Gramma

Almost a year ago my grandma moved from Florida to Indiana because, as she put it, "I'm gonna be buried there, I may as well die there." Soon after she relocated, we found out she had a lung mass, and even though she couldn't remember why she was at her doctor's appointments, she always knew she didn't want to get treatment. She was ready to wrap it up, to "head upstairs," and while her attitude was a gift that made letting her go easier, losing her hurts to the bone.

In her 89 years, Gram raised six kids and buried three of them. She married two men and buried both of them. She made countless friends, explored the country, and most loved the view out her kitchen window when the deer came into the field in the evenings.

For me, she was that grandparent. The one who was your favorite, who loved you as sweetly as a grandparent should, who let you be who you are, and who felt like home to you. My favorite memories of life have her in the background, as her farm was the backdrop for the purest childhood joy I ever felt. I remember playing in a giant tire sandbox under pine trees there, riding big wheels down a drainage ditch, wading the creek and catching crawdads and building up the dam, finally getting brave enough to jump off the bank and into the swimming hole, swinging on an old tire swing that probably every butt in the Scott family swang on at some point, learning how to live off blackberries picked off the vine and the most efficient way to fetch firewood. 

The place we called "back at the crick" initially had nothing but a clear patch in the middle of some woods, but that place of nothing was everything to me. It was so full of good times and wild abandon, and when I got too tired or dirty from being an animal, I'd retreat back up to the house, get hosed off outside by Gram, and then get to come inside (leaving my shoes at the door) and play in the cool, musty, delicious smelling air in the basement. She'd make me fried chicken and mashed potatoes, which I'd eat in my special yellow booster stool. She let me sleep in a baby crib in her closet until I was 7 years old. She gave me her old nightgowns to use as a silky blanket. She'd take me on adventures to "town," for which she got ready by putting lipstick on her cheeks and rubbing it in, and let me pick out which cold cuts to buy and and a sack full of penny candy. She didn't judge me for choosing olive loaf or ham and cheese loaf. In fact, she made me feel special for making those choices.

Gram was fat before fat was an epidemic. Her lumpy grandma body was the most comfortable place I've ever been, and she rocked me in a recliner even after I was way too big for it. She'd sit in her chair mending clothes while I'd play with her spools of thread like they were characters in a soap opera, soap operas I knew all too well as a five-year-old because of her addiction to her "stories." As we were sorting through her recipes after we lost her, I found recipes for a diet cabbage soup, and it was only then that I realized she considered her body a struggle. I loved that body. It was the perfect body for a grandma to have, and even when it yelled at me or disciplined me, it was a safe haven that made it all better. 

As I got older and had issues with my dad, Gram became my retreat. I stayed with her whenever I visited during high school and college. After I got my first job after college, I took her out to dinner for pork chops at a steakhouse called Amber's and learned about her life as a child and during her first marriage. She had it rough, a mom with tuberculosis who left the family to go to a sanitarium, a dad who was an angry alcoholic. She found her spine in those struggles, and when I asked her about the death of her first husband from a drunk driving accident, she said, "If he hadn't died, I would've divorced him." She told me about how she met my handsome grandpa. As she told it, he had dated some of her friends at work and did them pretty dirty, so she decided to get him on a date to return the favor. She ended up falling for him, driving across the country to California, and, after he bought her a bedroom suit, she married him. By the time I came around, they'd been married 26 years, and by the time I became able to remember things, it was closer to 30. I remember lots of yelling at each other, Grampa getting fed up and shouting "Goddammit Phyllis!" and them sleeping in opposite ends of the house. 

When I visited Gram with Mack last year, she told me a story of a time she was shouting at Grampa so relentlessly all he could do was grab her by the shoulders, look her in the eye, and say, "You are the mother of my children," probably more to remind himself why he couldn't kill her than to get her off the ledge, but that comment took the wind out of her sails. She was a pistol, and she was a fighter, but as her granddaughter, I didn't get her wrath at its most fierce. I knew it was there, but I was spared. Except that one time I sassed her with, "You're not my mom," and she growled at me, "I am your GRAND mother, and that makes me bigger than your mom."

In preparation for her funeral, we were supposed to come up with one word to describe Gram. When I think of her, it's her bossiness that sticks out most in my mind. But not in the overbearing bossy naggy way. Instead it's an unapologetic demand for respect, for acknowledgement, for the right to assert oneself whenever it feels necessary. She was 4'10" but she was a giant among a bunch of men who became Marines. She showed me how a woman stands up for herself and that it is okay to make demands, to raise your voice to be heard if that's what it takes. I'm not nearly as good at it as she was, but hopefully if I make it to 89 I'll find that incredible balance of moxie and softness that I so admired in her. I am so grateful to have felt her love, to have seen her strength, and to have enjoyed such a perfect grandma.

Sixty. And dazzling.

I can't trace the first memory I have of my mom. I can't really even pinpoint an early one. It's like trying to figure out the first time I saw the sky. She's just always been there, as important and unregarded as my breath and my heartbeat. A constant life force. 

This year she celebrates 60 trips around the sun, and my sisters and I decided to throw her a proper celebration. Because, my god, the life that woman has lived.

