Illusions of Grandeur (or Visions of Grandma)

No, there is no error in the title.  I'm not deluded concerning big things.  But, I might be seeing big things in this overworked brain of mine that simply can't be translated from gray matter onto the surface of cyberspace at this time.  Two nights in a row, once from Grandma Opal's in Modesto and once from Brother John's in Merced, verbose entries replete with description and emotion ran across my mind but they fell just shy of my fingers.  Though my eyes are actually at fault, I believe, tired as they have been.  Jetting from town to town, and from place to place within each town, soaking up the images and words of each precious person, memorizing events as they unwind, deciding how to put it all into letter bites and bytes, will wear a body down.  Regardless of determination, discipline, and the drinking of 'energy.'

So, the blog ran dry.  But I'm back at Starbucks in Napa, this time trying out the Trancas Street location.  Not bad, but my corner seat in the Soscol Avenue store is a more natural fit for me.  Plus, I'm closer to Gary.  That works for this sister.

When I left the Sweigard house, all was quiet save for the Merced Irrigation District manager who was busy spiffying himself for the long work day ahead.  Last night, my spirited young niece, Allison, cried herself to sleep because her little white kitty has been missing since the 4th of July weekend.  She printed bright yellow fliers to distribute to neighbors: fortunately I had snapped a few precious shots of her with the slender slightly-damaged-at-birth feline last week . . . she planned to print and affix the best picture to her fliers this morning.  Even my generally stoic-toward-pets brother has been out of sync since kitty's disappearance.  We're all hoping a neighbor took her in because it happened once before and she doesn't have a collar or identification.  As the owner of a highly active indoor-outdoor cat, I'm well aware of the most realistic outcome in this scenario.  These are the emotional risks implicit to pet ownership.  Still, that doesn't make it any easier.  Especially on kids.  But I do believe it is a healthy way for them to learn about the very real aspects of life and death.  It is our condition.

Tuesday and Wednesday of this week were dedicated to my 90 year-old Grandma Opal.  She's a dynamo who has only recently begun to show signs of truly slowing down.  Her arthritis.  Her hip.  Her peripheral vision.  The sudden sleep into which she falls if she sits in her comfy chair at any time.  Some memory loss according to her, but that brain is still knife sharp where family history and curiosity are concerned.  And, she sent an entire loaf of moist flavorful carrot bread which she had baked with me for Gary.  I admit to consuming almost half the loaf during my visit with him today!  A close friend of hers can expect a batch of her famous homemade fudge in the next couple of weeks as a gift: Granddaughter Misty agreed to handle the heavy pan for her grandma.  Her reduced-capacity still blows many folks' full-on efforts out of the water!  Her yard and garden are yet under her attentive care -- roses, hydrangeas, Japanese maples, and geraniums to name but a few of the thriving specimens receiving hydration via the pink garden hose I sent her for her last big birthday; some days she goes for hours though probably more hours than is best as far as next-day recovery.  

I was treated to lunch at a local bakery.  Chicken-and-dumpling soup for both; a generous side salad for me.  There's no use trying to pay because grandma will win the debate.  Bend gracefully to her will.  And, as she rarely sees me, it's an act of love for her to buy me lunch.  I won't deny her that rare moment with her granddaughter -- whose platinum blonde look she truly found delightful.  "Cute, cute . . . it shows your face!" were here exact words, I recall.  More than once.  Her powers of observation, and the ability to relay them with exactitude and frankness, are known by all.  So, I expected to gain an understanding of her position on my hair.  Cute, however, was not quite what I had prepared my ears to hear.  SMILE.  She also said I was thinner than she had ever seen me.  Sorry, Miss Opal, now I know your ageing eyes have betrayed you!

An extended and gabby (per me and Cousin Misty, who lives with grandma) game of Canasta furthered my appreciation for my family's matriarch.  Did I mention knife sharp?!!  Though Misty emerged as victor, grandma's final score was closer to the winner's than to mine.  On a sidebar note, the alternating giggles and intelligent chat I shared with Misty was a true highlight.  That girl is golden!  Every time I quickly tap my way through my new Word Weaver app, cousin recommended, I'll think of the hybridized version of cousins our joint-gaming created . . . 'Glisty' and 'Mistoria.'  Grandma Opal is in affectionate and caring hands.

My senior year of high school I lived with Miss Opal (her Tennessee name, earned after she flew in for a visit years back).  Spending a night in the room which once belonged to Grandma Roxey (mother to Opal), showering in the small corner shower in the rose bathroom, perusing the photo albums and wall pictures, shuffling through the small stacks of oil paintings done by grandma's hands before an allergy sidelined her art, exploring the nooks and corners of her garden, it all brought that momentous stressful year back to me.  But my adult perspective left me feeling very grateful for the steadfast nature of that house full of gold-gilded and pink-hued curios and knick knacks.  Everything in its place and a place for everything.  But also a place for everyone.  Everyone who needed a place.  Someone feel free to correct me, but I think six of mom's eight children resided at 2713 Warwick Lane with Grandma Opal at some point in their younger pre-marriage years.

As we are guaranteed nothing but death and taxes (lots of both in the news lately), the prospect of once again being blessed with another stay at grandma's house is cloudy.  The human body becomes fairly reliable in its unreliability with the stacking of decades.  A trip next year with the husband and kids would be fantastic.  But I prepared for the 'whatever' of the human future with loads of digital images and as many stories as my memory would allow me to hold.  Countless hugs and good-byes culminated in my driving the red Toyota Camry rental down the road, headed south, with a slightly bent, bright-eyed, freshly permed white-haired gentlewoman in complementary shades of purple reflected in my rear view mirror.

Her spirit is strong.  Her faith even stronger.  The only worries I harbor concern the piles of solicitation mail which clogs her mailbox EVERY DAY.  She's ruined several shredders trying to keep up with the stuff.  Every envelope gets a once over because though she understands most of the scams out there, she worries she may miss the one sweepstakes announcement that is real.  To make matters worse, half of the calls or more she receives in a twenty-four hour period relate to the same thing.  I walked in on my first day to find her in a dueling discussion with a stranger trying to convince her she needed insurance to cover the million-dollar prize she was soon to collect.  That bothered her all day.  They need to reserve a special place in a Third-World prison cell for shysters like that.

But at least she's got Misty (and Misty's parents) to keep a close eye on her.  When I get home, my family is learning Canasta . . . according to Grandma Roxey's rules, which Grandma Opal says are the only ones she ever uses.  I believe her!