"Now my greatest joy in
these golden years will be my grandchildren who give me so much joy and
happiness"
- Grandma Alice, October 20, 1917- February 4, 2015
Death happens: that's one of the simple truths in this world. It happens to everyone. But if we know it's coming, why does it hurt so much? Because we can't control it? Because after death happens, we can't go back? I've struggled with this for the past few weeks, finding it hard to put words to virtual paper about my grandma's death. For every person I've met in my life, there has been (or will be) a "last time" that we ever see or talk to each other, even if they are still alive. But it's awful when you no longer have the option, especially when it's your beloved Grandmother, someone who has been there your entire life. Here's another simple truth: death really sucks.
Grandmas are not normal people. Grandmas are grandmas. Being a grandma is probably the most lovable "occupation" anyone could ever have. The word Grandma is synonymous with adoration, warmth, advice, cookies and pies, being spoiled, holiday dinners, unwavering support, and the best hugs you can find. I wish I could be a grandma someday.
I don't even know how to start describing how much Grandma Alice meant to me, my childhood, and how she influenced me into who I am today. Just her quote at the beginning of this post shows how much her family meant to her, and she to us. I got the sad news as I landed in Warsaw after traveling back from Seattle. Just the night before most of my cousins and family had gathered at my parents house for dinner when I was back in town, and we spent some time talking about Grandma and reflecting on our childhoods (she wasn't there: she was in a nursing home, under hospice care). She was 97, but I used to think she would live forever, especially because her older sister, Aunty Lilly, is 103! Even so, her passing was not the biggest surprise, as she had been bedridden and under nursing care for some time, recently unable to speak or interact, and having trouble breathing. But death is never really real until it's real.
I asked some friends and family about their memories of Grandma and they all said the same things: loving, warm, welcoming, great hostess, and a lover of the outdoors. This is all true. Some of my earliest memories are spending the summers or holidays at her house on the beach on Whidbey Island (about 90 minutes from our home in Seattle, including a fun 30 minute ferry ride across Puget Sound). We would spend the days running on the beach, building forts out of driftwood, skipping rocks in the water, making s'mores at the campfire, and playing Skip-Bo or Cribbage, or baseball at the park down the street (or fake baseball when we just pretended we had a bat and ball and ran around the bases...I used to hit a LOT of home runs). She loved watching the Seahawks and Huskies and Mariners, and somehow knew more about them than any Grandma is supposed to.
We spent some wonderful Thanksgivings and Christmases there, but Easters were the best, with dozens of family members making the trip for the classic Easter egg hunt (whoever wrote the song that goes "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go" really knew what they were talking about). I always looked forward to the Easter egg hunts; the adults would hide painted hard boiled eggs and plastic eggs filled with candy or money around the garden and beach front. The kids would spend hours trying to bring back the biggest loot. I didn't even bother picking up the boiled eggs...I only cared about the candy and money. Even when it wasn't Easter, every time I walked outside I would look around the garden just in case there were some un-found eggs laying around (and sometimes there were!). I found $2 once!
Not only did Grandma bring our family together for valuable bonding, but she somehow brought the neighborhood together as well. It seemed like everyone who lived within walking distance of Maxwelton Beach Road knew "Alice" and all of her grandkids. There were always people stopping by to say hi, somehow they remembered me, but sometimes I had no idea who they were. Alice was important to them, and so was her family, so they remembered her and everything that was important to her. That's the kind of person she was. She made people love her, just by being herself. When I got into college, one of my favorite things to do was to bring friends to the island for a weekend, and Grandma was always standing at the door to greet us with open arms. She remembered my friends like they were her friends, played with us, fed us, and made sure we were all having a great time. Grandma was so good to my friends that one of the things that makes me saddest is that my future family will never be able to meet her. Simply put, I loved showing her off, and I wish everyone in the world could have met her.
