Saying Good-bye to Grandma Asay

When my mom called first thing Saturday morning, I figured it was to share the news that my grandmother had died. I was right. The writing was on the wall, and I took the news with no emotional reaction. I would later learn that her funeral would be six days later and, thanks to my employer's policy, and the great understanding of my wife, I was able to take a few days off to make the trip to Medford (abut a five-hour drive from Portland).

I began my travels on Thursday morning, after walking my boys to school and having Meg shave my head (she tried to rid me of my burns, but my pulling the plug of the clippers stopped that quickly. This didn't really happen, except in her mind). I stopped first in Salem and visited with Grandpa Hanna for an hour. He looked much better than the last time I saw him, back in June. I often struggle to think of things to discuss while I'm there, but we easily spent an hour talking about every-this-and-that. Eventually the lunch bell rang, and he told me he'd rather eat his lunch with his ladies than hang out with me, so we parted ways (again, just kidding).

I stopped next in Rice Hill for ice cream, a long-standing tradition from when our family would make our regular visit to grandma's house. I had a rainbow sherbet cone in honor of my brother Jamin who would not be able to make the trip. The dive-in looked exactly as it did 30 years ago--a type of foreshadowing of what I would experience shortly at G&G's house.

I arrived in Medford before my siblings and parents, so I sought refuge from the 100-degree heat in the Barnes and Noble Meg and I visited a few years ago. My parents eventually picked me up, drove across the parking lot, and enjoyed dinner at Applebee's. We then parted ways, they to their motel and I to my sister's in-laws' house. I had nice accommodations: a queen-sized air mattress in the living room, which made for a restful night before the emotional storm.

I took my oldest nephew, Ethan, with me to run an errand and fill up my car with gasoline before we drove to the church in Central Point that I attended occasionally as a child. I never liked going to church here, honestly--ever the misanthrope I've been--but I bore no negative feelings as we rolled into the parking lot. We were one of the first to arrive, which made spotting and talking with Grandpa easy. Twelve years had passed since I last met with him--it had not been kind to him. When I reached him in the chapel, I kneeled down to his level and re-introduced myself. Sadly, he didn't know who I was, even after telling him my name and that I was one of Fred's sons. Even though I was nothing but a stranger to him, he pulled me close, thanked me for being there, and kissed me on the cheek--a gesture that hit me with such an overwhelming power of emotion. I spent the rest of the pre-funeral time walking around the church and talking with the few people I knew, which was mainly my aunts and uncle and parents. 

My older brother, Matt, and his kids with Grandpa

I've been to four funerals that I can remember, the last one a few years ago when my assistant at church/scouts died (and before that it was 22 years ago for my other grandmother). I don't think I have a reputation for being eloquent in speech or deeply spiritual, but the organizers of the last two funerals have asked me to open or close the service with a prayer. My mom--who was on the stand leading the music--asked me if I was going to sit up with the rest of the program, but I declined--and not to sound arrogant or anything, but I had no interest in calling attention to myself. So I sat next to my nephews in the pews-of-the-commoners. After the bishop introduced the meeting, the congregation sang a song. Even though the hymn is one I do not like (I Believe in Christ), I began sobbing. It probably had nothing to do with the music; I simply could no longer retreat from the truth that Grandma was dead--I could cover my feelings no longer, so I let nature take its course. My ducts flowed for several minutes until the speaker started preaching doctrine to us (I prefer to remember the individual, to celebrate his or her triumphs and accomplishments, not to hear some preach to me like it's Sunday). Good thing they had asked me to give the closing prayer--surely I would recover by then. My niece, Aurora, sang a duet with one of my cousin's kids, and the weeping returned. Aurora didn't make it very far either before catching my weepy disease. After more short remarks, the final hymn began, and I still hadn't recovered. I'm not sure if it was embarrassment at my blubberiness, but I couldn't stand to look at anyone--how was I going to face the whole company of people now, filtered into my brain as I walked to pulpit? Fortunately, most people pray with their eyes closed. I had pondered at length what I should say, and I felt the words flow through me as I stood at the pulpit. My emotions kept me from speaking clearly, as the sobbing and sniffling created a constant interruption, but I spoke from my heart and felt happy when releasing the final Amen. Retreating from the pulpit, I gathered with my fellow cousins and helped carry Grandma's casket to the hearse parked outside.

