MesmerEYES'd

Seven years ago this chubby, bright-eyed baby entered the world

and proceeded to take it all in.

She sees the world as her oyster.  Not such a bad view.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET AND SASSY HANNAH!

Grandma

I lucked out in the grandparent department!  I got the best! 

It is bizarre to comprehend that none of my grandparents are still living.  Grandma James was the last to go, the day before Thanksgiving, and althought I'm actually relieved for her (no more loneliness and dementia), I'm feeling nostalgic and grieving the loss of my childhood.

Grandma's house was not large, and yet, there was always room for everyone to be comfortable there.  It was a reflection of her devotion to her family.  There were pictures of her children, grandchildren, sisters and brothers, and in-laws hanging in almost every room of the main floor.  In her bedroom, small frames and collages.  In the family room, a large framed family photo.  In the kitchen, an entire wall-size bulletin board hung with pictures of each and every one of her children and grandchildren, updated regularly.

Every bit of storage space was dedicated to those she loved.  In the small kitchen cupboard/pantry, there was Jell-o, Junket, and always a box of Twix--which probably helped make that my favorite candy bar!  The limited counter space was ruled by sweets to share: a variety of freshly baked cookies next to the stove, and candy dishes (always full) under the china cupboard.  The back door closet was stocked with several kinds of soda pop.  The hall closet hosted the "sugar cereals".  Her fridge held goodies like Knox Blocks and squeaky cheese, and the freezer was packed full of cake rolls and popsicles.

Grandma's kitchen was her canvas.  Everything she created there was superb.  Her cookies were renowned, her donuts (made especially at Halloween) were heavenly, and her meals were comforting to the soul.  Even when I follow her recipes, I can't seem to capture the magical perfection of Grandma's cooking or baking.  I remember a time she stayed with us in California while Mom & Dad were traveling.  One rainy winter Saturday, Grandpa took us kids out to play, and when we returned, Grandma had lunch ready: grilled tuna sandwiches and hot chocolate.  That lunch filled me with warmth and contentment.  Sunday mornings, waking up at Grandma's house, my senses were overloaded: Music and the Spoken Word on Grandma's kitchen t.v.; pies already cooling on the counter; and bacon, sausage, eggs, and pancakes being served up on the table.  Sundays were good days at Grandma's house.

Across the hall from the kitchen was another closet, with a hanging lightbulb and pull chain, where Grandma kept her purse, and more candy and stamps, always at the ready to send a care package.  The hallway cupboard was stacked with coloring books and crayons for the grandkids.  Even her bathroom cupboard wasn't off limits.  As a girl I loved to explore that cupboard for nail polish and perfumes that she always allowed me to use.  In her small bedroom, where the double bed stretched nearly wall-to-wall, Grandma dedicated her bottom dresser drawer to a collection of Avon trinkets and other gifts, ready to give.

The thrill of Christmas started early in our house, as soon as the JC Penney Christmas catalog arrived in the mailbox.  Every year, Grandma would give each grandchild a $25 allowance, and we could pick anything out of that catalog, and Grandma would order it for us, wrap it, and send it along with a package of sweets. 

Every major holiday was heralded by a brown UPS package from Grandma.  Easter, Halloween, and even St. Patrick's Day prompted a package from Grandma, filled with homemade, brightly frosted sugar cookies, and packed with popcorn.  Anybody's birthday was everybody's birthday.  A birthday package included a gift for everyone.  As a young girl, I would get a small toy for my brother and sisters' birthdays, or, as I grew up, I came to expect a package of Mambas, wrapped in a $2.00 bill, wrapped in white tissue paper, and finished off with my name typed on a white sticker label.

Grandma didn't write much by hand.  She had a typewriter in the spare bedroom, and she used it often.   The sound of hammering metal typewriter keys will always remind me of Grandma (not that anyone hears that sound anymore).

 Grandma's basement was a wonderful toyland:  Dress-ups, dolls, tea sets, board games, musical instruments, books and Mad magazines, even a first generation Nintendo!  Also in the basement was an extra fridge and shelves full of preserved foods, plus stacks of Tupperware, ready to send home cookies and left-overs after family gatherings.

I can't think of anything Grandma owned that she wasn't willing and ready to relinquish to her children and grandchildren.

In fact, I got so accustomed to the idea that everything in grandma's house (and especially her basement) was for the use and pleasure of myself, that I got myself into a bit of mishcief one time.  When I was a teenager, I had two of my close friends visit me at Grandm'ahouse one summer when we all happened to be in Utah at the same time.  Looking to entertain ourselves in the basement toy room, we found some clothes zipped up in a portable closet.  Being silly, we decided to dress up and take pictures of ourselves acting goofy in the backyard.  Grandma must have seen us through the kitchen window--wearing her winter dresses, which she had stored for the season in the basement.  When we came back in the house, we realized our mistake by the look on her face (and quickly returned the dresses to their hangers), but Grandma held her tongue.  She didn't chastise, and she didn't hold a grudge.  There was no passive-agressive retribution.  In Grandma's eyes, we could almost do no wrong.