There is no question that she made it to 60 because she is made of steel. Life has tried, over and over and over again, to crush her, to sap her will, to shut her down. Yet, she persists. She survived abuse that goes beyond the worst horrors you can imagine before she was out of middle school. As a teenager, she became a mother despite having no point of reference about how to do it or support from the grownups around her. I don't know how old I was, probably 3 or 4, when I watched her dodge a glass of iced tea my dad threw at her head one afternoon. She soon left that melodrama and got a job making $14,000 a year, with which she raised Shannon, me and Leiah all on her own. Then she turned 25.

When I turned 25, I had zero children, one dog, one cat, and no clue. Now I'm 40, with zero children, zero dogs, zero cats, and a bit more of a clue about what it takes to make it to 60 with a smile on your face. And not just any smile, but one that readily shows up, one so big it brightens the gloomiest days.

We decided to throw her a surprise party, and what a challenge that was! Somehow we had to get her and Aunt Becky to stop treasure hunting at the consignment store so we could get her to our "dinner reservation." But since we were having her party at an AirBnB, we had to get her in a strange house first. Luckily, Shannon came up with a ridiculous house viewing that had to be done before dinner. As she opened the door Mom saw people on the couch and immediately tried to leave! The surprise we all screamed took a second to register! And then that smile came in and gifted itself to us.

It was such a treat to have all these people who have known her and loved her and been through it all with her in one place celebrating the person she is and the life she's lived. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we sang, we took tons of pictures. One of us passed out on a suitcase. 

To be fair, the girl passed out on the cooler busted her ass to help us make this happen. BFFs rule.

It's so incredible when you really see the impact, the reach, the depth of a single person's life. The party was a fraction of who she's known and what she's experienced. I mean, look at this.

This is a woman who became a mother at 17. At 19. At 23. At 27. The last baby almost left before she arrived thank to placenta previa, then almost left upon arrival due to beta strep. While all that was going on, this woman was supporting her sister, whose baby boy had drowned in a river and was fighting for his life. Her three other kids were still being fed, clothed, educated, hugged, tucked in a night... and where she got the energy to do all this, I have no idea. Maybe she really did find inspiration in the quote taped to her makeup mirror: "I am the mountain I climb." Mount Debra makes Mount Everest look like a speed bump. 

Were it not for this woman, this tiny little blond beauty in the middle of that love sandwich up there, none of those other people would be. My sisters and I would not be the people we are, know the love we know, or have come as far as we've come. Had she been different, maybe wiser, maybe richer, maybe better cared for, we may not exist at all. With everything life threw at her, and continues to throw at her, she musters stamina to keep trying, to keep growing, to keep smiling. 

She is sunshine and love and perseverance, in one dazzling little human package. Happy birthday, Momma.

My Sweet Ginger

Yesterday morning I went to the chicken coop to let the girls out to play and check for eggs. Lemondrop, Clove, and Cinnamon were running around but Ginger was no where to be seen. I opened the nesting area of their house, and my sweetest, friendliest, silliest chicken was slumped over with her eyes closed. My little baby girl was dead.

The day before she died she was slow to come out of her coop and stood around kind of out of it. I didn't pay much attention because I had to get to work and I figured she was just having an off day. Mack said she was standing around shell shocked, but he didn't notice anything in particular when he picked her up. I should've paid more attention. I wish I would've known her funk was something serious. I wish I didn't cry every time I think of her sweet body in my arms, her darling eyes closed, her little neck all floppy, and those perfect yellow feet all stiff. I wish losing her didn't hurt this bad. A couple months ago she had some terrible diarrhea. I was syringe force feeding her probiotic drinks and water every few hours and she seemed to get better. Right after that she started to molt. Her comb never got back to its floppy bologna state, but her new feathers came in and she was so beautifully soft and shiny. The day after Christmas she was downing a leftover relish tray like the Ginger the Binger she is. And now she is gone. Oh, Ginger.

Ginger was my most loving chicken. She'd let me carry her anywhere and would sometimes fall asleep on my lap. She was tolerant of the kids' cuddles. She invited herself to everything I was doing outside, whether it was laundry or cutting wood with a jigsaw. She invited herself inside, too. She didn't care one bit about the chicken hierarchy, eating what she pleased when she wanted and even stealing worms right out of the other girls' mouths and then running away. She was my tiniest puff, and grew up to be my skinniest girl. She ate like a French woman and didn't get fat, which is why she was also called Jean Jae sometimes. She was probably the best Rhode Island Red that ever graced the planet.

 

I am so grateful for the laughs, joy, and love she brought to my dusty old dried up lifeless back yard, and I miss her so much. Sleep good, my sweet Gingie.

Dulywed: Dirty Dozen

Mottinson,

It took 12 years but at long last, we have settled into a fearless crazy disregard for what another human being thinks of us and this is what life looks like now. Typical.

