The secret life of Grandma

“The secret life” has been a rejoinder between Laura and me for the last six months. Emptying the trash one evening, she spied an empty Panera coffee cup. “What’s this!? When did you go there!? I didn’t know about it!”

“The secret life of grandma,” I replied.

Since then, if she knows, she smugly remarks she knows about the secret life of grandma. But, if she doesn’t know, she sets about finding out. Toward that end, I try to leave a clue about new secrets. 

Today I met a new acquaintance for lunch, and told myself to bring back a napkin or some such thing for a trash clue.

Lynn is not so much a new acquaintance. We’ve sat beside each other for months, waiting for our respective one p.m. counselor appointments. We get on so well for ten minutes every other Wednesday, we decided to go to lunch. And so we did, today.

We discovered in short order, we grew up on North Hill in Akron. My sister and I often remarked how often children who grew up on the hill moved back as adults, as Lynn had done. North Hill is big enough to have three elementary schools, a junior and a senior high, so being from the hill doesn’t equate to being from the neighborhood.

Lynn, though, grew up on the third street behind me. She’s six years younger, and I didn’t remember her, so I asked if she knew my sister, Janice Lytle. “L-y-t-l-e,?”, she asked. “Was Melvin Lytle your brother? I still have the love letter he wrote me in fifth grade!”

The restaurant closes at two, and they sort of boosted us out, so we’ll pick this up another time. And, I forgot to bring home a clue. So, let's not mention this until next time.

Easter, about 1955

My brother Walt, me, mom, Mel,

and Janice, the baby who can't lift Mom's purse.

I've used this picture before, and sub-titled Jan as the one who never was spanked.

Another decade may have passed…

Liver and onions are a meal no one confesses to. It simply is not politically correct.

When I was a child, organ meat fed many a working class family. Liverwurst in a length of intestine…yum, yum. Sometimes Mom said it was braunschweiger, but made no difference to the kids who could say neither, and called it spread meat.

Liver was a special treat in our house. Family story had it that my dad came home from work, inhaled deeply, and said “steak” on the exhale. Mom had to say it was liver, which he could not bring himself to eat. The difference in the palates of the granddaughter of a German grocer and the grandson of a Presbyterian Irish schoolteacher. Ever after we ate liver when Dad was out of town on a business trip.

We ate Mom’s liver because it was pretty good, and the onions and mashed potatoes were great. Then my brother, the Old Cornmudgeon came back from England with his trophy wife. Oh, our Hazel. She made Yorkshire pudding so wonderful that my uncle, a WWII veteran who shipped out of England, got up and waltzed her around the kitchen.

Hazel’s liver became a family gathering. Hazel taught us you only turn liver once, and voila, no more tough liver on any plate in our family. But the sixties rolled into the seventies and eighties, and suddenly all the best food was no good for us. I’m sure liverwurst remains available at good delis, but don’t expect to find it at the current incarnation of the local A&P.

And so, liver went out of our lives. Until the year Hazel called from England. We could say no, she said, but it would be a great favor if we would allow her to bunk at our house while she showed off her America to her husband, Bill. The question went round the house, to a unanimous YES. So, Hazel and Bill came to visit. Often, as it turned out.

Of course, not many days went by before someone said, Remember those liver and onion dinners! And, of course, Hazel made liver and onions and I believe Walt even came up from Southern Ohio to meet Hazel’s husband and eat liver and onions. I’m thinking that was in the early nineties.

Now, it’s liver and onions when Hazel comes over. Or, a friend visits from Texas and leaves a fifty pound sack of Vandalia onions in our living room. Mighty fine eating.

Supper tonight. Eat your hearts out.

This is not funny

Tuesday last my nice Tonia drove through an intersection on her green light.

The sweet young thing who should have stopped at the red light at her intersection

Was texting.

She turned left in front of Tonia

Tonia's right tibia and fibula are shattered.

