No Bueno

Man, I hate when Smiley comes home from a weekend at Grandma's (and that's no knock on Grandma). So far he's argued with the other kids, said he hated me, screamed because I won't take him to the park, and whined because I won't read a packet about ducks to him right now (yeah, no; I'm making supper, I have 3 other kids to worry about too). Grandma's is vacation land; this here is the real world. 

A Review

Just want to thank you, I had two dear friends who were sick, and I purchased two flower arrangements at the Chase & Oklahoma Piggly Wiggly, they were awesome, and the made a big hit. Thanks again Chase Piggly Wiggly, you are my go to flower store - Grandma J

A Message from Grandma Kathy

Hope they told Santa everything they wanted and how good they were.You. both are so cute.Love you. Santa looks so Christmasie. - Grandma Kathy

We Remember

70 years ago today my maternal grandparent's were on a date at the Riverside Theater. The movie was stopped, the lights came on, and an announcement was made that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. They both knew my Great Uncle Leo (grandma's brother) was stationed there that morning. He was part of the crew of the USS Vestal, moored alongside the Arizona. Luckily, he survived, but of course 2000 Americans did not. To all the men at Pearl that day, thank you for your service. We'll always remember.

Working in the Garden

Today we planted a 2nd 4x4 garden planter in the backyard (jalapeno/tomato/cantaloupe/green pep). Afterwards, 2 rarities: 1, the kids went swimming w/ Gma, so Lis & found time to go out for dinner (takeout, but eaten not at the joint) 2 - My neck & shoulders are sunburned from the time in the garden. I *never* sunburn; normally I bronze like the god I am. I am discombobulated at this turn of events.

Celebrating Grandma J on Mother's Day this year

My Mom was hospitalized today. Any extra prayers would be appreciated.

Happy 4th of July!

In celebration of America's 233rd birthday we repaired our flagpole and put it back up on the front porch. Somehow, that flag did more to beautify the house in one minute than all the tulips and hastas we've planted since we bought the place.



I don't think I can surpass 2008's Jimmy Cagney and Kate Smith post, so here it is again. Patriotic music still stirs my soul, and I've got a CD of it in the van just waiting for Saturday to start.

To anyone and everyone who has had a part in securing the freedom and prosperity of this nation in any way, thank you. For those who did so at the threat of their own safety and lives, words cannot express my thanks.

Happy 4th of July!

* * * *

On a personal note this is the 3rd anniversary of my maternal Grandmother's death. I love you grandma, and I think of you often.

The Gravestone of Franciszek Maczynski

Confession time: for years now I have been bothered by something I did on behalf of my Grandma and it's time to come clean.

Round about the turn of this century my Grandma became convinced that the gravestone of her brother would be stolen and sold for scrap. This was a  large metal cross that marked the grave of her six year old brother who'd passed in 1913, a full ten years before her birth. I'd gone with my Grandpa to paint and maintain it once upon a time and was very familiar with it.

There had been reports at the time of vandals hitting local cemeteries, but the more I talked to her the more I became convinced that this was largely a product of the paranoia that sometimes comes with age. [and possibly a result of the whispered suggestions of meddling family members.]

But it was upsetting her greatly, and she began to ask me to remove the marker before it came to harm. I refused, and refused, and refused. Finally one day a family member said my Grandma had told the cemetery she'd be replacing it with a common granite marker. I was again asked to remove it, and this time I agreed.

So in the middle of the day, in broad daylight, I attacked the cement anchor of the tombstone with a shovel and then pulled it out of the ground by myself. Looking back, I don't know how I managed. It was very heavy and still partially attached to the cement base. I was able to get it back to my car only with great difficulty.

Let me reiterate: everything was on the up and up. I'd been asked to remove it by one of the sole remaining relatives, allegedly with the approval of the cemetery office. The trouble is I didn't believe it. I was sure that my Grandma, all her wishes aside, was confused and had not/would not have been able to organize that effort. She was never senile, but she did have moments of time and areas of interest that were dominated by confusion and memory lapses.

It is a failing of my character that I did not have the stamina to brave the woman's tears and investigate her request.

Aside from that I am superstitious, and for years now whenever I drive by that cemetery I felt creeped out and wouldoften be filled with regret. Ok, let's be honest. Laugh if you will, but I've always felt it was a mark against my soul.

So when the family moved last month I came across the tombstone in the garage and my heart sank. An omen, to be sure. I could not let it slide any longer. I stopped helping my parents and with the help of my nephew loaded it into my car. [my memory of its weight was accurate. It was a bear.]

The cemetery office was closed that late on a Sunday. So my nephew and I carried it through the empty chill of the mausoleum and left it outside the office door with a note and my phone number.

