Note: This is Life > Destiny in action. I have been planning this post for at least two days now and I keep getting sidetracked -- first by taxes, then by the Y, where I forgot my water bottle and had to go back for it, then dinner, then my sister's physics homework. (I never took physics, so I decided I could be of the most help by making her a cup of tea... And while the water was boiling I noticed a delicious Devil's food cake sitting on the counter, and thought, "Mmm, this would be even MORE delicious with a small scoop of chocolate ice cream..." And while I was eating my double-chocolate dessert Grampi asked me if I was the one writing a book and confided that he'd always dreamed of writing an autobiography. I ended up volunteering for yet another writing project that I've been secretly composing in my head for ten years now, but may never actually get around to.) Then, just as I was FINALLY sitting down to write, the other sister paged me to star as a customs officer in her slightly-more-than-3-minute Spanish video, and I had to conjugate a few verbs I haven't used since freshman year in high school... It really was a moose-and-muffin situation.
So the punch line to my life is that both my grandfathers are living in my house right now.
What makes this even weirder is that my dad is in Ecuador, and while he's organizing history from the country of his and my birth, his dad (my Grampi) will turn 85. My dad actually just received his AARP membership card, since he's now been alive for half a century. And sometime after he gets back, and with an odd assortment of eight to seventy-five people somehow crammed into our house for the Thanksgiving holiday, I'll turn 22.
On the topic of age, tonight at dinner my mom pointed out that she, her dad (Granpa), and Maria are each 30 years apart. This is all like some epic real-life logic puzzle. While we were all reveling in this inter-generational symmetry, Grampi noted that 30 is a sacred number, and then Granpa asked if "knocked up" means the same now as it did when he was our age. When my sisters and I deviated from the inter-generational conversation to a heated discussion about what other TV shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer's Angel starred in, and how hot he is, Granpa chuckled, "Do they always have so much fun?" And Grampi replied, "Oh, they make everything fun around here."
Just your average dinner table conversation...
To add to the general chaos, one of Maria's friends is trying to get rid of two six-week-old kittens, and she has spent the afternoon waving around a smartphone photo of them cuddling together all afternoon. The most common reaction? "Oh NO." Not that I wouldn't LOVE to tweet every day about my new kitten's cricket kill count, but I fear I might be allergic, and I can't really afford kitty food and litter.
***
Kinship is a strange concept if you think about it too hard (not unlike anything else I could think of, but I will try my best not to go into it). The current situation is confusing because our family right now is neither a matrilineal nor a patrilineal tribe. It's kind of both, and neither. We've traded our nuclear men (Papa and Thomas) for our somewhat extended men (Grampi and Granpa) and somehow we are all related to both of them -- my sisters and I, at least, carry 1/4 of each of them in our blood.
Also, since when do in-laws get along? Grampi especially seems excited to have someone in his age bracket to talk to, who is typically scandalized by the swear words on TV and whose main concern about my job is that I am doing God's work by helping people every day. Granpa was here less than 24 hours before asking me if I'd met any nice young men in this town yet. I understand that he had (two?) children by the time he was my age, but Young People Have Different Priorities These Days. I know he understands that, but I also get the feeling they would love to see some grandchildren-in-law and some great-grandbabies. It's only fair; their parents got to meet us. And Grampi is never more excited than when I talk about one of my friends figuring out when and where to go to seminary. As if she will save me from my heathen ways once she's officially ordained. ...As if she hasn't been trying for four years as it is! (Mostly kidding...)
This is an oversimplified view of things. I was struck this morning when I got up to find Granpa in the kitchen making porridge. I definitely inherited his love for porridge, although I also managed to pick up a love for breakfast burritos which has trumped all other first-thing-in-the-morning foods lately. Anyway, he was making porridge and listening to NPR, and when I emerged from my basement dungeon he turned his portable radio down to a nearly inaudible level.
I have always been impressed that my mom's parents listen to NPR; I don't even listen to NPR, but I think it's very hip that they do. They just seem so in touch with what's going on in the world. When I graduated college, they gave me advice and web links on how to get a job In This Economy. They have Netflix. Gramma gave me men's Iron Man underwear for Christmas last year, and Granpa's always fixing something. He's been here barely 48 hours now and there is already a door-shaped hole in the hall outside the master bathroom. He'll take a winding, indirect route to get somewhere if it means he won't have to wait in traffic or at red lights, and Gramma's the one who taught me to put spike in my popcorn. Pod 278 went through almost an entire canister of spike last semester, thanks in part to Lisa eating it plain during Facebook stalking sessions, it was so good.