You're looking at a lot of rods holding her leg together.

The police cited the sweet young thing.

Her daddy's insurance will pay for Tonia's surgeries and months of rehabilitation.

Not Tonia's daddy--Tonia is an orphan.

We wonder if daddy put sweet young things phone in a vise,

or if she's just texting all her friends, OMG, can you believe what happened.

If you use your phone for any purpose while you drive,

you are a fucking idiot.

Allowances for old cornmudgeon brothers

Most of you know our dear old cornmudgeon brother, Walt, died just about a year ago. There was another stroke a year ago last Memorial Day, he spent the next several weeks slipping away, and he was gone. He left behind six children, one a complete surprise who came to the funeral.

He left behind a little money and the large mess of being intestate. Two of his sons slogged through getting an executor named, getting power of attorney to open the storage lockers to his two vintage automobiles, getting them sold, etcetcetc. Some other sons and wannabes elbowed to the head of the line, demanding their share until Mark simply announced he would put the signed titles on the front seats of the vehicles and quit paying rent on the storage lockers. Then everyone would get the same—nothing. Mark is one sensible fellow.

But, I digress.  Walt also left behind the barn he and Tom shared, to the rafters with Walt’s “stuff,” as Walt parted with almost nothing. Perhaps even nothing, as Tom has come to believe as he has slogged through sorting, pitching, saving. There even were baby pictures of the surprise daughter, although we knew her when we saw her; her face used to belong to our Aunt Ruth.

The two bottles of mercury were a real surprise. There was a tiny bottle of mercury in the house when I was a child. I think it contained the remains of some broken thermometers. I don’t know; my brothers found it far more interesting to roll around the dining room table than I did.

Walt alluded to the bottle on occasion, along the lines of the EPA was simply out of line banning mercury, it was just another government plot to take over the lives of  honest citizens. Perhaps even a conspiracy, who knows. I only know Walt seemed to have dad’s little bottle of mercury around and thought no more of it.

Two bottles! I told Tom, just don’t fool with it, I’ll find out what to do. I asked the road guys the next day. They know everything! “Should I call the EPA?” Don’t do that, one immediately advised. They’re liable to tent your barn. He thought for a bit and then advised I call the fire chief.

Charlie’s phone number is still in my phone from my old fire clerk days.  I told him it probably amounted to a quarter cup (Tom’s estimate), and could I give it to the fire department to dispose of?  Just sit tight and he’d find a legal way. So, I could no longer leave it on the fire station doorstep in the dead of night.

A few days later Charlie called. It could go to the Household Hazardous Waste Center if it were clear double bagged. Our HHWC is only open a couple hours a week in the summer, beginning in June. All my sleuthing was done in April. At the supper table tonight something jogged my memory—it’s June and I need to get rid of that mercury.

“I already went,” Tom said. “Got there two hours before they opened and I was third in line. There were thirty of us by the time the gate opened.” I can imagine thirty old gents, shooting the breeze. When he handed off the old cornmudgeon’s stash the person on duty ascertained it was properly bagged and called out “Mercury here.” Men in gloves came to take it. I wonder if Walt winced? It’s nice to know “the authorities” seem to take old cornmudgeon brothers into account.

Non judgment day

I've spent years observing there is no such thing as a “functional family,” and written more than a few posts about my rather dysfunctional family. The operative word in much of what I write is “family”, a unit created to live life and face the world.

I've written about my brother Walt. Click on Walt in Labels; there may be some stories there I used in my eulogy. I've called him a cornmidgen, too, which predates curmudgeon, that’s how far back his brand of orneriness goes.

Now for the “bad mother gene” that my cousin and I have pinpointed in several women in the family. I am officially changing that to “bad parenting gene”, and the old cornmidgen was prima facie a bad parent. Like others, good at making babies, bad at raising them.