But there are even more defining memories I have of Grandma. She was somehow more connected to animals and nature than anyone I have ever known. She always had little lap dogs, and our family Bichon, Lani, loved spending time at Grandma's. She'd get super excited whenever we approached Grandma's gravel road and one of us got out to open the gate. Grandma even used to have a small stuffed Lani dog, which she carried around and treated like it was a real dog (she'd talk to it and pretend to feed it when she thought nobody was looking). I've heard of horse whisperers, but I'm pretty sure Grandma whispered to all animals.
Spending time on Whidbey meant spending time in the wild, often to find our dinners for the night. Grandma knew secret spots where we could dig buckets of clams in just minutes, pick up huge dungeness crabs with our bare hands (although I was hard for me because I was scared of their giant claws), and hunt matsutake mushrooms and wild blackberries in the forest (we'd get into fights over the last piece of blackberry pie). She was also able to spot the bald eagles sitting in the tree tops on the hill with her bare eyes, while most mortals needed to grab the binoculars to confirm that she was right. And oh how I loved when we would put the guts from our caught salmon on the beach, hide behind some logs or in the house and watch as the bald eagles swooped in to eat them. My grandma fed bald eagles. I don't even think Chuck Norris does that.
She taught me how to dig for sand shrimp, which we used to catch flounder and cod, and how to bait my hook with herring just right so the salmon would bite. Whenever she would take me fishing in the little 10 foot Livingston, the fish seemed to willingly jump into her side of the boat, while I sat there picking my nose, with no action at all (kind of like my life these days). Everyone wanted to be around her; even the fish. I used to make the excuse that old people have a special smell that fish were attracted to, so she had an unfair advantage. Or maybe fish just didn't like the taste of my boogers.
When I was probably 10 years old, I remember pulling up a skate (something like a sting ray) that seemed like the size of the boat. Seeing this thing approach the surface from under the boat is one of the scariest things I can remember. At the time, I thought it was going to knock the boat over and eat us. Of course, it was harmless, but we let it go because I was too scared of it. This is just a random picture from the internet, but that's how big the skate was in my memory (in reality it was probably super tiny). I never knew how she could remain so calm, with this huge monster right under us. But that's Grandma, the fish whisperer.
There is only one thing that ever bothered me about visiting Grandma's house. She had a freaky stuffed doll that reminded me of Chucky from the movie Child's Play. The doll wasn't scary by itself, but my imagination always got the best of me, especially at night. Grandma's living room had very large windows, and the side of the house facing the beach was basically two huge sliding glass doors. My brother and I usually slept in the living room and when the moon was bright, it created lots of shadows. This meant being able to see bats flying around outside and creepy shadows of everything near the glass doors and windows. I don't know if someone did this on purpose, but that stupid doll (which was the size of a 3-year old), was always standing up, leaning against the glass. So in the moonlight, it looked as if a small creepy kid was standing outside, looking into the living room. This always freaked me out. Even when I buried the stupid baby under some blankets or threw it under the couch, it always seemed to move back to the glass the next night.
Grandma also had one of the most fascinating and heartbreaking stories about her 2.5 years in the Minidoka internment camp during World War II, in Hunt, Idaho. The internment camps were basically prisons, where the US government sent Japanese people because nobody trusted them after the Pearl Harbor bombing. And when I say Japanese people, I mean Japanese Americans. They thought my Grandparents, and many like them, American citizens born and raised in the US, were spies for Japan. She didn't talk much about this traumatic betrayal, but she once told my cousin Kelsi about the experience; what it was like to be stripped of her liberties by her own country. She wrote a short memoir about it, which is not formally published, but if anyone is interested, I'd be happy to share (her quote from the beginning is from this memoir).
It covers a wide range of emotion from confusion to embarrassment to anger, losing their freedom and possessions, and the racism and prejudice, to the joy of my dad being born (unfortunately in the camp), to the depression of losing her own mother. Her honeymoon photos were confiscated, which showed some romantic doodling on the sandy beach, because the FBI thought they were messages to Japanese submarines. Then there was the heroism when Grandma's brothers and husband volunteered for the US Army (the 442nd Infantry, the most decorated unit in the US military history) to prove their allegiance and patriotism, despite their country turning it's back on them. Two of her brothers fought in Europe, one being captured as a POW (but safely returned later). It's such a powerful story that is not widely known in the US, that it could (and should) be a movie. It's kind of sad that the best way to raise awareness about history is to make a Hollywood movie about it. So Steven Spielberg, if you're reading this, Tweet me and we can talk about the script.