Our days start with a thing you've dubbed the Three C's: coffee, chickens, and computers. I, being the lucky one, enjoy a fourth C in the morning: cleaning. While the coffee brews, I harvest dishes from your various drop off spots and try to keep people from knowing we're slobs. You sometimes flavor the day with such hits as Ra Ra RasPutin and Age of Aquarius played at an excruciating volume for someone who hasn't had coffee. Every now and then you'll come up with an inspired jingle, like that one day when I was having a surge of love for you and rather than return the affection you offered a chorus of "Surgin', surgin'... A Surgency!" At some point (hopefully before noon), we release the chickens into the yard, take a seat at the table you didn't know we needed, and sip coffee while scrolling our screens. Sometimes we go to work, sometimes we go for walks, sometimes we have a cocktail with lunch. In the evening, we eat dinner sent to us by Blue Apron because we've become both lazy and fancy. Then you strap yourself into a device that hangs you by your ankles in an attempt to fix your back while I burrito myself up in a blanket and watch Water Wives, a show the rest of the world knows as Below Deck. At about 11pm, we yell at the Xbox to put it on HLN so we can watch Forensic Files and fall asleep on the couch for an hour.

So, I ask you, how does retirement feel? Pleasantly boring or oppressively empty... I still can't tell.

In between all these typical moments, we've had some pretty extraordinary ones this year. We became international real estate moguls. Your parents moved in next door, which means we get Laila on demand. Bubba, Lee, and Mateo have been next door since they moved in too. Having that scrawny boy run into my arms yelling TITA! and saying Woooowwww when he saw the new bathroom floor tile and giving me a thumbs up for the Thanksgiving food I cooked have been some of the best compliments I've ever gotten. Speaking of Thanksgiving, you should come sometime. Work took you away from that and a bunch of other wonderful stuff this year and DIDN'T YOU GET THE MEMO ABOUT RETIREMENT? You started a private practice and then grew that practice, all while working another full time job. The bathroom was renovated and the floors were refinished. We road tripped through ghost towns and around alpine lakes and to wild hot springs. Then you sold the Miata. Then you sold the boat.

That boat, that sweet Kenutu. Letting go of that boat was heart wrenching. As much as she was a pain in the ass, I loved her more than I even realized. We had some of our worst moments and our best moments on her. She taught me that sometimes it's better to just shut up and do what you're told. She taught you to say you're sorry when you're nasty as a response to being worried. We endured fiberglass torture and neurotoxic fumes in a spirit of can-do that our relationship never knew before. She gave us gratitude for able bodies that can bend in strange ways. She gave us challenges that required us to work together to overcome. She was a gift to our character development and I think she is to be credited with testing our relationship in a really significant way. When Kenutu left our lives she took a piece of us with her, not just a piece of me or a piece of you, but a piece of us. She was something we did together and now what do we have left?

The Files.

I left a little mark on our girl before we let her go.

At this point in our story of togetherness and devotion, the space between us is quietly strained with something. Like white noise, something that's there all the time but you have to tune your ear into it to know it's there. Love persists, I know that, and I trust it will keep us coming back to the same bed every night. But there is also a tinge of disdain, a subtle longing for some greener grass, a curiosity about what we would be as people if we were not caught up in this union. I often feel like a servant and am accused of being dead weight or a slug. You often feel tied down or dismissed and see me as the person clipping your wings so you can't go anywhere.

The reality though, at least as I see it after all these years, is that while we are blaming each other for the absence of imaginary outcomes, we should be appreciating each other for being a constant that allowed us to flourish into the reality we live in now. We've got it good. So incredibly good. Twelfth anniversary silk and linen luxury items good. I want you to know, even though you'll never read this, that my love for you does not require your containment. If you need to do something that puts us on different paths, I will be sad but okay. I will be there when you return or meet you wherever you end up, and I will be happy for and supportive of you along the way. I will miss you, I will feel bewildered and lonely, but I will be okay. I love you, more completely than I've ever loved anyone, by choice. That choice is not always a product of my heart and head being in alignment, but it is the choice I make every time I ask myself if this marriage is worth it. The choice I make is the same one I made a dozen years ago: you.

I came across part of a TED Talk by Esther Perel about desire and monogamy a few years ago while listening to the radio and I instantly loved her perspective on long-term relationships. In the few years since then, I've kept up with some of her stuff, listening to her podcast and reading articles she's in, mostly because she takes these very conflicting and ambivalent feelings I have about "wifing" and simplifies them in the most amazing way. The last, best thing I read was in The New Yorker's "Love is not a permanent state of enthusiasm":

Do you have a working definition of love? 

It’s a verb. That’s the first thing. It’s an active engagement with all kinds of feelings—positive ones and primitive ones and loathsome ones. But it’s a very active verb. And it’s often surprising how it can kind of ebb and flow. It’s like the moon. We think it’s disappeared, and suddenly it shows up again. It’s not a permanent state of enthusiasm...

I think that definition today of love—“you are my everything”—where you really see it, this complete exaltation, is in wedding vows. Have you ever noticed? I mean, it’s, “I will wipe every tear that streams down your face before you even notice it’s going down.” I think a realistic vow is “I will fuck up on a regular basis, and, on occasion, I’ll admit it.”

So Mack, I will fuck up on a regular basis, as I have done for the past 12 years. And, on occasion, I'll admit it. You try the same. We keep doing that, and someday, we may just get to happily ever after.