Remembering

Sometimes I forget. I forget the pain, the sadness and the anger that my family evokes deep within me. Most of the time I don't. Sometimes I forget the amusement I oddly enough find in our dysfunction. Most people will say they have dysfunctional families, but mine takes the cake. It goes so far beyond embarrassing, weird and sad that I actually laugh at it. What I always fail to remember is how very good it feels to sit with someone who understands. Who can laugh with me and not just because it's so ridiculous that there is no other way left to react, but because she understands, she has experienced it. SHE KNOWS. There is something that brings about a sense of peace deep within me when I am able to spend my time with someone who doesn't listen or speak of it out of sympathy, but as a way to remember our shared history.

My cousin was here last week and words cannot describe how very amazing it was to see her. We have not seen each other in 12 years, and I could probably count on one hand how many times we have seen each other in person. We do not talk often. But despite that, we have this weird, freaky cousin sense. We are a little over 9 months apart in age, our children are exactly nine months apart in age. We begin and end relationships with similar people at roughly the same time, with people that came into our lives through similar paths. We seem to have rough spells at similar times, and after talking about our parenting experiences, parts of it are eerily similar. A friend of mine who got to meet her said it was like looking at a shorter, more blunt version of me. Five days was nowhere near long enough.

I have spent so much of my life trying to let go or forget a large part of my fathers family that I forget how very much I love and cherish some of them. Why does it have to be the part so damn far away? Having Katie here reminded me how even in the parts of life that I have deemed painful, there is beauty and love, and something to cherish. And, she is just too awesome for words. I am truly blessed to have such wonderful people in my life.

The Grandma Jo memoirs. take 1.

My Grandma Joanne was a remarkable woman. She never learned how to swim, and never left the country, but she was smarter than most people I know. When I was little she taught me the magic of growing things in the ground to sustain us. She would dig the holes, in rows of tilled soil, and I would drop the seeds in. Together we would cover this little spark of life and water it. Within the weeks that would pass, waiting for something to grow, she would teach me about flowers, let me walk the dog, and bake me cookies or make me milkshakes. When the corn stalks were tall enough to tower over both of our heads (she was a relatively short woman), we would run up and down the rows of the green silk stalks, laughing. I can hear her whimsical voice, "Come find meeeee" as she disappeared around the corner of a row.

She taught me how to write my name, how to crack the eggs into the batter, and the proper way to cuddle up on the couch. She would embrace me, surround me, and hold me in what I remember as her M&M blanket. A crocheted blanket that was the color of M&M's, her favorite candy. We would lay there and watch National Geographic shows or the Discovery channel. She used to grow pumpkins every year. And when they were still green she would take me and my cousins out there and carve each of our names in one. Our very own pumpkin.

My grandma had a very comforting smell. Clinique moisturizer, sunshine, baking, and love. When I was at her house shortly after her death, I opened a drawer of her sweaters and I could smell her. It was as if she were right there with me. Holding me one last time. I wish I had taken the time to hold her, at least one more time before she left. To tell her I love her. To tell her how very much she meant to me, how foundational she is to who I am and what I hold dear in this life. Her patience was unmatched. Her guidance and nurturing are some of the warmest memories I have. Her presence was a comfort to me.

I felt her here tonight. I could smell her. Standing behind me like she used to when I was waist high, with her arm around me so that I could lean back into her. I used to love being that close to her. So close that I could feel her chuckle. So close that her love would wrap me up and keep me safe and warm.

There are times when you look at your family and think "Oh my god these are the most dysfunctional, rude, embarassing people on the face of the earth. How did I end up related to them?" They fart really loud while conversing about life insurance your late grandmother may have had without blinking an eye. They make off color comments referring to other family members sexual or criminal misadventures in the police station. While sorting out the marbles all the grandkids used to play with, they ask one of the mothers in the room how long it's been since they've held a pair of balls in their hand, in front of their children. They are the kind of family that you may be excommunicated from church if you attended with them, and always the first to drink too much at the reception, or act like they have. They remember any embarassing thing you have ever done and love to tell anyone who will listen, as long as you are standing right there. You think "Who the hell are these people?"

But then there are times when that assinine sense of humor saves your day like a fucking ray of sunshine. Those times when you know it is inappropriate to laugh but if you don't, your just going to crack. Lose it. Fly over the cuckoo's nest. Call it whatever you want, but there are times in everyones life where you laugh because it's all that is left to do. It may be a sign you are absolutely nuts, or that there is just enough sanity left inside of you to keep hanging on a little bit longer. One minute there are tears in your eyes because life without the recently deceased seems unbearable, and there is that family, picking their butts with that face that indicates they are mimicking the lousy service you are receiving in the restaurant, or recounting your parents awful teenage selves in a way that makes Dazed and Confused become icing on the rebllious and experimental coming of age cake, and you are stiffling laughter so hard that it makes your side ache. They are sticking their finger up your nose and you are biting your lip so hard you taste blood so that you don't snort boogers all over their hand. You look at them and think "Oh shit, I love these people. I wish they were here every damn day." A few minutes later they ask you a question and you are throwing salty assinise remarks back at them as your finger heads up their nostril.