In my eulogy I said my brother loved children, and that was good, as he had a few.  Some mothers he married, others he just shacked up with. (That sentence was not in my eulogy!) He had children of his own; he adopted a real keeper from among the clans of children he was associated with. He always wanted to take care of helpless things, and he always did. But his expertise seemed to stop around age five or six.

Two of his several children, by association or birth, met sad ends. His youngest boy, Mark, was plucked from a bad mix of step children, taken in by our mother, Jan, Tom, me, to “finish off.” Good kid. Some of the children played the hand they were dealt and rose beyond. Walt’s wonderful adopted son told me he took mental notes and applied none of those lessons to his life.

A whole lot of folks came to my brother’s funeral. A daughter I met once when she was two years old, although I was responsible for getting braces on her teeth for the lovely smile I saw, came from several states away. Neighbors and co-workers came from southern Ohio, from Ohio Bell in Akron, where he started his career, from “the old neighborhood.”

I heard many new stories. Here’s one. Walt was supervising a project his neighbor was involved in. Heavy lifting involved. His neighbor tried to stop him helping. “You just had a heart attack!” My brother, lifting, responded, “Maybe I’ll have another one.” Prima facie my brother. We never knew until the stroke a couple of years ago there were prior heart attacks.

The family was summoned to appear early at the funeral home, and I arrived promptly, but not first. I was met by a young woman, her husband, her new baby, come to give us "prime baby time" with our new niece, great niece, with her, because she was going to get to know these siblings and aunts her father always told her about.

It was a tough day, working around the coming out party this young woman had planned for herself. I did not change a word of my eulogy, although I put emphasis on “he had a few!” Children that is. If and when I have opportunity I will explain the difference between a funeral and a drama production. Yes, I believe she’s his. I see my aunt’s face in hers.

I do have a good funeral story for you. Here’s a fairly recent picture of my brother, in his beloved wood shop. That’s what his hair always looked like.

My friend Linda stepped to the podium to share some lovely stories of the old cornmidgeon, and added one. At a show recently she had no time between set up and opening, was hot and sweaty and needed to comb her hair. All she could find was a fork. I told her our dad often accused us of combing our hair with a fork. She turned to my brother in the casket, hair neatly parted and plastered down. “They should have combed your hair with a fork.”

My little brother and his big sister. That looks like the back to school perm; I'll guess I'm five and Walt is three, 1948.

File under "Life Goes On"

 I dropped Emily for band camp this morning, to the only people she trusts, her peers.

On consideration, of course.

Five homes in fifteen years, five different sets of care givers.

Ignored by the brother she adores and struggled so hard to get here.

He has not contacted her in two months, in spite of the fact,

to quote a gleeful Emily to an old friend, two years ago,

"They were stupid enough to give us computers and phones."

She's so smart, she carries over a four point average.

Yet she seems uninterested in researching colleges that might interest her, and scholarships.

In two years these people will be gone, too

Big decisions between now and then.

My thoughts this morning, while hanging my laundry. It looks lovely, in a gentle breeze under blue skies, the awful clouds above cleared away. Tomorrow a service for Walt. Dear Mark, who has soldiered through this first test of life, death of a parent, with grace, said simply "I can't talk about him in front of a lot of people." 

I asked an older relative to speak about my mother, and now I'm the last one standing. I wrote out many index cards. Mark read them and even laughed several times.  Jan thinks it may not be long enough; I'll take questions from the audience.

There was a severe storm over night. I took a trip through the garden this morning.

The new rose on the trellis. A kind of multiflora, grows up to six feet tall.

It lost some petals in the storm, but not many. It's fairly protected.

A toad who waited patiently. We disturbed his home to plant the rose yesterday,

but he nimbly hopped aside.

The phlox lost a lot of petals.

 The rain seems to have beat through the petals of some flowers.

You all have given me this flower's name before. I hope to hear it again.

Funny, I managed to recover all my nouns after the stroke,

but I struggle with the ones I never knew.

Another one whose name I've been told. Maybe this time it will stick.

