TheBanyanTree: Visiting Grandma

[Monique Colver]

Grandma called last week. Andrew's, not mine, because mine are all gone
now, up to the big rocking chair in the sky.

I don't recall ever seeing any of my grandmas in a rocking chair, but still.

Anyway, Grandma, the mother of Andrew's father, called. I'd just gotten
back from California, first in SF then in LA, and the day after I got home
she called. She was in Walla Walla, had gone there after visiting her
sister on Whidbey Island, and after she'd left her sister and gone to Walla
Walla, the sister had died. She was 95, so it wasn't entirely unexpected.

I'd just spent days bonding with my family and was still in a family sort
of mood, so I said, "Well, we must go see her."

Grandma usually lives in Anchorage, but she still has the house her father
built in the 60's, which happens to be in Walla Walla (I just like saying
Walla Walla repeatedly because it's such a silly place name), and she likes
to visit once or twice a year, staying for a couple of weeks each time,
usually on her way to judge a flower show somewhere in the US.

Because Walla Walla is on the way to everywhere. In the fall, she lets a
visiting conductor for the local university live there -- she considers it
a community service. She doesn't charge him, and he keeps his scores and
piles of papers there year round.

Grandma also used to own the larger and older house on the corner, but she
sold it some years back.

I made reservations at a hotel in Walla Walla, even though Grandma had
urged us to stay with her, but there was no way. When we called her back to
confirm we'd be there on Saturday and we'd be there until Monday she tried
to talk us into staying with her, enticing us with entreaties like this: "I
have a double bed! Can you fit in a double bed?" (No. Have you seen the
size of us?") And, "I have a couch! I could sleep on the couch while you
sleep in the bed!" (No.) Etc. And, "I think I have air conditioning." (It
was a particularly hot week in Washington.)

We were going to leave after Andrew got off work on Saturday, and so
Grandma urged him to have everything ready so we could leave AS SOON AS HE
STOPPED WORKING.

We're not anywhere near that organized, so it was closer to 4 by the time
we left, us and Ash, who was very excited to be going to Walla Walla.

It's Walla Walla, after all, famous for onions and wine, neither of which
Ash is allowed to have.

We got there about 8:30, and though Andrew hadn't been to the Walla Walla
house in many years, he managed, with the help of Vickie, our trusty
phone-based GPS, to find the narrow alley behind the house, and he pulled
up behind a ramshackle garage. Next thing I knew, he and Ash were out of
the car, and I considered my next move. Should I get out of the car and
follow him? On the other hand, I was pretty tired, and had also worked much
of the day, so it was a tough decision. After a couple of minutes Andrew
and Ash came back for me, so I had no choice but to follow them into
Grandma's house.

Turns out the house is a small log cabin, on a street of houses. It's cute,
if you like log cabins that look like they may fall down at any time, and
it was small, and there was nothing in it that was newer than, say, 1965.

I'm just guessing at that.

The kitchen had the original stove, and there's a fireplace, and one
bathroom, and a couple of smallish bedrooms, one with a double bed, and one
with a couch.

Grandma started talking, and I have no idea what she was saying. Sure, I
knew at the time, but she's prolific in her speech, and doesn't take time
to draw breath, and can keep up a conversation quite well without anyone
else participating.

This is a useful skill. I can't even keep up a conversation with other
people participating.

Eventually the old wooden chair that I was sitting in, at the old wooden
kitchen table (all of which were made by great-grandpa, who owned a
furniture store) became harder than it first appeared, as if sensed my
discomfort and chose just then to undergo molecular changes to make itself
more painful. But it worked out because then Grandma wanted to show us
where we had not had the foresight to elect to stay. "I put sheets on the
bed," she crowed, "Just in case you decided to stay here! And here's the
bathroom, and here's the other room with the couch, someone could sleep in
here!"

Yes. I'm sure someone could. Meanwhile, Ash was having the time of his
life, exploring the place and being his usual irrepressible self. I knew
when we got to the hotel he'd collapse, right next to me (on the KING SIZED
BED!) and sleep all night, but he sure wasn't going to calm down around
Grandma -- another reason I insisted on a hotel. Look, I need my sleep. I
have fibro, I have pain, I'm grumpy when I'm sleep deprived.

Eventually we made plans to meet back at Grandma's at 9:30 in the morning,
so we could take her to her church service, which just this once was being
held outside in the park.

