I remember…
My grandfather’s deep and thoughtful voice. He was quick to think and contemplative to speak. Usually. I remember how he would sit on a folding chair on the beach with his legs crossed and arms folded. He could be silly and serious, and sometimes you didn’t know what you were going to get. He could wear a top hat at the lake or carry a stern look on his face. He had stories to tell of the war; of proposing to June Allyson in a letter; to being captured in Italy while trying to practice his German on a cold, snowy night (too bad he had been practicing with a German soldier.) I remember how he couldn’t and wouldn’t talk about JFK’s assassination. I remember his hunched shoulders under his white v-neck tee-shirts, and his hat. How he was tall, but a little stooped. How much I wish I had his Henerlau nose, a nose that my mom and her siblings all inherited. The music that floated in his house.
I remember…
My Nana’s glamour…dark hair and red lips. And rings galore. I remember her mole and her cheeks, full like mine. She always drove the biggest Cadillac made; riding in it was like floating on a cloud. And she could parallel park it perfectly in one shot. She called me Elspeth and I’m not sure why. I remember being scared of her painting of a girl on a swing with flowers around her. I was scared of her oval mirror by the front door too. I couldn’t look at it. I remember the musty, dusty mix of smoke and perfume that wafted around her. When it was just the two of us out for dinner we would linger at the table and talk about what we would do if we won the lottery. I remember how she would say somethings were just “much.” I can’t quite describe it, but some things are just “much” – almost over the top, but not quite. She always kept her bedroom door locked around the clock. I can count the number of times I was in there on two hands. I remember after my Grandpa died my aunts and I having a “slumber party” in there with her. As much of a slumber party you can have considering the circumstances. I remember the cards she sent me just for the heck of it; I still have them in my letter box. I wish I had called her more after I went away to school. I can’t now and there are so many things I would love to ask her.
I remember…
Pop’s crinkly eyes behind his Coke-bottle glasses. His heavy wool blanket that was embroidered with his name and a car logo (Buick? Cadillac? Oldsmobile) in the corner he got when he was a car salesman. His love for whole milk and his disdain for Blue John. How even in his 60s he ate like a farm kid who grew up during the depression, with his arms around his plate lest anyone steal his roll. It was hilarious as a little girl, but I get it now; old habits are hard to break. How he made me laugh until my stomach hurt and tears rolled down my cheeks. His scent of aftershave and cologne. Seeing him for the last time at The Good Earth restaurant; I was sick, unbeknownst to everyone I was coming down with the chicken pox, and he bought me a little plastic doll cradle. I’ve never been a doll person, but I still have that cradle and I refuse to get rid of it. It was the only thing I remember him buying for me out of the blue. The last thing I have from him.
I remember…
Grandma E.K.’s desk when I was growing up. It spanned the length of one wall with multiple surfaces, filing cabinets, shelves, and cubby holes; a dream to a paper freak like me. Her big blue adding machine and the tape I would run through. The manual typewriter that she would type her newsletters on. How every year for as long as I can remember she has been sending out holiday pens with some message on it to usher in peace. Her beer bread and borscht (am I the only one who likes borscht?) How she would read Little House On The Prairie out loud at the dinner table. And when we got the giggles and couldn’t stop laughing she would exclaim “Well it looks like we hit a tee-hee’s nest.” Pouring through her yearbooks from high school and Wellesley, matching the young girl with the Grandma I knew. The smell of the red vinyl seats in her old Pontiac. Now I love the fact that she still goes strong exclaiming that she can’t die because she has too many projects to do.
I remember…
Nothing. There is one that I remember nothing about. Not one thing. Never met him. Never a part of our lives. An entire connection lost. Out of selfishness. Out of anger. Out of fear. And it’s too late now.