Dad

Although this was my fourth funeral, I had never been to a cemetery for the final internment of a body. I rode with my parents for the 20-minute drive south to Medford to Hillcrest Memorial Park, a quiet, beautiful oasis near the base of some looming mountains. I once again helped carry the casket to a stand that the workers had placed just above her spot in the cemetery. After all the family had gathered, my dad gave a brief prayer to dedicate her grave. Each of us then placed a flower on her casket--one for each of her children (5), grandchildren (25), great grandchildren (55), and great great grandchildren (6). Some of my cousins had also brought a box of ding-dongs and left a few for Grandma (I guess they were her favorites). My dad had also snuck a squirt gun inside the casket--I wonder if anyone noticed? A few of us stayed around to watch the undertakers complete the burial of Grandma, and thus completed her circle of life--to dust she had returned.  By this point I think everyone had come to terms with Grandma's passing, and the crying and the sad looks and the general despondency had vanished--so back to the church for lunch, group photo, and more farewells to people I hadn't seen (and, frankly, didn't recognize) in 20 years.

After lunch I followed most of our family to Grandpa's house, a short drive from the church. If I hadn't visited the old place four years ago with Meg, the shock of how their property had been stuck in time would have been greater (I'm ignoring the fact that a huge tree took out most of Grandpa's shop last winter). Nevertheless, walking around their property began another flood of emotions: memories of bouncing on the trampoline, exploring their property pretending to be a soldier/spy, shooting hoops, riding (and crashing) motorcycles around their gravel driveway, and building things with Grandpa in his wood shop. Clearly woodworking--and anything mechanical in nature--is not genetic, as both my dad and grandpa are super builders, and everything I touch crumbles into dust while wounding any bystanders. Nevertheless, walking around grandpa's shop (which seemed much smaller than I remember it) brought such heavy doses of nostalgia. Everything I saw, heard, touched, and smelled made it feel like I was a young boy again. I hadn't even gone inside yet.

Sliding the glass door ajar felt like I was opening a time machine: nothing had changed. Even the toys that the great-grand kids pulled out and played with were the very same ones we played with so many years ago. I didn't go around opening closet doors, but I heard that all of the old games were still around in the same place. Most of the family had gathered inside, talking with each other, trying to share brief moments with Grandpa. Not knowing when I would see him again, I sat with him for a while and tried again to make a connection. I'm pretty sure he won't remember anything about this day, but I think the time spent with Grandpa was for us: a time for us to mourn, a time to find comfort in remembering the joy in the past, a time for us to say good-bye, for I don't think anyone thinks Grandpa will survive much longer. My siblings all agreed that we will probably be doing the same thing again in the not-to-distant future. My parents dropped me off back at the church, and we drove in separate vehicles back to the Stephenson's house for dinner, socializing, and swimming in the pool.

Middle-earth? Or Southern Oregon?

My parents left for home at the crack of Saturday's dawn, but the rest of us ventured out for a late morning hike of Upper Table Rock. I had always wanted to climb this prominent feature, but I'm not sure why we never attempted the hike even though it was only a few miles away from my grandparents' house. I didn't want to drive my car--and Maren's van was completely full, at least the seat belts were--so I stowed away in the trunk, which was quite spacious and provided needed humor to the kids lucky enough to sit in the back row (I felt plenty safe, too, especially when compared to the time that my parents stowed me and Matt in the back of a pickup (topped with canopy) when they drove us down to Southern California one time--a story I had never heard before (Thanks Matt)). I noticed that I enjoyed the company of my nieces and nephews so much more when my own kids weren't around. For whatever reason, when I don't have the stress of minding my own kids, I am much more tolerant and patient with other peoples kids. Dangers abounded the hike--poison oak, which we saw regularly; and rattlesnakes, which we only heard about from hikers coming down the Rock--but we summited and descended with ease (and not much whining wither). The rest of the day we spent in the pool (well, I sat in the family room watching football--hey, how often do I get to watch games on a 60" display?).