And as you wipe the snot off your finger, onto their shirt that stuck after you removed your finger from their hairy nose it dawns on you.

"Oh shit. I am one of them."

But it's ok, because you kind of love them despite and because of their lesser qualities. And hope to god they do the same for you.

I always wonder what people will think after I pass away. What will run through their minds when they are looking through my life's paperwork for any future life insurance that I may have, or momentos that they want to take with them? Tonight we went to my grandma's house to find information we need for the death certificate and the funeral. Years of her life shoved into a drawer waiting for someone to pull them back out and dust them off. Pictures from a life she hasn't lived in 15 or more years. Evidence of creativity lost, hidden old habits, and a life filled with love. I opened one drawer full of old sweaters and I could smell her. It smelled like I remember it smelling when I would nuzzle up to her as a small child. She would pull me in close and surround me with comfort. I remember the way she would swish her plastic camping cup with her white russian it in, the way she would laugh under her breathe, and the sound of her voice when she was feigning a comical disapproval. I can feel her hand guiding mine when she was teaching me my letters. I can see the moo-moo's she used to wear, and I can still remember the way she used to savor chocolate when she would eat her hidden M&M stash.

I cannot believe the circumstances of her passing. I am still in shock. But I have to believe that she is happier. The last ten years of her life have not been the way she would have wanted to live. She is free now. She is Grandma Jo again. But I miss her more than one would think possible.

Thanksgiving wrapped in small revelations.

I can't really say that I "went home" for Thanksgiving because my dad's house has never really been my home. Especially since he got remarried. But it IS my dad's house, so that is sort of like going home, right?

A lot of people don't know that I have this other part of my family that is really wonderful, like my three sisters, my quirky grandmother, and my colorful array of cousins. The few that do know about my family on my dad's side know a little about the really uncomfortable situations, some of the drama, and a lot of my personal feelings and hesitations about the whole mess. To make it all really short, my step mom and I didn't really hit it off, and I quit staying there when I was about 15. (Quit envisioning screaming matches and one of us storming out though, it was more of a fade into the background as quickly as possible sort of transition.) Since then I have been back to that town on average of every 3 years. I spent a lot of time growing up being angry at my dad for not trying to make things better, and trying to hate or love my step mother. But the older I get, the less I do that. It's really nice. Yes, they have their down falls, but so do I. Oh lord, do I. About a year or so ago, I realized that I have forgiven them. It was such a relief to let it all go. And it completely changes the way I approach time with them now.

It's an odd sort of detached feeling that I was processing for most of the visit. I was a stranger among my own family. We have so successfully alienated each other, whether intentionally or not, that I don't really know them, they don't really know me. It is almost like participating in a foreign exchange homestay, with the added awkwardness and pretenses that come with being among family you don't know, but feel like you really should. I realized that a lot of my assupmptions or experiences with them may not be true anymore and it makes me wonder how they view me and my lifestyle. Honestly, I don't think I care too terribly much because I am at a point where I am happy and don't feel the need to justify much of my life to anyone. (Not that I wouldn't explain if asked in the right context...)

As I observed the little every day rituals they partake in, I realized how incredibly curious it all makes me. I wouldn't say jealous or envious, but curious. What is it like to be a teenage girl in a home where your dad comes to your room to say goodnight every evening, where family game night really happens, where your friends are welcome and frequent guests at the dinner table, and where everyone gathers to say a blessing before dinner? What is it like to come of age in a town where your basketball coach is also the sheriff and a member of your ward in church? A town where you can walk almost anywhere from your house? To grow up in a house with two parents there? I can't even fathom some of these things. I can see ups and downs in all of them, just as I can in the way I was raised, but it amazes me. It's all so....traditional, in a warm, peaceful sort of way. What is it like when there aren't people visiting? Is it still so happy and smooth going? Does it all still make sense or is it more of a burden or mask?

I left knowing these things 1) My dad is such a caring and sentimental person it makes me cry to think about. 2) My sisters are all so beautiful it's heartbreaking and smart that it's intimidating, but all in their own unique way. 3) My step mom works harder than anyone I know. She never stops. 4) The grandmother that never seems to age and always feels familiar has definitely aged, and didn't seem to know me at all. (One sign that things in that small town do change.) 5) I want to be a bigger part of it.