(Buckle in. It’s going to be a long one.)
I spent the past weekend at my Grandma’s house to help her out while she recovered from a heart attack. The heart attack came as a shock to all of us, most of all my Grandmother. Even as she was being wheeled out of the hospital (an emergency operation and two stents later), she insisted the doctors were wrong. According to her, what she’d had was indigestion; she didn’t have heart attacks.
It was strange taking care of Grandma instead of her taking care of me (though, let me be clear – she didn’t need much help. The woman is pretty amazing). I’m not much of a cook, so I was glad to see others had stepped up in that department. Her fridge was stocked with homecooked meals her friends prepared. She has a lot of good friends. I warmed up meals, made freshly squeezed orange juice (first time in my life), and kept her company while she attempted to relax on her coach. We watched Dr. Phil and kept cozy next to the fireplace with our matching throw blankets.
A side-story about the orange juice: The first night I was there, Grandma put a glass contraption on the counter. I’d seen it before and recognized it as something to “help” make freshly-squeezed orange juice, though I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Grandma pointed to the oranges on the counter and mentioned how good freshly squeezed orange juice was. I smiled and told her I’d make her some for breakfast the next morning. Next morning, me in the kitchen and Grandma getting herself ready in the bathroom, I made a simple breakfast and tried my hand at making the juice she’d been raving about.
I squared my shoulders as I stared at the juicing thingamajig on the counter. I could do this. I sliced the first orange in half, pressed the juicy insides down atop the glass gadget, and turned. Sure enough, the juice seeped out of the orange and down the sides of the contraption until it found its resting place in the bottom of the bowl. One orange in, what I saw looked like orange juice, but it was such a small amount of juice. I figured there must be more to it than that.
I sliced open the second orange and repeated the process of pressing, squeezing, and rotating it over the apparatus. The bowl looked a bit fuller now, so I poured its contents into a glass. The amount of juice was unimpressive. I started to doubt myself. Perhaps you add water? So (confession time), I googled it: How to make freshly squeezed orange juice. Turns out, you squeeze the juices out of the orange. It just takes at least four oranges. Luckily Grandma was fixing her hair and didn’t come in until breakfast and the less-than-full glass of orange juice was set out for her.
My Grandma and I did a lot of visiting. When my sister arrived on Saturday, she joined in. We discussed antiques, decorating, and family history. When relatives or friends called, or stopped by to visit, many stories were repeated. Some even embellished, perhaps; but I didn’t mind.
We also talked past relationships. Hers of course. When I recalled one particular boyfriend of hers, I mentioned, “I really liked him, but I know you thought he was too old for you.”
To this, Grandma responded, “He was too old. He fed the birds.” She said this as if it was the only factual evidence needed for determining a person’s old age.
My sister asked how Grandma met her current boyfriend. We’ll call him “Fred.” They met at the community organization she loves, of course. Fred was standing next to a stool when Grandma walked into the lodge. She noticed him gawking but acted like she didn’t see him. “I was busy shaking hands and kissing babies and all that kind of stuff,” she laughed. She stood next to him to watch the dancing, still pretending not to take notice. When he introduced himself, she told him her name was “Ella.” Note: this is NOT her name. She danced with him a couple times. I heard about his good rhythm about four times. “He was hitting on me,” she claimed. She also claimed to only drink water. I keep teasing her the “real truth” is coming out when I write a book about her someday. She ordered a bottled water and said, “Put it on his tab,” pointing to Fred.
She noted Fred was smitten from that point on and told her as much. “You wanna run me off, keep talking that way,” she told him.
Despite Grandma’s less than friendly introduction, her and Fred saw a lot of each other over the next several months (of which most of the time he was still convinced my Grandma’s name was Ella). Fred was from out of town, so he would have to get a motel room for each visit. Finally, my aunt told Grandma that it was terrible Fred came all that way to see her and my Grandma didn’t invite him to stay at her house. My aunt noted that he was nice enough that Grandma could let him stay. Grandma agreed with her. What she didn’t say, was she was going to make him stay outside.
“It was probably July. Might have been August. I don’t know, it was pretty hot,” she told my sister and me. She blew up the air mattress and gave him a thick sleeping back (he claimed, according to her, was made for Siberia), went back inside, locked herself in, and went to bed. “It was so hot, so he kept kicking the sleeping bag off. When he did, the mosquitos were all over him, so he flopped the sleeping bag back on.” She said he told her the most miserable night he had in his life was in her backyard. “Everybody knows you blow up the air mattress tight, then when you lay on it, you let out the air until you get it right. [Fred] had never slept on an air mattress, so he didn’t relieve the valve and he laid there all night like he had rigor mortis.” According to Grandma, he claimed the mosquitos were three inches long. “We did go out for breakfast the next morning,” she said, as if this somehow made it all better. They’re still together, so I guess it did.
