My grandma lived alone the entire time I knew her in a small two bedroom apartment in a little town in Western Wisconsin. From my little kid perspective, Barron was a whole big town that could fit into a teacup. I was certain that other than my sister, me, and our two cousins, there were no other children that lived in this town - only grandmas and grandpas. Among the favorite places that were explored by adventurous curiosity and an innocent ignorance to fear and danger were the park and pool; the Ben Franklin store where we bought an assortment of small notebooks and tablets, mechanical pencils, and folders; the church during non-service hours (which I swear was haunted); the golf course where we collected hundreds of golf balls we foraged for in the woods that lined the greens and where we had many dirt bike races down the hills; and the local hardware store where we would buy obscure lengths of cable, rope, or chain, and small screw drivers. I'm sure the owners thought we were torturing small animals. After awhile, they quit selling those various artifacts to us.
My grandma's apartment complex was at the end of a dead end street - LaSalle I believe is what it was called. She lived in an end unit. There were 3 or 4 rows of little single story rambler apartments. The concrete sidewalks with cracks every 2 feet or so made perfect straight lines and right angles as they panned out in front of each unit and up and down the buildings in the rear that were perpendicular to the street-facing buildings. The laundry room was behind my grandma's apartment. I remember the small plastic containers she had for her quarters, nickels, and dimes. Each one especially sized for each coin. On the other side of the furthest rambler unit was a dirt hill. My sister, our two cousins, and I used to go over there and make action movies. I'm pretty sure that's the first and only time I was ever on the other side of someone's right hook as my cousin launched a fist into my face. It was an accident of course, but in tears, mostly from being completely insulted by the sucker punch, I bull-rushed him and pushed him off the side. He went tumbling down and burst out crying. We were even - a tear for a tear.
The golf course I had previously mentioned - I remember many times riding our bikes back there. It was part of a private country club. Oops. We would have bike races and skid out contests on the rolling hills. When it was raining or the greens were wet from a fresh watering, that made for the best biking terrain. The water splashed up on us and we'd get soaked. Our bikes sliced through the neatly groomed putting greens leaving tire trails. Our skid outs would ruffle the grass, churning up chunks of brown dirt. I know this is painful for you golfers to read! As someone who has an appreciation for and who has played alot of golf, it's rather painful to write about, but we were kids. What are ya gonna do right?
All of us cousins had this game we always played as kids called "Club." That's what all the aforementioned notebooks, tablets, and random hardware store supplies were for. This game was sort of like playing school or business, but it was almost like we were some kind of underground CIA operatives or something. There was alot of talk of ammo and oozies. I had no idea what an oozie was, but my cousins seemed to think we needed them to keep the enemies at bay, so we eventually constructed some oozies out of wood, empty shell casings, and camo duct tape. They were amazing! Apparently, one day, "Club" took on a different sort of adventure - one we called "Airlines." What we did, and how we got all this string I don't know, but we literally twisted and weaved tons of string all over our grandma's spare bedroom. If you could even get the door open, immediately it was like being sucked into a spiderweb. You couldn't move unless you used your stealth ninja/contortionist moves to get through all of it. Somewhere half under the bed, in the far corner, falling out of the closet, or, and I wouldn't put it passed us to have one of us stuck up to the ceiling or something, but that's where you might find each kid. You couldn't really see us through the mazey web of string. It was pretty cool.
My grandma's house always had a distinct smell. I can't even describe it now. I think I've lost alot of the memory of it in order to describe it, but I remember its distinctness. It smelled good - homey, comforting, and peaceful. She would smell like that too when she came to visit at our house. My grandma always had decks of cards on hand. I remember so many different decks. As an adult looking back, I'm sure that was intentional because if all us kids got a hold of them, well, there would be missing cards in no time. I remember taking all her tablets all the time too for "Club." Each time we came to visit whether it was a week at grandma's in the summer, holidays, or other occasions, her supply of unlined tablets would always be replenished. We'd unplug one of her phones for "Club." She had two phones in her house - both of them rotary phones - a black one in the living room, and a tan one in her bedroom.