It's now midway through the month so I called the office myself to see if it had been reinstalled. The office manager got on the phone and wasn't happy. Not for the reason you're thinking, however. No, she was annoyed that we'd returned it at all.

She clearly remembered speaking with my Grandma about removing the cross and (unofficially) agreed with her assessment of the risk if it had remained in the ground. To deter scrap metal collectors the cemetery had enacted a no-metal tombstone rule and her brother's grave was one of the few grandfathered markers that had survived.Of those remaining it was one of or the largest and well maintained - a perfect target. In fact I learned from the cemetary that the marker had been shipped in from Poland by my family and was deemed irreplaceable by the office.

{Time after time I find evidence that my Great-Grandparents appear better off financially then the generations that followed, despite being first generation Americans}

And so a tremendous burden was lifted, seemingly miraculously, in just a few minutes on the phone.

But by returning it we put her in a bind. It could not be put back, because by officially removing it it voided the grandfather-clause. And I was right about one thing. My Grandmother had either never made plans for a new marker or at least never followed through with a purchase. The grave has gone unmarked for the better part of a decade.

I asked about the price of a new marker, still feeling like I owed the kid a debt. If it could be classified as a child's grave, ~$550. But my great-grandparents had also pulled out all the stops to have him buried in the adult section of the cemetery, where the markers were more elaborate and better maintained. Thus the cheapest marker could be as high as ~$700. Again, it all depends on how the site would be re-classified.

If I go ahead with a new marker I'd obviously pass the hat around the family. It might be hard, given that he died 95 years ago and outside of his sole remaining sibling (now in his 90's and in a nursing home) few people have an emotional stake in the matter.

But like Lisa said when I told her later in the evening "We have to get a stone. It's not right to leave family in an unmarked grave." In the meantime the cemetary agreed to temporarily put a simple wooden cross on the gravesite.

Maybe by the spring this matter will - no pun intended - be put to rest once and for all.

My Grandma's Painting

This is a photo I took of a painting my Grandma did in high school. It won an award at the time (1939 I believe). She was always proud of it and hung it in her house. Anyhow, here it is.

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Clara Zolinski, 1923-2006

 

My Grandma passed away on July 4th. I'm sure I'll have more to say on her in the near future, but this is what I wrote the night before the funeral.

On the morning of July 4th I woke up to a phone call from my youngest sister.

"Danny," she said. "Come over. Grandma died"

I don’t try to live up to many macho ideals, but for whatever reason I don’t cry. My wife likes to remind me that the only time she’s seen me shed a tear was when the Yankees lost the World Series. But on the way to my Mom’s house that morning I couldn’t stop the tears. I could barely make out the road in front of my car.

My Grandmother did not raise me – I had a Mom and Dad for that, and I thank them for a job well done. But we lived with my Grandma most of my childhood, and she had a big part in many of my memories.

I remember Grandma making oxygen tanks out of empty bread bags for a little boy obsessed with being a firefighter.

I remember her subscribing to National Geographic because she thought it would help us in school. I don’t think I ever opened a single issue, but even at the time I thought it was sweet.

I remember her obsession with collecting recipes and watching cooking shows; this, despite the fact that she never cooked anything but the same 6 meals in rotation.

I remember her sitting patiently every weeknight, watching Dr. Who with her grandson and pretending to be interested.

I remember her pitching soft toss in the backyard to a baseball obsessed young man who should have known better than to be proud of hitting a 70 year old’s pitching.

I remember how much she loved pork chops, and how happy I was to bring her a plate of them from a restaurant where I worked.

I remember her constant attempts to slip cash into your hand whenever you did her a favor.

I remember when she was the only person, other than my wife, to flat out tell me that I wasn’t living up to my potential when I had a dead end job.

I remember how she never kissed anyone but her husband with her lips, sucking them in even for a kiss on her great-grandson’s cheek – and how that very same woman jokingly announced at a Thanksgiving dinner that her husband had gone bald because he kept bumping his head on their headboard.

I remember how she claimed for decades that she and my Grandpa had never fought.

And I remember how she recanted that stance when counseling me after a fight with my wife, because her grandson was more important to her than an idealistic memory.

In a lot of ways my Grandma was overshadowed by the memories I had of my Grandpa. He died when I was nine, and I remember all of the good times and very few of the bad.

I lived with Grandma for 17 years, and I know her faults every bit as well as I know my own. I like to joke that Grandma was the 2nd greatest arguer our house ever produced – almost as good as me.

But in hindsight, I’m grateful that I know the good with the bad.

My Grandpa gave me an exaggerated ideal to live up to, but my Grandma gave me a greater gift: the chance to see that even the best of people make mistakes, fail, and never reach perfection. She taught me that even our hero’s are made of flesh and blood, and that gave me liberty to forgive my own faults and try again.

For that – and everything else she did for me – I thank her.

And I miss her already.