Last month, during our stay at Grandmama's house for Elizabeth's wedding, I found myself in the midst a brief stay in the memories of my youth.
With Grandmama some distance away in an assisted care apartment, my little family and I took up residence in her beloved little home, which has remained largely unchanged since her unexpected departure from it in August of last year, following a stroke.
Photos of her family that wouldn't fit in her new place (she has covered all the walls and surfaces with them - she lives for her family) are scattered everywhere still, along with old bibles and bible study whatnots, antique pictures of her own wedding 61 years ago laid out haphazardly on a little folding table in the living room, a hodge podge of nicknacks scattered all around from loved ones, miscellaneous notes from things she heard on Christian radio that she would later want to talk to various family members about and dozens of little recycled yogurt containers stacked neatly and ready for their next use. These are the stuff of Grandma today.
And then I saw the boots. Placed high up on a shelf, just off the kitchen.
Grandpa's old work boots. Grandma loves her keepsakes. She still wears Grandpa's old, gold-plated, stretch-band watch. I suppose she just couldn't part with these either. I can understand why. I doubt anything else embodies him so well.
It has been over eight years since we said our final goodbyes to him.
So, the boots opened up the door to that room tucked away in my mind, long draped and covered in dust.
My childhood is drenched in memories of my Grandparents and their old, long-gone dairy farm. For good reason. I spent much time there, particularly in the summers and then of course, every single holiday. Though it was hard work, and I complained about it a lot, it was a Huckleberry Finn existence come to life. Cows, horses, dogs, cats, cousins galore, haybales, ATVs, tractors, combines, plows, dilapidated barns, hillside sledding after big snows, mud fights after big rains, wide-open fields and country roads in every direction.
At the helm of it all, was Grandpa. His name was Lambert August. I always loved his name. It seemed to suit him so well.
He had an awesome, rumbly, slow-burn kind of laugh. His sun rose and set on a baseball diamond, whether it involved the Kansas City Royals, or his seven children, miscellaneous grandchildren and hired hands in the front yard of the farm house. He was a ferocious pack-rat and saved every nut, bolt and scrap bit of farm miscellany that crossed his path. He loved playing cards at the end of the day. He loved sitting back, with hands crossed in his lap and thumbs twirling each other, while visiting with family and friends even more.
He called me Sweetie Face. He always drew great delight from giving his grandchildren hugs and kisses in the morning then letting them know they had slept half the day away by waking up at the absurdly late hour of 8am. He fixed creamed eggs for everyone in the house each morning after the milking days came to an end.
He drew detailed road maps for anyone who needed directions, "just so you can get the lay of the land". He fixed my car. A million times. He liked ham sandwiches with butter and jelly. But, only a thin scrape of each, otherwise out would come: "I'd like some ham with my butter and jelly, thankyouverymuch."
He got up sometime before 5am every day to start the morning milking, then once that was done, he'd head out to the fields until it was time for the evening milking. In between, he taught us how to ride a horse, feed a calf, milk a cow, drive a tractor, bale hay and have an opinion.
He slept through virtually every Catholic mass I ever attended with him. As a child, I always thought this was very curious, as he seemed so intent that we all attend together, however now as a parent...um yeah, I totally get it, and I don't even have that wee milking bit to deal with.
And of course, no one will forget the vigil he kept for months beside Aunt Alice's (his youngest) hospital bed after the car accident that took her fiancee's life and nearly took hers.
One of my favorite memories though was when Grandpa, Grandma and I were on a flight together out to California. Our large and spread-out-far-and-wide family were all separately on their way to my Aunt Joyce's for Christmas. I think it was the year after my Aunt Carla, their third child, had passed away after a long struggle with brain cancer. He and Grandma held hands most of the flight and talked with me a good bit of it too. They had lived a lot of life together. I remember toward the end of the flight, Grandma turned to me and said with a catch in her voice, "These last few years have been the best of our marriage. It has been hard at times, but we've learned to let go better and focus on the good things in each other. That's the secret."
I was pondering this, through the filter of my own experience with their relationship over the years, when I noticed Grandpa reach up to wipe off his cheek and then squeeze Grandma's hand.
Of course, he had his faults too, like all of us, but I will leave them to the One who handles them better than any of us. Besides, I'd have to work to remember them now, which seems like a foolish exercise any day.
Out of all of it though, my most often recalled memories were of my last moments with him.
It was the summer of 2002. Finch and I had a newly minted relationship and were setting our course for marriage. My grandparents were selling their Kansas home and miscellaneous farming property, so an auction was underway. Finch was visiting for the weekend, as he was living in Colorado at that time. He came out to meet my family and we had our first official "date". He met Grandpa for the first, and last, time.
Two weeks later, Grandpa had a massive stroke. Over the next couple of days it became clear that the end was near. I drove down that weekend as all the family began gathering. It was pouring down rain. We each took turns staying with him in the hospital, but he was unable to move or speak.
My turn came, during the quiet hours of the night. It was completely foreign to see him so uncommunicative. It scared me. I half expected him to open his eyes and tell me about the fine care he was getting in the ICU, as well as all of the nurses and doctors names and where they were each from.
Mostly, I just held his still hand and sang to him. I have zero vocal prowess, mind you, but it seemed like something he'd want me to do. I also talked to him. Mostly about Finch. I told him more about our story, how we had met six years prior and why we had just now decided to give things a real go.
At some point early on during the few hours I was with him I realized he had started squeezing my hand at certain points. My mind exploded when it finally occured to me that he was trying to communicate. So, I asked him to give me two little squeezes if he understood what I'd been saying to him. There was a short pause, then...
out came two little squeezes.
I cannot describe what a gift to both of us those last couple of hours were together. I even sensed his chuckled grins, though I couldn't see them, as I carefully studied his face, committing the lines to memory for the long years ahead.
I don't remember all we talked about, but it was more about the fact that we both loved to talk and having two talkers being able to converse and be understood, even without words, was grace I'd never experienced before.
Then, a little while before my time with him was up, the squeezing started getting more and more erratic. I couldn't tell anymore that he was talking with me. I got very distressed. So I just kept singing Amazing Grace. It seemed to soothe him. In my silly Anne-girl head, I imagined I was singing him into heaven.
Later that night, while I laid in bed waiting for sleep, his imminent departure from my life bore down on me and I wept like I never have before or since. Life would go on. It would be good. It just wouldn't be the same brand of good. The missing would be terrible.
But then again, there was his life, his magnificent life, to hold on to too.
He passed away the next morning.
Finch drove all the way back to attend the funeral with me. During the service, we held hands for the first time.
This picture was at the front of the church with all of the floral arrangements, next to his casket. I had taken it just a few months prior, for the photography class I was taking on the weekends, using my Aunt Carla's old Nikon film camera. She had always been known as the photographer in the family.
I think she would have liked it.