Physically, Grandma was always pretty healthy, as you can guess from all of her activities. But she started developing dementia several years ago. I wanted to share this because we will always remember and cherish her, even though her illness took away some of her memories of us. Dad used to tell me about some of the things she did that showed signs; forgetting names or what she was doing just moments before, how things from our house would disappear into her purse and end up on Whidbey Island, and other quirky things that happen as we get older. To be honest, what she did was "cute" and we couldn't help but laugh a little, because it was Grandma. She was always still funny, engaging and smiling, so you didn't really notice anything was wrong. I saw it up close for the first time when I was visiting my parents. Grandma was telling me an elaborate, funny story about my dad as a child, sharing some embarrassing things about him. Unfortunately I forgot all the details of the juicy story, because the ending of the conversation is what stuck in my mind. I remember thinking she was not showing any signs of dementia at all, because she was funny, remembering little details and was as engaging as ever. Until the end when she said to me "Freddie (my dad) is really great, and he has a lovely family too! In fact, this is his house, you should meet him!". Oh Grandma, yes I know him, you're talking about my dad. My heart broke a little, but I could only laugh about it, gave her a big hug, and didn't let go for a long time. Since I am not sure if she realized I was her grandson, she was probably thinking "what is this weirdo doing and why won't he let go of me?"
Writing this post started out with me feeling sad and being mad at death. But it got me to stop thinking about death and to start thinking about life. Grandma lived an amazing life, of which most people would be envious. She touched lives from the moment anyone met her, and created so many bonds and memories for all of her family and friends. So even though her death sucks and it made me extremely sad, I am even happier now from thinking about her and celebrating her life. I truly want to thank you for reading this, because like I said, I love to show off my Grandma to the world.
In closing, I'd like to share a funny poem that all of my cousins can recite by memory, because it hung above the toilet in Grandma's bathroom.
All us folks with septic tanks
Give to you our heartfelt thanks
For putting nothing in the pot
That isn't guaranteed to rot.
Face tissue is bad, matchsticks too,
Cigarette butts are taboo.
No hair combings, use the basket,
There's good reason why we ask it!
- Grandma Alice, October 20, 1917- February 4, 2015
Death happens: that's one of the simple truths in this world. It happens to everyone. But if we know it's coming, why does it hurt so much? Because we can't control it? Because after death happens, we can't go back? I've struggled with this for the past few weeks, finding it hard to put words to virtual paper about my grandma's death. For every person I've met in my life, there has been (or will be) a "last time" that we ever see or talk to each other, even if they are still alive. But it's awful when you no longer have the option, especially when it's your beloved Grandmother, someone who has been there your entire life. Here's another simple truth: death really sucks.
Grandmas are not normal people. Grandmas are grandmas. Being a grandma is probably the most lovable "occupation" anyone could ever have. The word Grandma is synonymous with adoration, warmth, advice, cookies and pies, being spoiled, holiday dinners, unwavering support, and the best hugs you can find. I wish I could be a grandma someday.
I don't even know how to start describing how much Grandma Alice meant to me, my childhood, and how she influenced me into who I am today. Just her quote at the beginning of this post shows how much her family meant to her, and she to us. I got the sad news as I landed in Warsaw after traveling back from Seattle. Just the night before most of my cousins and family had gathered at my parents house for dinner when I was back in town, and we spent some time talking about Grandma and reflecting on our childhoods (she wasn't there: she was in a nursing home, under hospice care). She was 97, but I used to think she would live forever, especially because her older sister, Aunty Lilly, is 103! Even so, her passing was not the biggest surprise, as she had been bedridden and under nursing care for some time, recently unable to speak or interact, and having trouble breathing. But death is never really real until it's real.
