In Memoriam

My grandmother passed away early last Monday morning.  She was 90 years old.

My grandmother, called Gram, and I were never very close.  Part of this definitely had to do with distance—my family lived in Texas, then Alaska, then Washington.  Meanwhile, Gram lived mostly in Montana, with some lengthy stints abroad; she accompanied my granddad to Yemen where he did some sort of agricultural work.   Later the two of them traveled as missionaries to Europe.   After Grandad’s death, she spent some more time as a missionary in the southern United States.  In my pre-internet, pre-cellphone childhood, letters came infrequently and phone calls were expensive.  There were visits, but they were always short.  Too short.

I do remember her coming to stay with us when my mother had surgery.  It was right after my eighth birthday, and she took me to Fred Meyers to spend the birthday money she had given me—a dollar for each year.  I bought a package of Lip Smackers chap sticks. 

On another visit, she went on a walk with my dad and me.  We passed a section of sidewalk that had a footprint of a dog in the cement, and she made up a story about the people chasing after the naughty puppy that had gotten away.  I still think about that story every time I walk or drive past that spot. 

It isn’t that there weren’t other visits, there were.  She came along on a family vacation to the seashore once, and we visited her a handful of times in Montana.  Eventually, she moved to Utah while I was there attending BYU, and we saw each other more frequently.  It’s just that we didn’t know each other.  We spent the past four years trying to build the relationship that should have already been there.

I often wished she had been a greater presence in my life—that she had been there to applaud at my school plays, to bake cookies, to have sleepovers.  I realize now that the problem with that wish is that I wanted her to be my idea of what a grandma should be, rather than understanding who she actually was.  I didn’t understand the years of hard work, of poverty, of generous service to others.  I didn’t understand the loneliness of her motherless childhood, the loneliness of being widowed, the loneliness of growing old.  I didn’t often think about what I could do for her, but instead about what she hadn’t done for me.

But you know what?  She loved me anyway. 

I think she knew I loved her anyway, too.  

my last visit with Gram, late June of this year 

Tonight, Miss Meatball wouldn't (or couldn't) go to sleep.  

Children that do not go to bed when they are supposed to are one of my pet peeves.  Sometimes it makes me so frustrated I could swear.  Sometimes it makes me so frustrated that I actually swear. 

Tonight was different. When I picked up my screaming baby and she looked at me with her big eyes, I felt an overwhelming sense of contentment.  

We walked outside in the evening quiet, up one side of the street and then down the other. The stillness was like my favorite Wordsworth sonnet: "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free / The holy time is quiet as a Nun / Breathless with adoration."  I stood on the front lawn, watching the pencil-line of moon brighten until I felt Miss Meatball's tightfisted grip on my t-shirt loosen.  She was asleep.  

Crescent Moon & Treetop by CmdrGravy 

Summer at the Library

our library books for the week 

I am a big fan of public libraries.  To me, summertime and the public library belong together.  Just like watermelon or running through the sprinkler, frequent trips to the library are an important part of summer.  Growing up, my mom would take my brothers and me to the library often during our summer break; I remember the feeling of my chin pressed against my towering armful of books, trying to balance them all as we walked out of the cool library into the over-bright parking lot.

Our local library here is small--it's a branch library.  And if it does have an out-dated collection of records (Barbara Streisand circa 1970, anyone?) and too many romance novels, it also has a pretty decent selection of books.  Even though neither The Buster or Miss Meatball are big enough to read to themselves yet, we are all loving the library's summer reading program.  For the program, we're doing lots of simple activities like reading picture books together and learning nursery rhymes.  It's a lot of fun.

Warning:  This is where I climb on my soapbox for a minute.  I have pretty really strong feelings about the importance of childhood literacy, and firmly believe that one of the best things we can do for our kids is to teach them to love books.  Have you heard about emergent literacy? It's important.  Read to your kids!  Take them to the library!

Anyway, we're loving the summer reading program here, especially the library-sponsored activities.  For such a small library, the activities they have really are impressive.  Today's activity had The Buster near hyperventilation out of excitement.  Several large trucks, including a drilling rig, a fire engine, and a tow truck, all parked in the library parking lot and the kids got to see them up close.  We're talking sit-in-the-driver's seat-touch-the-controls close.  The Buster was in heaven.          

The Buster takes the wheel

checking out the drilling rig with its friendly driver

fire engine controls

Anybody else signed up for their summer reading program?  I hope you are, even if your kids can't read to themselves yet.  I'd love to hear what kind of special activities your library hosting this summer!