July 07, 2004
My dad called me yesterday when I was sitting in the park by the fountain, watching dogs and little kids play in the water, reading a book. My grandma, my mom's mom, passed away this weekend. She'd been sick for a long time, and when I was back in Phoenix dad said I really needed to get over to see her, since she probably didn't have much time left. I put it off for a long time, but the day before I came back to NY, I drove across town to see her. I'm not an awesome decision-maker. I don't have a lot of regrets, but I also don't have a lot of things I look back on and say, "Wow, thank God I did that." I'm glad I went and saw her. Really glad.
When I called to get directions to their house, my uncle warned me that she had "good days and bad days," and that she might not know who I was. She did, though. I assume it was a good day. She was laying in her room, surrounded by her dolls, her hair down and long like I'd never seen it before. She was scary skinny, no one was kidding about that. I held her hand. She seemed kind of adrift in time; I told her I went to school in New York and that I was going back tommorrow, and my out-of-state education was news to her, although I'm sure she knew about it because I saw her at Christmas when I was back. She was happy, though, genuinely excited for me. "I imagine you must have a lot of friends," and I responded that yea, I did. "That must be a wonderful place for you." Yea, I said, it really is. We talked about how it's different than Phoenix, then we got on the subject of my family, how my brother's the leading scorer in his hockey league and is almost as tall as me, how my other brother is almost as tall as the first one and is going to be a lawyer when he grows up, at least we think so, based on all the arguing and bargaining he likes to do. Every piece of news was greeted with an "Oohhhh!" of surprise and delight on her part, one of the things I'm going to keep about her when I've inevitably forgotten all the rest. Ten minutes of conversation would pass and she'd lose some of the things I'd said, so I'd reiterate, me in New York, John Paul and hockey, Matthew and his law career: "Oohhh!" "I just think that's wonderful." I remember she said that a lot. "I just think that's wonderful."
There was nothing lost or old about her eyes, and the way they were set in her face. From it I could reconstruct my aunts' faces, my mom's face. There's a lot about my mom I can't call up at a moment's notice, which makes me disappointed in myself, I spent thirteen years of my life with her, I should be able to replay her voice in my head but I can't, really. But from listening to my grandma (Nana, if you want to know the Pierson shorthand for my mom's mom. My mom's mom: Nana. My mom's dad: Gumpah (GOOmpah). They're German, whaddya want? My dad's dad and stepmom are Grammy and Bopah, my dad's mom is Granny) I could call up my mom's voice, her cadence. I could hear where it came from, it got stirred up. It's nice to know that it's still in there somewhere, gives me hope that we never really lose anything, it's just a matter of getting at it the right way.
I don't remember how we got on the subject, but she started talking about her upbringing in Twin Falls, Idaho (there's a great Built To Spill song of the same name.) My aunt, my cousin, Nana, and I went there when I was in, I think, fourth grade, a trip I had to remind her of. She told me how there wasn't a lot to do, how ranchers would drive their sheep by the farm and if one of the sheep had had twins, they'd leave one twin at the farm because if they kept both, there wouldn't be enough food (or something). She had one of these twins as a pet for a long time, until one day some high school kids horsing around at the edge of the property shot it. She says "crick" instead of creek. When we were in Idaho I peed in a crick. I remember that. Rock Crick. Some distant relative I'd just met yelled at me jokingly because apparently that's where their drinking water came from.
Later that night, I went to see my Aunt Julie and Uncle Graham, the uncle I'd talked to earlier. I talked about the visit, how it was a lot better than I'd braced for, how hey, at least you never had to come up with new topics of conversation, everything's news, right? Graham mentioned how she would tell these long stories, and the plotlines would tangle and contradict each other, how there was a lot about sheep and how she never had any sheep, according to my grandpa, I guess. Maybe it was all senility, but I want it to be true. I want her to have had her lamb. She had a pet lamb growing up on her farm in Twin Falls, Idaho. It's true. Can we all agree?
She raised a talented artist and an art teacher and a veterinarian who keeps no less than seven dogs, an iguana, and a tarantula in her house at all times and my mom, who did something with computers, but still managed to be the bravest person I'll ever know. Two of her children died before she did but she would never tell you that life was anything less than wonderful, a worthwhile enterprise. We used to go to her house for Christmas and play football with grapefruits that had fallen off the giant tent-like tree in the front yard. I can hear the leaves crunching under my feet. I can't remember a lot but for whatever reason I remember that.
My dad said it'd be hard to fly me back for the funeral (which was today); I think he might've been trying to let me off the hook. "I know you have your show," he said, and also that he'd pretty much already let people know I probably wouldn't be there, and they understood. I said yea, that was okay, he didn't have to try and fly me out, and I feel bad about it, but I'd feel worse if I'd never driven across town and held her hand.
Posted by DC at July 7, 2004 02:23 AM