one day

Yesterday I went to visit Grandma. Her house smelled like cinnamon. I found her in the front room in her slippers. She had blanket across her lap and her eyes were closed. She was listening to love songs from the 1940's. I touched her hand and she opened her eyes. It's Martha, I said. She told me how lovely I looked and that my visit was a special treat. She told me she'd been listening to love songs all morning and asked if I would join her. I pulled one of the velvet chairs with the scrolled arms up next to her chair. I turned the dial down so we could listen and talk at the same time. We talked about traveling and Grandpa and the beautiful things in her home from all over the world. About the tea cups she gave me from Germany. She told me I'm going to be famous one day, which made me laugh. I'm not sure for what, Grandma, I said, but thank you.

100

This sweet lady turned 100 years young on April the 8th. What a milestone! And that handsome dude behind her celebrated a birthday that same day. We tied balloons in the Primary colors along the balcony facing the sunset and lined the driveway with red, yellow, and blue to welcome all well-wishers. 100 balloons in total. This woman is loved by oh so many. (That guy in the tie behind her ain't short on fans, either.) How lucky I am to call her Grandmother. Happy Birthday Dad and Grandma!

piece of the puzzle

Dad is transcribing some of grandpa's history, specifically the years he spent doing church work in Germany. He's using recordings from interviews taken more than twenty five years ago. Since grandpa passed away a few weeks after my first birthday, I haven't any memories of him and I don't remember the sound of his voice. I've assembled a puzzle over my lifetime, made up of stories and pictures, a portrait of a man I never knew. His voice was different than I imagined. I don't know what I was expecting. Perhaps it's because I know him as such a spiritual giant. I expected a voice that matched that personality trait. It was gentle. Soft, like the faded photographs I've seen of him with my grandmother. They look like they have been steeped in tea, edges yellow with time. Grandpa is handsome in his topcoat and fedora, grandma next to him in a fur stole and gloves. They were the essence of 1960's class.

Germany stories are well-known, a vocal family history told by dad upon request at bedtime. He's spoken of many trips through Checkpoint Charlie as a seven year-old, waist-high, curious American boy. Church records were often kept in the children's suitcases. Audible and silent prayers were uttered that the soldier's eyes would pass over them. Sometimes the guards would take grandpa one way and grandma and the children another. A few times it was a while before they were reunited and could continue on to their destination together. To hear such tales in grandpa's voice, soft and gentle, as though he's sitting right beside me is like the finding the last piece of a puzzle 27 years in the making.

with thoughts of spring

Saturday brought snow. And not just some, but lots. While I'm rather fond of that fluffy white stuff, it was all too overwhelming at the time. And even though dad cleared the normal path along the grass between our house and the R's and lined it with the pink flamingos, winter still seemed eternal. You see, I've been hibernating in this shell of mine all season, trying to mask my turtleness with every imaginable fashion find. With the arrival of March I was ready to don my inner (in this turtle shell case, I guess it's outter) Donatello. Saturday's falling flakes brought another feeble attempt to keep warm while not appearing too Yurtle Turtley. It was all rather sad, really. Then the table for work didn't arrive, the color of the fabric was all wrong and I had to make phone calls to important people and say things I didn't want to say.

Then today. Today was rather glorious on many accounts. First, tulips. Green poking through white, reaching up towards the sun. A sure sign of warmer days. I smiled at the sight of them. After a four o'clock to-heck-with-it moment, I ended the day early and headed up to see grandma. I found her in the front room in her chair. "It's spring outside, Grandma!" I announced, drawing the drapes on the giant window that frames the mountain. We took in the view and drank in the sunshine and blue sky and then took a walking tour of the house to look at "treasures" from far away places. All of a sudden I didn't care about late tables and turtle shells. Who has time for complaining with fifty degree weather and tulips poking through the snow and a grandmother who will be 100 years old in less than 30 days? Who has time to worry about the color of the fabric when there are big open windows and mountain vistas and around the world weather forecasts delivered via telephone? As I drove down the hill towards the valley, I thought of warmer places and warmer things, and snow melting quickly under the feet of those silly flamingos. And suddenly my soul loosened with the thought of spring.

by a golden thread

I don't remember much about Aunt Vie and Aunt Leah, except that they were old. Not old as in aged, rather wise and sweet. Seasoned, yet young at heart. They lived by a school and taught school. Their house smelled old, but not the bad old. Just lived in. It smelled of fancy soaps, and spices and beautiful things. Though age and experiences separated us we were connected by a golden thread like those that ran through the antique furniture in their front room. A thread linking old and young and joining generations. We'd play hand games and sing "Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats," together in the living room with Grandma.

They had learned and loved and traveled, leaving their mark on the world and letting the world leave her mark on them. There were flecks of silver in their twinkly eyes from walks on distant sandy shores. Rosy spots on their cheeks from sunny days on the highest hilltops. Secret spices from far away lands baked right into their world-famous ginger snap cookies kept in a tin on the counter for the taking. Like birds gathering twigs, they had picked up little pieces of the world and brought them back to their little nest of a house on Roosevelt Avenue, beautifying it for any and all who might land there.