NPR is, honestly, a far cry from the heaven-ly shoes-for-my-momma Christian music Grampi plays in the morning on his iPad. I suspect he started getting up a little later to avoid running into me in the kitchen in the morning, since I listen to dirty rap music and the only words we ever exchange in the morning fall along the lines of, "Heading off to work?" "You bet."
We're really lucky to have them here, though. It's nice: both of them have said they're proud of me, and it's cool to see them sitting at or near the head of the table watching us women, thinking or telling us we're beautiful. Their very presence inspires perspective that I too easily miss as a self-absorbed 21-year-old in a complicated world.
Just tonight I ended up talking to my doctor grandfather about memory. Let me just note that I have great genes: both of these men are incredibly intelligent in their different ways and disciplines, and that's to say nothing of the women who helped me become a descendant. I admit I roll my eyes when anything evangelistic comes up, anything to do with me doing God's work in front of my computer screen all day. But I deeply value the compassion, consideration, and intention that has driven their lives' work.
So we talked about memory, and he's afraid that he is losing his. He has a harder time remembering stories or names he feels pressured to remember; but the more I listened, and the more he talked, the more I grew convinced that he still has far more memories than he even knows himself. He also commented that he remembers more good things than bad, "which is nice," he said, because at the age of 85 why carry the unpleasant memories. At some point you have to start paring down your baggage, because old people often need to travel lighter than those of us investing heavily in a future on earth. (My risk tolerance is, theoretically, sky-high right now.)
But although he's pretty lucid, I strongly suspect his heart is in Heaven, with the two women he has loved. And that is a place so far from my consciousness right now that it's sometimes hard for the two of us to find a feasible meeting spot.
They do exist: somewhere between 21 and 77 and 85, rendez vous points pop up around dishwashers, porridge, echinacea capsules, ice cream, cars, memory, the set of stairs leading down to the basement, pride, love, and DNA.
Kinship is a strange concept if you think about it too hard -- but I'll try my best not to get into it.
So the punch line to my life is that both my grandfathers are living in my house right now.
What makes this even weirder is that my dad is in Ecuador, and while he's organizing history from the country of his and my birth, his dad (my Grampi) will turn 85. My dad actually just received his AARP membership card, since he's now been alive for half a century. And sometime after he gets back, and with an odd assortment of eight to seventy-five people somehow crammed into our house for the Thanksgiving holiday, I'll turn 22.
On the topic of age, tonight at dinner my mom pointed out that she, her dad (Granpa), and Maria are each 30 years apart. This is all like some epic real-life logic puzzle. While we were all reveling in this inter-generational symmetry, Grampi noted that 30 is a sacred number, and then Granpa asked if "knocked up" means the same now as it did when he was our age. When my sisters and I deviated from the inter-generational conversation to a heated discussion about what other TV shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer's Angel starred in, and how hot he is, Granpa chuckled, "Do they always have so much fun?" And Grampi replied, "Oh, they make everything fun around here."
Just your average dinner table conversation...
To add to the general chaos, one of Maria's friends is trying to get rid of two six-week-old kittens, and she has spent the afternoon waving around a smartphone photo of them cuddling together all afternoon. The most common reaction? "Oh NO." Not that I wouldn't LOVE to tweet every day about my new kitten's cricket kill count, but I fear I might be allergic, and I can't really afford kitty food and litter.
***
Kinship is a strange concept if you think about it too hard (not unlike anything else I could think of, but I will try my best not to go into it). The current situation is confusing because our family right now is neither a matrilineal nor a patrilineal tribe. It's kind of both, and neither. We've traded our nuclear men (Papa and Thomas) for our somewhat extended men (Grampi and Granpa) and somehow we are all related to both of them -- my sisters and I, at least, carry 1/4 of each of them in our blood.