Grandma has a quick wit and a dry sense of humor you don’t always catch if you’re not paying attention. She masks it behind the pretense of misinterpretation (aka “blonde moments”). For instance, on Sunday morning I came upstairs to where she was sitting at the breakfast table. “Could you hear me singing in the shower?” I asked.
“Oh, is that what that was?” she asked wide-eyed. She didn’t smile, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away that she was giving me a hard time as opposed to being confused.
With her humor comes what I’d like to call Grandma-isms. Some of my favorites were:
“I like everything old but me.”
“I don’t belong with people my age.”
“They can’t even do the flip-dip-mop-and-drop.” I think she was very serious about this one. Apparently, it’s a collection of dance moves she believes any good dance should master. She has a shirt for it and everything.
Speaking of dancing… The organization she belongs to was to have a “float” in the local parade (a truck decorated to advertise the organization and an upcoming dance). Each year Grandma helps decorate the float and (of course) rides on it. After being released from the hospital, several of her friends from the organization stepped up to decorate the truck and to be in the parade. Grandma was excited, but she was also bummed she wouldn’t be able to see it. She talked about it off and on Saturday. She also made a few phone calls to ensure the lights were being strung correctly, etc., etc. That evening, about the time the parade would be ending, Grandma received a text. After reading it, she scurried into the living room and changed the T.V. channel to the evening news. “My friend texted and said they’re going to be on soon,” she said excitedly.
We focused on the news, but the local news was over, and the national news was on instead. “Are you sure, Grandma?” I asked.
She read back the text: Look for us soon.
While reading the first text, another text came in. Grandma read it to herself. “What is ETA?” she asked.
“Estimated Time of Arrival,” my sister told her.
“Okay, they said ETA 10 minutes. The must be on the news in 10 minutes.”
That didn’t sound right. I had Grandma re-read the text message. “No, Grandma,” I told her. “They’re bringing the parade float to you.”
She was so excited. She jumped up (unadvised after her recent heart attack and subsequent surgery), brushed her teeth, threw on her coat and waited. In about 15 minutes time, the decorated truck pulled up – music blaring. Now my Grandma is not a crier. She lost her dad, two brothers, and a daughter in less than five years’ time, and I never saw her cry. She was broken up of course, but in times of trouble, the woman feels the need to be strong for everybody else. But here on the street corner, surrounded by her friends (most of them my age because, again, she’s not meant to be with people her own age), seeing this outpouring of support they offered solely for her – she cried. I cried. If it would have been light outside, I’m certain I would have discovered there wasn’t a dry eye amongst the crowd. She invited them inside to get warm. The ladies came in while the menfolk found private bushes to pee in. Cowboys. They were a fun crowd. The whole ordeal meant the world to Grandma.
A treasured moment was sharing my writing. My sister brought Grandma my second novel. I signed it. She stayed up late to read part of it and informed me the next morning, “My blood pressure is higher than usual this morning.” Oops. The book may NOT be what the doctor ordered. We did have a good time taking some pics of her reading it, though (as you can see from the main pic on this blog).
We shared food and more food. We both like to eat. A classic Grandma-ism was when she announced, “I’m going to teach you how to cook.” I humored her. We made an awesome meatloaf together. Then she introduced me to her favorite snack – a big spoonful of peanut butter rolled in chocolate chips. I knew I should have told her, “No,” (I’m guessing peanut butter isn’t the best snack after a heart attack) – but hey, you try telling this strong lady “no.”
Grandma and I also shared music. I think she’s finally coming around to the idea that Ed Sheeran is indeed adorable – mop of red hair, freckles, and all. This was no small victory – I’ve tried to convince Grandma of Ed’s greatness in the past. She also pulled out a banjo I wasn’t aware she used to play. Turns out there are many things I never knew about Grandma.
But that wasn’t my biggest take-away from the weekend. What was it, then (you might ask)? The thought that kept surfacing was to “take time to appreciate the time.” I’m always on the go. So is Grandma. But over that weekend we were able to slow things down and enjoy the time we had. I heard a lot of great stories – some for the first time; some for the hundredth. Even the stories I had heard many times before, this was the first time I took the time to really listen. It was a pretty amazing weekend. I’d write more about it, but I think I’ll save it for the book. Or books. I have a feeling the woman is going to need a full series.