When Leah became too ill to care for herself, she spent most of the time in her bed. She would have Aunt Vie would braid her hair. I imagine they would talk of their adventures, each strand of hair joined together like a memory, creating something beautiful and full and round, like Leah's life. We would take turns sitting beside Aunt Leah, holding her hand and telling her what we were learning in school. There was a large dresser directly across from her bed that held keepsakes and treasures from her travels. I could see my reflection next to hers. There we were young and old, connected by an unbreakable chain stretching through time and space, across continents and country borders. Through thick forests. Along the ocean floor. Across open plains with wind-blown wheat fields, right back through the front door of the Roosevelt house.

When Leah moved onto the place beyond this world, it was Aunt Vie's turn to let time slowly sift away at her. Grandma came to look after her then, keeping the house in order. She braided hair, perfected the ginger snap recipe and and sang songs with us by Aunt Vie's bedside.

Grandma is still here in her own house full of furniture with golden threads, the link from this life to the next. She keeps her sisters close in spirit and in deed, still singing, "Here's a Ball for Baby," and "Mairzy Doats." The other day among Grandpa's things I found some mirrors of Aunt Leah's. I picked them up and stared at my reflection. As if looking through a window to what used to be, I was back in the front room on Roosevelt with the green chairs. The golden thread glistening off the glass.

98 never looked so great!

My Grandmother is remarkable. I adore her.

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA DEAR.

two scoops

My Grandma used to put surprises at the bottom of our ice cream cones. My sister and I would leave the kitchen, and wait in the hallway with the green carpet. We'd hunt for treasures in the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of collectibles from Berlin and Switzerland, jingling the swiss cow bells and flipping the tops of the German steins, as we eagerly awaited the mystery.

We'd sit at the kitchen table, our six and seven year-old tongues licking the vanilla ice cream and nibbling the cone until we reached the tip. The last bite would be filled of vanilla ice cream dribble and Skittles. Or peanuts. Or chocolate chips. A milky-white grin would appear on our faces, and, if it was a Skittles surprise, the milky-white would turn a variable rainbow as it dripped down our chins.

Last week, I told myself that I would stop eating ice cream. Well, at least in such large quantities. This was quite the declaration, as I eat ice cream all too often. But, I scoop in honor of my Grandpa. In honor, and because, well, I just can't help it. It's part of my genetic make up. Like my squinty eyes and my love of architecture and design, I inherited Grandpa's penchant for all things creamy and frozen. The man ate a hearty bowl every single night.

One of the few pictures I have of him was taken after a Saturday spent in the yard. He's sitting on the patio, the Saturday twilight shining on his silvery hair. A yellow napkin is stuffed down his work shirt. Directly in front of him is a heaping bowl of ice cream, which, thanks to Grandma, is festively bedecked with summer strawberries. Spoon in hand, he's staring out of the photo with his soft smile, ready to dig in as soon as Grandma's flash goes off.

Grandpa designed the Snelgrove's ice cream shop on 2100 South in Salt Lake. The one with the iconic big rotating double-scoop cone. Seems all too fitting. Eating Snelgrove's in our family was/is an occasion - when we were little, it was a reward for a ballet or violin performance. And when we were with Aunt Elizabeth, we'd go to Snelgrove's just because it was Wednesday. Many a milky-white grins were wiped away in that ice cream parlor. And now, it's closing. Forever.

With such sad news, Mom has stocked the freezer with Snelgrove's galore. Chocolate chip cookie dough, Strawberry, pralines and cream and Canadian chocolate. However, the downside of this (as if there is one - a freezer full of ice cream is pretty amazing) is that there's no burnt almond fudge to be found. Trust me. We've looked. The other night I went so far as to smash some almonds and mix them into my bowl of Canadian chocolate. Don't bother. You'll waste perfectly good almonds. Save yourself the disappointment. And let your almonds live on...whole.

After dinner at my parent's tonight, I pulled open the freezer drawer, well aware of the treasure trove inside. So many choices! Tonights combo: chocolate chip cookie dough and Canadian chocolate. There was one tiny problem. I've been freezing all day. All morning. All through church. Through dinner, too. But, I wasn't going to let that deter me from my mission. I put two sizable scoops into a bowl. Thanks to my parent's chilly house, my hands were literally shaking as I took hold of the bowl. Fleeting are the moments with my beloved Snelgrove's, so there was no time to waste! I dug right in, thinking of Grandpa. The chills got the better of me after a few spoonfuls. Being the innovative slash experienced ice cream veteran that I am, I came up with an ingenious idea.

I sallied forth with my scoops, and up the stairs I went. I turned on the bath. Rolling up my pant legs, I put one foot in at a time, steadying my soon-to-be-devoured dessert on the side of the tub. Talk about the best of both worlds - toasty toes and the Snelgrove's experience, all at once. I can' t think of a better way to end an evening. Except, perhaps, with Grandpa on the patio at twilight eating vanilla and strawberries. He used to say that there's Snelgrove's in heaven. I'm pretty sure he's right. And, there will most definitely be an eternal supply of burnt almond fudge. Snelgrove's, rest in peace. Until we meet again in that glorious ice cream parlor in the sky!