(Because it was supposed to be 100 degrees outside, and so that's a good
idea.)

Whatever.

We checked into our hotel, and while Andrew was bringing up our bags
(because he's awesome) I looked up a local boarding kennel, and found the
perfect doggy day care/kennel. I then hoped they'd be open first thing in
the morning -- open 7 days a week the website said.

I was correct about Ash -- while I was still trying to unwind he fell
asleep on the bed, the day's excitement having overwhelmed him.

In the morning Andrew called the deluxe dog kennel, and got Ash admitted.
He took Ash in, who was giddy at the prospect of playing with other dogs
all day.

I put on my also-funeral-appropriate dress and my fabulous new expensive
shoes, specifically designed for people like me who have a lot of pain.

We got to Grandma's on time, after having a rather lackluster breakfast at
the hotel -- it was still better than being poisoned by Grandma. I love
Grandma, but she has a reputation for poisoning people. She'd baked a pie
for the church picnic, and I felt like I was back in the 60's, where I
think Grandma likes to live. It was a lovely day, if unbearably hot, and
the congregation was a nice group of people, and as I sat on the wooden
bench and tried to find a comfortable position Grandma took the opportunity
to talk to other people, giving us a break.

Not that we needed a break.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. After we ate our fill, and they ran
out of food (I'm not saying the two events were related, I'm just relating
how it happened), we took Grandma for a drive, and she pointed out the
local sights. Upon seeing a statue, "That's some Portuguese guy," and
driving down wine alley (or whatever the main street is, where there are
approximately 1,756 wine tasting rooms, though I may be exaggerating),
"(And there are the wine places," and going past another statue, "I'm not
sure who that's supposed to be . . . "

Grandma is sort of crazy, but she's 85, and I think she's allowed to be as
crazy as she wants. She does what she wants, and she talks NONSTOP, and
sometimes she giggles, a very cute little giggle, and though I dislike
infantilizing old people just because they're old, but she was like a
little girl when she giggles.

We drove past the area Grandma lived in once, out in the country, before
Grandpa built the log cabin in town. They weren't from Walla Walla though
-- it was just the last place her father moved to, with his new wife and
daughters, after the first wife died. We drove around and around, and when
the road was taking us to Pendletown Grandma said, "You don't want to go
there," I said, "Yeah, you can cut there, that's where the gangs are," and
Grandma laughed and said, "No, it's even hotter there," as if such a thing
were possible.

We stopped at a McDonald's, where Grandma asked for a senior coffee, and
reminisced about how a senior coffee used to be eighty-five cents, and she
could get an ice cream cone too, all for a dollar, and now it was a whole
dollar for a cup of coffee . . .

We decided to go to the Fort Walla Walla Museum, where there is a block
house that her father helped build, and a fireplace in one of the old
recreated buildings that he built that looks just like the one at the log
cabin she owns. Grandma loves her father, and talks about him nonstop, but
she talks about everyone nonstop. Half the time we had no idea who she was
talking about, but it didn't really matter. There was a detour for
construction, and we got lost, and we went in circles, but eventually we
found it, and when we went inside Grandma quickly went to the information
desk to tell the information person that her father had helped build the
block house, and that she'd asked for his name to be on there, but the
museum director had been rude. We looked around at some of the exhibits,
and Grandma and I talked about how little women were once, and she told me
about the Nez Perce as if she'd been there.

Maybe she had. One never really knows with Grandma.

We went out in the blistering heat to go down to the display buildings,
down a path of stones with names on them, like misplaced headstones. The
other path down wasn't as steep, but it was on gravel, and it was in the
sun, and this one had a handrail, which is convenient for old ladies like
me and Grandma. We wandered around the little display village, and
eventually found the blockhouse, which was locked, but on the door was a
sign with great-grandpa's name on it, and we took pictures there, so
Grandma would have proof of what he had built.

Eventually, when we were all about to perspire from the heat, we started
back up the trail, Andrew sprinting ahead, until I caught him and said,
"You need to go back and walk up with Grandma, just in case."

"Oh, right," he said, and he followed Grandma up the trail. NOT THAT SHE
NEEDED ANY HELP. She's only 85 after all.

