she shakes too bad to get it in her mouth. She was shaking pretty bad, and said, "I'm sorry," as she started to cry. I wiped her tears and helped her with the oxygen, but the look in her eyes told me it was more than the shaking she was apologizing for. I think she feels shame, but I'm not sure for what. Maybe its that she's never been as proud as she let on; I don't know.
But, I can't help but look at my own life and wonder--what will I regret when the reaper calls?
The part of myself I think I've found in the desert over the last several months, is the one that finally realized that I'll probably have a lot of regrets in life. But, no matter how much it hurts in the end, or how many pieces my heart breaks into, or what I sacrifice for it, I'll never regret loving anyone with all of my being. Nothing lasts forever, not even broken hearts. There's a plan behind every heartache, a lesson in every loss. Life is too precious and short. Love is the only thing no one can take away from us--not even when they leave--and it's too sacred to allow it to turn bitter.
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