Maxwelton Beach, Whidbey Island
We spent some wonderful Thanksgivings and Christmases there, but Easters were the best, with dozens of family members making the trip for the classic Easter egg hunt (whoever wrote the song that goes "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go" really knew what they were talking about). I always looked forward to the Easter egg hunts; the adults would hide painted hard boiled eggs and plastic eggs filled with candy or money around the garden and beach front. The kids would spend hours trying to bring back the biggest loot. I didn't even bother picking up the boiled eggs...I only cared about the candy and money. Even when it wasn't Easter, every time I walked outside I would look around the garden just in case there were some un-found eggs laying around (and sometimes there were!). I found $2 once!
Easter Egg hunt 30 years ago
Not only did Grandma bring our family together for valuable bonding, but she somehow brought the neighborhood together as well. It seemed like everyone who lived within walking distance of Maxwelton Beach Road knew "Alice" and all of her grandkids. There were always people stopping by to say hi, somehow they remembered me, but sometimes I had no idea who they were. Alice was important to them, and so was her family, so they remembered her and everything that was important to her. That's the kind of person she was. She made people love her, just by being herself. When I got into college, one of my favorite things to do was to bring friends to the island for a weekend, and Grandma was always standing at the door to greet us with open arms. She remembered my friends like they were her friends, played with us, fed us, and made sure we were all having a great time. Grandma was so good to my friends that one of the things that makes me saddest is that my future family will never be able to meet her. Simply put, I loved showing her off, and I wish everyone in the world could have met her.
Which one is Grandma?
Grandma and cousins - 2003
With my brother
But there are even more defining memories I have of Grandma. She was somehow more connected to animals and nature than anyone I have ever known. She always had little lap dogs, and our family Bichon, Lani, loved spending time at Grandma's. She'd get super excited whenever we approached Grandma's gravel road and one of us got out to open the gate. Grandma even used to have a small stuffed Lani dog, which she carried around and treated like it was a real dog (she'd talk to it and pretend to feed it when she thought nobody was looking). I've heard of horse whisperers, but I'm pretty sure Grandma whispered to all animals.
Spending time on Whidbey meant spending time in the wild, often to find our dinners for the night. Grandma knew secret spots where we could dig buckets of clams in just minutes, pick up huge dungeness crabs with our bare hands (although I was hard for me because I was scared of their giant claws), and hunt matsutake mushrooms and wild blackberries in the forest (we'd get into fights over the last piece of blackberry pie). She was also able to spot the bald eagles sitting in the tree tops on the hill with her bare eyes, while most mortals needed to grab the binoculars to confirm that she was right. And oh how I loved when we would put the guts from our caught salmon on the beach, hide behind some logs or in the house and watch as the bald eagles swooped in to eat them. My grandma fed bald eagles. I don't even think Chuck Norris does that.
She taught me how to dig for sand shrimp, which we used to catch flounder and cod, and how to bait my hook with herring just right so the salmon would bite. Whenever she would take me fishing in the little 10 foot Livingston, the fish seemed to willingly jump into her side of the boat, while I sat there picking my nose, with no action at all (kind of like my life these days). Everyone wanted to be around her; even the fish. I used to make the excuse that old people have a special smell that fish were attracted to, so she had an unfair advantage. Or maybe fish just didn't like the taste of my boogers.
When I was probably 10 years old, I remember pulling up a skate (something like a sting ray) that seemed like the size of the boat. Seeing this thing approach the surface from under the boat is one of the scariest things I can remember. At the time, I thought it was going to knock the boat over and eat us. Of course, it was harmless, but we let it go because I was too scared of it. This is just a random picture from the internet, but that's how big the skate was in my memory (in reality it was probably super tiny). I never knew how she could remain so calm, with this huge monster right under us. But that's Grandma, the fish whisperer.
Miles of adventures during low tide at Whidbey
There is only one thing that ever bothered me about visiting Grandma's house. She had a freaky stuffed doll that reminded me of Chucky from the movie Child's Play. The doll wasn't scary by itself, but my imagination always got the best of me, especially at night. Grandma's living room had very large windows, and the side of the house facing the beach was basically two huge sliding glass doors. My brother and I usually slept in the living room and when the moon was bright, it created lots of shadows. This meant being able to see bats flying around outside and creepy shadows of everything near the glass doors and windows. I don't know if someone did this on purpose, but that stupid doll (which was the size of a 3-year old), was always standing up, leaning against the glass. So in the moonlight, it looked as if a small creepy kid was standing outside, looking into the living room. This always freaked me out. Even when I buried the stupid baby under some blankets or threw it under the couch, it always seemed to move back to the glass the next night.