We were going to take Grandma out to dinner, but she insisted she buy us
dinner at The Iceburg, which is a drive through hamburger place, because
she never gets to go there anymore because she doesn't have a car in Walla
Walla anymore. She used to, but now it's in Alaska. By that time I'd given
up any hope of eating properly for the weekend and had a milkshake with my
hamburger and fries. We took our bounty back to Grandma's house, and she
got out plates for us, and we sat at the handmade table and ate our burgers
and fries while Grandma talked about her dad, her neighbors, her relatives,
her friends, and we listened. A rainstorm started up, wind and rain lashing
the winds, the trees shaking violently. It stopped before we left, but once
we were in our hotel room it started up again, a downpour that promised to
clear the hot humid air. By morning the sky was blue, and the air was fresh.

Sunday morning we took her out to breakfast, and while she had mentioned a
fancy place she'd heard about, it wasn't open on Monday. Andrew found
another place by asking around, a place the locals go to, and as we got
closer Grandma said, "I bet this is where I've been before! Oh, this is so
exciting!" And it was. The place had been there since 1934, and Grandma had
been there many years before, and she was so delighted to get to go there
again she giggled like a young girl.

And it was really good too, a small place in a building made out of
concrete blocks, a place where they stopped serving pancakes and french
toast after 11 am because, as the waitress said to another customer, "After
11, the pancakes start to taste like hamburgers."

We talked to Grandma's neighbor who now lives in the house she used to own,
a young military vet who had children and a wife, and he offered to clear
up the tree that had shattered branches up high, if he could, but as we
looked at the tree damage it looked more and more like she'd need to get a
professional in there. Later, when we were driving home, she called to tell
us she'd arranged for someone to clean up that tree, and the nearby locust,
for only $250. He, the neighbor, is going to school for a nursing in a few
days, on the GI bill, and seemed handy to have close by.

Grandma insisted on giving us some homemade grape juice to take home, but
considering her reputation for poisoning . . . the first bottle, which she
had in the freezer, had burst, so she took out another. She has as grape
arbor in the back yard, which smells divine when walking past it. The other
grape juice was also frozen, but the lid was too big, so the bottle hadn't
burst. The lid wouldn't stay on, and despite Grandma's best efforst to pull
out a spare lid from her collection of ancient lids, none fit. "It's okay,"
we said, but she persisted. She had a plan. She came back into the kitchen
with a black garbage bag she'd dug out of a closet, and a stack of
newspaper, and she proceeded to wrap the bottle in the bag with newspapers.
"If only we had a box," she said, "I bet there's one in the shed."

Then came the search for the shed key, and the one she brought out didn't
work, but when Andrew went back into the house he noticed, on the key rack,
a key labelled "Shed Key." "Maybe this one will work," he said, and it did.
The shed was the back part of the garage, where great-grandpa's workshop
was, and it had more handmade chairs. Maybe a body or two. It was that kind
of place. There had been someone living in the shed illegally, an elderly
man who just needed a place to live, and who helped out around the place in
exchange. He's not there anymore. \

Maybe Grandma did away with him and has been collecting his social security
checks. I don't know.

We found a box that we decided would be suitable, though it really wasn't
-- we just wanted to get going. We're bad people, because we weren't going
to keep the grape juice.

Eventually we got it all packed and were on our way, first to try some wine
tasting, then to pick up Ash and go home.

The grape juice didn't even make it out of town. It's a sad fate for the
grape juice, but it had far too many factors working against it.

I climbed in the back to lay down, and Ash and I slept, and when I woke up
we were driving along the river again on a beautiful Washington day. We
stopped to watch wind surfers, and then kept driving.

Grandma will be in Walla Walla another week or so, then she's off to a
garden club convention somewhere . . . maybe St Louis. No Kruse's left in
Walla Walla, but apparently bunches of them in St Louis.

When I'm 85 I don't want to be living in a decrepit log cabin, but I do
want to be able to go wherever I want, because I find that wherever I go, I
find friends. So does Grandma. She thinks we got our proclivity for hotels,
clean sheets, air conditioning, from Andrew's parents. When we left she was
pondering the bed question, "Well, I don't know if I should sleep on it or
not, it's got those fresh sheets on it . . ."

What else does one do with a bed? I'm of the opinion that she doesn't
sleep, she putters around thinking about the past, and planning the next
leg of her journey.

We all had fun, and my head threatened to explode only a couple of times.

Sorry for the extra long missive -- I'm taking up writing again, and once I
start I keep going. Sort of like hearing Grandma talk -- it just goes on
and on.



*Monique*