My grandma always had a stash of molasses cookies on hand. I thought they were hers - as in she made them and/or invented them. I never remembered seeing them anywhere else but her house. The glasses we used had either spades or clubs all over them. They were clear glass and the pattern of the spades or clubs was black. For some reason, I also remember eating alot of squash - too much squash. Maybe that's why I'm not a huge fan of it straight up as an adult. Hmmm...
Barron was a town that still made good use of the noon whistle every day. The siren would sound, and when I was pretty young and would be up there visiting by myself, my two great uncles would come to my grandma's for lunch. I have no idea where they worked, but they usually had work clothes on that looked like Dickies or Carharts. They brought their lunches in metal lunch boxes with the curved top and beverages in metal thermoses. I would sit on my grandma's lap and eat mandarin oranges out of the small can and the four of us would watch Days of Our Lives.
At night, I remember laying by myself in the big bed in the spare room. I was used to my twin bed at home, and while this one was probably only a double, it felt infinite in size to me. The bed spread was white and heavy for such a thin layer of material. I remember it had small knots or some kind of nubbins all over it - all white as well. When the lights went out, I remembered being scared of the old clock that was in the room on the dresser. I don't know what it was about that little clock. I think it was the shape actually. It reminded me of a cloaked figure. The funny thing is, it was no bigger than a softball maybe. Odd what our little minds can put together. I remember my grandma's apartment being extremely quiet. While it was peaceful, it was unsettling. The quiet was different. The light was different. I was, and still am in alot of ways, a homebody. I did, and again, still do, get homesick pretty easily. I like my things and the comforts of wherever I call home. It was during those nights away at grandma's house that I felt lonely. Sometimes it was scary, sometimes it just made me sad, and sometimes it just felt empty.
I remember going for a walk with my grandma into town one summer day. Town was literally like 5 blocks away. We walked into the local funeral home. There was a visitation in progress. To this day I have no idea if my grandma knew the gentleman who had passed away. I'm assuming so since we waltzed right in and because Barron was such a small town - everyone knew everyone. But, I remember holding my grandma's hand as we walked in right past everyone and up to the casket. She took one look at him and said, "He was a rather funny looking fellow wasn't he?" And then we walked out.
As I got a little bit older, I remember going to my grandma's for my usual week-long visit. Now, my sister was old enough to come with. I remember having alot of anxiety before we even left for her house. I would fake my excitement and eagerness to see grandma and spend a week with her. I mean, I always liked being with her, but this is about the time my anxiety of bad things happening to people close to me was in high gear. Knowing that she was my grandma and thus, older than even my parents, I was terrified that something awful would happen when my sister and I were there and we wouldn't know what to do or how to get back home. One of the last times we went up there for a week, I remember calling my cousins every day that we were there and being gone most of the day with them so that my sister and I didn't have to be alone with her in case something bad happened. I think she felt really bad and maybe hurt that it seemed like we'd rather play all day with our cousins than spend any time with her. I feel guilty about that to this day. I had no idea how to communicate my nervousness, fear, and anxiety to her or to my parent - or to anyone really!