I was after the bumble bee, but they are in and out of these flowers so fast!

See him there a little left of center.

Petals from the purple flower were knocked down last night,

And the balloon flower has many petals made seer.

School starts in three weeks. Life goes on.

The old cornmudgin left us

Our brother, Walt, left us this week. A bit of a surprise and not. He’s been in the hospital since Memorial Day weekend, and was working at physical therapy and coming home. One morning he told Mark he was just going to take a nap.

“OK, Dad. See you this afternoon.” But Walt left before lunch. I think he went off looking for better advice on the model airplane wing he was drafting.

Above all we are proud of his sons, who cherished and cared for him. What better legacy than loving children?

From one old soldier to another;

Tom lowered the flag

to honor Walt.

She always had a window

When I was small, my brother and I had a window to ourselves in the backseat of our little car, and it was the safest form of entertainment. Standing up was tolerated until we also were hanging over the driver or passenger. Room was limited, but shoving against the back of the front seat to rearrange our bodies in our space drew even sharper rebukes. Best just to glue the nose and watch the cows graze and the corn grow.

Eventually my youngest brother was big enough to be intolerable in the front seat. He never sat still. He was sent back. At first I think Mel didn't notice he retained his relative seating position, between two people. But one day, and we were all dressed up, and probably going to visit a grandmother or cousins, Walt and Mel were in a spirited round of fisticuffs outside the car’s back door. It was over seating by the window.

Our father settled it on the spot. He told us the date and divided it by three. The scheme was, if the remainder was one, Joanne sat in the middle. If the remainder were two, Walt took the middle. If the number divided evenly, Melvin sat in the middle.

The plan proceeded beautifully. Well, the one in the middle often was miffed and engaged in surreptitious poking, there were admonitions from the front, but eventually we arrived somewhere, tumbled out and were pleasant until the drive home. The plan did not change when I was ten and one half years old and a new baby arrived.

As usual she lay on mom’s lap, then sat in the middle of the front seat. But before Jan could be sent to the back seat my parents were driving a big Dodge station wagon, a mobile living room, so to speak. A rear facing seat at the back, a regular bench seat in the middle. My brothers sat in back, where they could hang over the gate, as the window rolled down into the tailgate. By a push button up front!

I don’t know what became of the middle rule. Jan was seven when I left home, nine when Walt joined the military. Families had more than one car in the sixties. As I recall, there were two cars when I was a teenager, then a third that Jan drove. Melvin bought something candy apple red. Walt was stationed in England.

I asked Emily and Laura how they determined who sat in front. I expected an even or odd day answer, but learned it was whoever touched the door first. At least they worked it out.

Mel and his candy apple red, two door car. Best man at his best friend's wedding, I think 1966. Two door cars are another story, together with cleaning Beatles albums with alcohol (vodka!) Another day.

Humor, wit and mobility of the cornmudgeon

Jan and I went to visit Walt last night, in the rehab facility. It’s a new building on the campus of the Summa hospital system that is one third of the near south side of Akron. His room had one reclining chair and one folding chair. Perfect for two guests.

Walt was asleep, but Jan knocked and he was awake and ready for visiting. He said he had no idea of how he got home last Saturday, except it frightened him and he was grateful there were no repercussions. For my ears, a totally unexpected confession.

We chatted a bit; Jan excused herself to use his washroom. When she returned, “Why is your wheel chair in the shower?” The old sly grin. “I used it to get in there and set off the alarm. They found me using the facility and confiscated my wheels. I have to ask for help now.”

Two days later he knows all the staff by name and tells stories about them. A doctor asked why he was there and he said because his kid sister sent him. I laughed and remarked he would not have gone had I suggested it and I got the “What do you think?” stare.

I asked what he’d done for therapy and got “Walk, walk, walk.” I was stunned. “Between two rails?” which I considered preposterous as he left arm lies useless. “No, up and down the hall.” I went into the hall and demonstrated on the rail on the left side. Back in the room the dummy grin again. “No, the right side.” He has enough function in his left leg and enough upper body strength to slowly navigate the hall.