Grandma also had one of the most fascinating and heartbreaking stories about her 2.5 years in the Minidoka internment camp during World War II, in Hunt, Idaho. The internment camps were basically prisons, where the US government sent Japanese people because nobody trusted them after the Pearl Harbor bombing. And when I say Japanese people, I mean Japanese Americans. They thought my Grandparents, and many like them, American citizens born and raised in the US, were spies for Japan. She didn't talk much about this traumatic betrayal, but she once told my cousin Kelsi about the experience; what it was like to be stripped of her liberties by her own country. She wrote a short memoir about it, which is not formally published, but if anyone is interested, I'd be happy to share (her quote from the beginning is from this memoir).
It covers a wide range of emotion from confusion to embarrassment to anger, losing their freedom and possessions, and the racism and prejudice, to the joy of my dad being born (unfortunately in the camp), to the depression of losing her own mother. Her honeymoon photos were confiscated, which showed some romantic doodling on the sandy beach, because the FBI thought they were messages to Japanese submarines. Then there was the heroism when Grandma's brothers and husband volunteered for the US Army (the 442nd Infantry, the most decorated unit in the US military history) to prove their allegiance and patriotism, despite their country turning it's back on them. Two of her brothers fought in Europe, one being captured as a POW (but safely returned later). It's such a powerful story that is not widely known in the US, that it could (and should) be a movie. It's kind of sad that the best way to raise awareness about history is to make a Hollywood movie about it. So Steven Spielberg, if you're reading this, Tweet me and we can talk about the script.
Physically, Grandma was always pretty healthy, as you can guess from all of her activities. But she started developing dementia several years ago. I wanted to share this because we will always remember and cherish her, even though her illness took away some of her memories of us. Dad used to tell me about some of the things she did that showed signs; forgetting names or what she was doing just moments before, how things from our house would disappear into her purse and end up on Whidbey Island, and other quirky things that happen as we get older. To be honest, what she did was "cute" and we couldn't help but laugh a little, because it was Grandma. She was always still funny, engaging and smiling, so you didn't really notice anything was wrong. I saw it up close for the first time when I was visiting my parents. Grandma was telling me an elaborate, funny story about my dad as a child, sharing some embarrassing things about him. Unfortunately I forgot all the details of the juicy story, because the ending of the conversation is what stuck in my mind. I remember thinking she was not showing any signs of dementia at all, because she was funny, remembering little details and was as engaging as ever. Until the end when she said to me "Freddie (my dad) is really great, and he has a lovely family too! In fact, this is his house, you should meet him!". Oh Grandma, yes I know him, you're talking about my dad. My heart broke a little, but I could only laugh about it, gave her a big hug, and didn't let go for a long time. Since I am not sure if she realized I was her grandson, she was probably thinking "what is this weirdo doing and why won't he let go of me?"
Writing this post started out with me feeling sad and being mad at death. But it got me to stop thinking about death and to start thinking about life. Grandma lived an amazing life, of which most people would be envious. She touched lives from the moment anyone met her, and created so many bonds and memories for all of her family and friends. So even though her death sucks and it made me extremely sad, I am even happier now from thinking about her and celebrating her life. I truly want to thank you for reading this, because like I said, I love to show off my Grandma to the world.
Me and Grandma being dorks
In closing, I'd like to share a funny poem that all of my cousins can recite by memory, because it hung above the toilet in Grandma's bathroom.
All us folks with septic tanks
Give to you our heartfelt thanks
For putting nothing in the pot
That isn't guaranteed to rot.
Face tissue is bad, matchsticks too,
Cigarette butts are taboo.
No hair combings, use the basket,
There's good reason why we ask it!
Rest in Peace Grandma. We love you.
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