When I started my first year at BYU, I was so thrilled to be living close enough to make it to Sunday dinners and special occasions at Grandma's house.   I never left those events empty handed.  Grandma usually sent me off with a container of cookies.  And once or twice, I came home from classes to find a container of Grandma's cookies on the doorstep of my apartment.  (At first, I couldn't solve the mystery of how Grandma got those cookies to my doorstep.  But I believe that happened when her brother, Merlin, visited her.  He lived in Orem at the time, so when he headed home from a visit, she would ask him to deliver cookies from her to me, "next door" in Provo.)

After I married Doug, Grandma often sent us (him) home with her banana chocolate chip cookies.  He had mentioned to her once how fond he was of that variety, and she never forgot his compliment.

Growing up two states away from my grandparents felt like a true disadvantage.  I always wished to live closer and have them more available all the time.  After being away from Utah for several months at a time, I can recall closing my eyes and trying hard to remember the exact color of my Grandma's hair, and the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin.  Now I find myself far away from her again.  In the last two weeks of her life, knowing that she was leaving soon, I treasured the moments I was able to spend with her. 

The day before Grandma passed, I spent the afternoon with her, while Mom took Aunt Janice out for her birthday lunch.  While Olivia watched a movie in the other room, I lay down on the bed next to my sleeping Grandma, held her hand, and just stared at her, knowing that soon I would struggle to remember exactly what she looked like in person, taking in her soft cheeks and her soft white hair and the soft skin of her hands.  When Grandma opened her eyes, turned her head towards me, and smiled, she actually glowed.  I hope to never forget that scene.

It's hard to accept that my childhood is really over.  But somehow, this week, I seem to have heard that door click softly closed.  Even with five children of my own, I still refused to believe that I was really grown up.  Grandma's passing puts time and life into perspective.  

Moving forward, I hope to create for my children the type of family life that Grandma exemplified.  What greater gift could I give them?

June 12, 2016
One more story I must record.
When Grandpa passed away, Grandma never really acknowledged his passing--whether that was conscious denial or dementia, I can't say for sure.  One summer evening, maybe a year or two after Grandpa's death, I felt drawn to Grandma's assisted living apartment for a visit.  I left my children and Doug at home, and made the drive to Bountiful, stopping to buy a boquet of flowers.  The summer evening was still warm and sunny when I arrived, but it was close to 8:00, and when I entered Grandma's apartment, I found that she had already been tucked into bed for the night.  Grandma's hearing aids were off, and she hadn't heard me come in.  I watched her sleeping for a minute, and I didn't want to wake her, so I quietly found a vase and sat on the floor in her main room, arranging the flowers and leaving a note.  While I was at this task, I heard Grandma's sleepy voice call from the bedroom:
"Dad?  Is that you?"  {"Dad" is what she called Grandpa, her husband.}  I didn't answer, assuming she was talking in her sleep.  She continued: "Make sure you get you something to eat..." and then she drifted back to sleep.  It brought me to tears.  Dementia made Grandma's waking words and behaviors sometimes unpredictable and unlike herself during the last several years of her life, but in that moment, it was obvious that the Grandma I had always known was still alive, even if sometimes hidden.  Still worrying about her loved ones, and wanting to take care of them.  Such a precious memory for me!

Oh Christmas Tree

Months after Doug and I were married, I bought our first Christmas tree, on clearance the day after Christmas.  Artificial, of course, which is what I grew up with and was used to.  Several years later, when that tree was ready to be retired, and we had young children, we bought our first live Christmas tree.  It must not have been very exciting for me, because after that Christmas, we bought another artificial one.  This time, it was pre-lit!  What a great idea! 

But last year, only half our tree lit up, and so Fake Tree #2 was also retired. 

This year, Doug tells me that I promised we could try another live tree.  I don't really remember that conversation or that agreement, but I don't have a very strong preference at this point, so a live it is.

Traditionally, we decorate our Christmas Tree the weekend after Thanksgiving.  So this morning, it was time to find our tree.

I had just come home from a quick early morning Black Friday shopping trip, where I had purchased new boots for half the girls.  (I know most people are doing Christmas shopping on Black Friday, but some of us really needed some new footwear today, so I just couldn't wait.)

As it turns out, going to a Christmas Tree farm in new shoes is not such a good idea.  Lesson learned.

Obviously, Doug has done this before.  Only he was properly attired!

But despite the mud, we discovered the joy of picking out our very own, perfect Christmas tree!

It was lovely at the farm, but I'm loving it even more in my living room.  It fits perfectly, smells good, and just looks....well, real!

I can't wait to see it at night...