Grandpa, graveside, surrounded by his children

After eating with the Stephensons, Maren, Matt, and I went back to Grandpa's house for one last visit. The house was much lonelier this time, with only my Aunt Char and Grandpa home. Grandpa didn't recognize us, of course, but the worst part was that he began lamenting about how God was punishing him by taking away his sweetheart. He kept talking about some remote building near some railroad tracks that he had to reach and do something there, and he questioned non-stop that his life had been for naught--that if God truly appreciated his works, he wouldn't have taken his wife away from him. Hearing him say this felt so depressing, and Aunt Char pleaded with us to bring him to a happy place. So we started telling stories of our cherished past, including one of my favorites that I have strong yet vague memories: the infamous float down the Santiam in the drift boat. My dad had bought a drift boat in Central Point when I was maybe seven or eight years old. Dad and Grandpa had worked on it some before taking us to a nearby lake to go fishing. I have no ill memories of paddling along aimlessly in the lake--in fact, I even remember catching some bluegill fish. But the boat's next--and last--voyage was a trip down the Santiam River. I'm guessing it was during late spring or early summer, as the river felt really cold (although, when is that river ever warm?). My lingering memories are of crashing the boat, it filling up completely with water, losing my favorite sweatshirt (and my soda), and standing on the bank of the river shivering, comforted only by the good samaritans nearby who gave me candy (it worked, and giving me candy still makes me feel good today). Dad sold the boat shortly thereafter--and even made a profit on the deal. Dad had recently shared that when the boat sunk, he had no idea how he was going to recover it, but then a wave came crashing down the river, lifted the boat up into the air, effectively bailing all of the water out in one fail swoop. But as Matt was re-telling the story to Grandpa, he immediately recognized it and helped fill in the details. He also demonstrated his sense of humor with quick one liners such as, "Wow, that was stupid and dangerous--those kids in the boat could have been killed." Matt and I would then say, "Yeah, we were those kids," and he would look at us surprised and disbelieving--I think he saw us still as the kids he knew in the past, while also not having a clue who we were. We heard many of the same stories repeatedly--especially how much he liked living in Salt Lake City as a young man. After three or four hours, we said good-bye again, and retreated back to the Stephonson's place for a few hours of sleep--well, I got a lot more since I didn't leave until later in the morning on Sunday.

As I was driving to the Stephenson's house Thursday night, an indicator started flashing on the dashboard. Oh great: worst timing ever. The owner's manual said I needed to check the engine coolant reserve tank and fill it up. I checked it Friday morning before heading to the funeral, and it looked just a tad below the recommended level, but I bought some anti-freeze and filled it up, hoping it would make the indicator go away. But it didn't. So I was worried the car was going to overheat on the long drive back to Portland. I prayed and pleaded that I would be able to get home safely, and for whatever reason felt that if I drove the car a steady 55 m.p.h. I would be okay. I monitored the temperature gauge religiously, and it never really budged much, even when crossing the three or four mountain passes. Each passing mile eased some of my tension, but once I passed my hometown and thus had only an hour to go, I heard a loud noise that didn't go away after turning down the music. I pulled over to the highway shoulder, pretty sure about what was making that noise: a flat tire. But no sooner had I lifted my eyes from the destroyed tire, a truck from ODOT Incident Response pulled up right behind me. I jokingly asked him how he knew I was here, and he replied that he was watching me on their satellites and knew what was going to happen. As we learned earlier in the story, I'm not a very good mechanic, so how wonderful it was to have this man, armed with power tools and know-how, help me swap out the tire for the spare (I didn't even know if I had one in the trunk). He even had an air compressor on his truck to put air into the spare, which was pretty flat to begin with. I am a skeptic most of the time, but this experience truly felt like Grandma had sent me an angel. Thank you for everything, Grandma: I can't wait to see you again and offer up my heartfelt thanks.