My grandma passed away in January - the day before I turned 13. The last thing I remember was visiting her in her hospital room at the Barron hospital and her singing happy birthday to me as we were getting ready to leave. The next day my mom and I were supposed to go shopping. I waited for what seemed like forever in the car and my mom wasn't coming out. Finally, annoyed, I went stomping into the house. My mom was in tears on the phone. It was the medical staff at the hospital saying that my grandma (my mom's mom) had passed away. They tried for 45 minutes to revive her. For a little while before she died - maybe a year or so - my grandma had a boyfriend - Clarence. He was very much like a grandpa to us. He had a farm in Wisconsin not too far away from Barron. We'd go over there and play in the hayloft and visit the cows. Everyone was deeply saddened when she died, but Clarence never got over her. I remember during the visitation, he shakily made his way up to the casket. He was sobbing. He leaned over and kissed her. He and my mom kept in communication until he passed away just a handful of years ago. Every time they were on the phone, he would bring up my grandma and start crying. He married twice after she died, but he was in love with her and never fell out of love. It was such a beautiful, yet heartbreaking thing. I didn't really pay much attention or understand that kind of love for another person until I became an adult - and it's probably been more of a recent realization too. It makes my heart ache and fills me with fear of getting that close to someone because then they die and I'm left with that constant sadness and loneliness.
These memories of my grandma came rushing forward in the last couple of days. It started from a conversation my mom and I were having on the way home from Duluth the day before Mother's Day. I haven't thought about this stuff in quite awhile and it's been interesting and quite emotional for me to write about this as the stream of memories that came out are some of my fondest memories of my time with my grandma, yet they are still painful in the meaning and reinforcement in my life of being so scared to get close to people because they leave - and usually in some kind of permanent way that is like death, or is death. This is probably one of the biggest sources of fear and anxiety that I have when it comes to engaging in relationships with people. My emotional guardedness is perhaps higher than I like to think it is. I am just unsure of how to connect really emotionally and really intentionally with people when, in my life, all of my significant relationships have had themes of leaving and me being left alone - whether someone dies, leaves me emotionally, or relationships end, it's always so permanent. And if there is ever any kind of reunification, it's always different and it still feels like there are so many gaps, but, none of know how to fill them.
I hear the distant whales of the tornado sirens. Instead of heading to the basement like I was taught to do, I head outside to scope it out. I hear their somber, yet alarming cries off to the south. Once they subside, the air here is still, the night is dark, and now the silence is interrupted by the humming of window air conditioning units at our house and the neighbor's house. There's a storm coming. A couple of birds are restless - still awake long after the sun has set. Flying around - perhaps trying to find some steady shelter. It seems like there is panic in their nocturnal chirps. I wonder, how do bird nests stay in trees during the high winds that accompany some storms? They must or we would see all sorts of them all over the ground with other downed branches and debris in the aftermath.
As the cold front moves in, the winds pick up. The trees once so still come alive. There is intense energy building as the gust front (the leading edge of cool air rushing down and out of a thunderstorm) pushes the branches over and whips around anything not anchored firmly down. The trees give way to the rushing currents of invisible air - bending and arching - sometimes breaking. I can hear it coming up behind me as it roars through consuming the silence and the stillness. The racing wind pummels through the branches and leaves moving its way up our block and on to the next, and the next - tearing through our yards. My heart pounds as the silent night air is consumed with the raise of the wind bursting through the trees. I have always been afraid of high winds during storms - more so than the thunder and lightening. When I was younger, I thought the wind would literally pick me up and blow me away, yet tornadoes do not scare me. They intrigue me and I have been known to get in my car, cameras in hand, and head off in the direction of the storm hoping to catch one on film. I listen to the weather and have my maps ready so as to not head into the danger, but rather move alongside to witness and document from a safe distance. They have been elusive thus far...
The gust front brings new air - cooler, less humid air. It feels good. In a matter of minutes, the winds die down and the rain comes. Up until now, it's just been a few sprinkles dancing across the yard. Larger drops are beginning to fall. There is that smell of fresh falling rain. It reminds me of new spring after the snow from the long Minnesota winters has finally gone away and the earth is just beginning to awaken. Harder and harder the rain drives coating every dry space within sight. My only partial refuge is under the awning of the house - squeezed up against it to protect me from the rain and flying debris from the wind gusts. The patio now glistens as the light from the shed illuminates the saturated ground. The wind whips the falling rain into a mist and peppers my computer screen with water droplets. It's time to move indoors.