“How did you get past open doors?” I was still dumbfounded. Two fingers walked, 
s-l-o-w-l-y through the air. “Across the hall to return?” Same two fingers, in front of the dummy grin. I guess he intends to perambulate through the front door.

Twenty more minutes of idle chat, and I asked “So, what else are you thinking about?”

“Electrophoretic separation.”

I howled, Walt grinned, Jan demanded to know what was so funny.

The beautiful science fair project he and dad built when I was in the eleventh grade. Dad drilled me on the answers and was not pleased when I was booted in the second round. He thought I should win a scholarship; I barely rose to an inkling of what was happening in that device and why. I told the judges at the second level that it was my dad’s project, which was my out. Years later it is among the good stories Walt and I share. I never felt a moment’s remorse, though it took my dad a few years to get over it.

There’s no discharge date written on Walt’s wall chart yet, but he intends to walk the left wall frontwards in two or three weeks. Oh, and will I bring him a 42 ounce coffee from BP next time. As he is committed to recovery, I will return to my regular programming next week.

Dad, my youngest brother Mel on the left, Walt on the right. I guess Mel was around five, so the picture is 1952ish.

Cornmudgin update

Since the last report Walt had a setback, and a little recovery. Another stroke finished off his left side; he and Mark are considering the next move when he is discharged.  The old two story house is all stairs, steps and upstairs bathrooms.

Fortunately for those who care about him, Walt won’t be discharged for a while. He’s on his way to a long term rehabilitation facility. Transport was scheduled for Wednesday, and Mark was to meet them at the new facility. Mark arrived, transport didn't. Things are iffy in the world of hospital transport.

Our phone rang last night, Mark reporting in. He was standing outside Walt’s old hospital room; his dad wasn't there. Yes, he’d been transported to the rehab facility.

“What did he want with a dozen yellow roses?” Mark asked Jan, who laughed out loud. "He told me to bring a dozen yellow roses."

“You know your dad,” she said. “He surely wanted them for his nurse, the nurses.”

“Well I’m standing in the hallway holding a dozen yellow roses! Now what do I do?”

“Give them to a nurse and go on home.”

From one of our mother's many vacations with all her grandchildren and a couple borrowed. Mark is the little fellow in the red shirt. He grew up to be much happier looking.

Curmudgeons and parades

Dear old Walt; all the doctoring he abandoned two or three years ago caught up with him. He had a right side stroke this time, his steering wheel arm! Or, as Mark told him, "Well, old man, I'll be driving you to doctor appointments and drug stores." He's also become a full fledged diabetic and won't be leaving the hospital until that is under control. Thank you for all your good wishes. Let's see if he takes his medicine, or devises some new workaround.

Today was Memorial Day, the day of picnics and parades. I sat in the hot sun for the fun of taking pictures for three hours, but I had picture taking to amuse myself. Far too many follow, but don't feel obligated.

Nine am. Overnight spot stakers on all four green quadrants.

Just waiting.

Gazebo bunting.

Chair reclamation.

I think she was the nanny.

"Another year, another parade." "Right, son."

Check the hair ribbons.

Filling up.

Color guard.

Our band, under the leadership of my favorite band director.

Coming.

Going.

The mayor.

The National Guard.

Look at the size of this young man's feet.

The band stops at the clock tower for the national anthem.

A small selection of paraders. There were half a dozen convertibles with scholarship winners. 

A man of the cloth and his Harley.

A lot of very nice cars.

A lot of photos of little girls sticking landings.

This young driver paced her own car.

This young driver's car had brakes by mom.

A hand up.

Another landing.

Boy scouts.

An old car.

Cleveland Firefighters Memorial Pipes and Drums.

And so much more.

I hope you had a good holiday, too.