Also, since when do in-laws get along? Grampi especially seems excited to have someone in his age bracket to talk to, who is typically scandalized by the swear words on TV and whose main concern about my job is that I am doing God's work by helping people every day. Granpa was here less than 24 hours before asking me if I'd met any nice young men in this town yet. I understand that he had (two?) children by the time he was my age, but Young People Have Different Priorities These Days. I know he understands that, but I also get the feeling they would love to see some grandchildren-in-law and some great-grandbabies. It's only fair; their parents got to meet us. And Grampi is never more excited than when I talk about one of my friends figuring out when and where to go to seminary. As if she will save me from my heathen ways once she's officially ordained. ...As if she hasn't been trying for four years as it is! (Mostly kidding...)
This is an oversimplified view of things. I was struck this morning when I got up to find Granpa in the kitchen making porridge. I definitely inherited his love for porridge, although I also managed to pick up a love for breakfast burritos which has trumped all other first-thing-in-the-morning foods lately. Anyway, he was making porridge and listening to NPR, and when I emerged from my basement dungeon he turned his portable radio down to a nearly inaudible level.
I have always been impressed that my mom's parents listen to NPR; I don't even listen to NPR, but I think it's very hip that they do. They just seem so in touch with what's going on in the world. When I graduated college, they gave me advice and web links on how to get a job In This Economy. They have Netflix. Gramma gave me men's Iron Man underwear for Christmas last year, and Granpa's always fixing something. He's been here barely 48 hours now and there is already a door-shaped hole in the hall outside the master bathroom. He'll take a winding, indirect route to get somewhere if it means he won't have to wait in traffic or at red lights, and Gramma's the one who taught me to put spike in my popcorn. Pod 278 went through almost an entire canister of spike last semester, thanks in part to Lisa eating it plain during Facebook stalking sessions, it was so good.
NPR is, honestly, a far cry from the heaven-ly shoes-for-my-momma Christian music Grampi plays in the morning on his iPad. I suspect he started getting up a little later to avoid running into me in the kitchen in the morning, since I listen to dirty rap music and the only words we ever exchange in the morning fall along the lines of, "Heading off to work?" "You bet."
We're really lucky to have them here, though. It's nice: both of them have said they're proud of me, and it's cool to see them sitting at or near the head of the table watching us women, thinking or telling us we're beautiful. Their very presence inspires perspective that I too easily miss as a self-absorbed 21-year-old in a complicated world.
Just tonight I ended up talking to my doctor grandfather about memory. Let me just note that I have great genes: both of these men are incredibly intelligent in their different ways and disciplines, and that's to say nothing of the women who helped me become a descendant. I admit I roll my eyes when anything evangelistic comes up, anything to do with me doing God's work in front of my computer screen all day. But I deeply value the compassion, consideration, and intention that has driven their lives' work.
So we talked about memory, and he's afraid that he is losing his. He has a harder time remembering stories or names he feels pressured to remember; but the more I listened, and the more he talked, the more I grew convinced that he still has far more memories than he even knows himself. He also commented that he remembers more good things than bad, "which is nice," he said, because at the age of 85 why carry the unpleasant memories. At some point you have to start paring down your baggage, because old people often need to travel lighter than those of us investing heavily in a future on earth. (My risk tolerance is, theoretically, sky-high right now.)
But although he's pretty lucid, I strongly suspect his heart is in Heaven, with the two women he has loved. And that is a place so far from my consciousness right now that it's sometimes hard for the two of us to find a feasible meeting spot.
They do exist: somewhere between 21 and 77 and 85, rendez vous points pop up around dishwashers, porridge, echinacea capsules, ice cream, cars, memory, the set of stairs leading down to the basement, pride, love, and DNA.
Kinship is a strange concept if you think about it too hard -- but I'll try my best not to get into it.
thank you for this :)
ReplyDelete<3
ReplyDeleteThis is a really lovely read. It reminds me a lot of my two Grandpas. They got along very well, despite one being Deaf and the other being Hearing and not knowing any ASL. They didn't have very deep conversations, but they collaborated on pranks every time they were together, it seemed. A wink and a twinkle in the eye was all it seemed to take.
ReplyDeleteTake advantage of having them around while you can! I often wish my ASL was better, so that I could have really talked more with my Grandpa. They sound like really fascinating, and admirable, people. :-)