To Live is an Awfully Big Adventure

All my posts about my crazy, huge, awesome family:
Our vacations together (1, 2, 3)
The simultaneously best and worst Halloween ever
The Saga of the Turkey Bowl (1,2,3)

…And this one.

It was at least a decade before I knew that her real first name was Irene–she always went by Dolores.  She was born in the Roaring Twenties and lived through the Great Depression.  She met the first love of her life, Ted, and married him shortly after World War II.  After fortyish years of marriage and many, many sons, Ted passed away.  She traveled the world for a bit, and then met the second love of her life, John, and spent fifteen wonderful years with him.  After watching her family grow beyond the size of a professional football team, Dolores passed away shortly before her 94th birthday.

That’s the super-cut montage of my grandma’s life.  Imagine it all playing out silently in front of you on a movie screen over the span of a minute while some touchy-feely music plays.

It leaves out a lot of the best parts.

By the Numbers

Grandma and Grandpa went several years without having kids, and from what I understand, they started to worry that they couldn’t have them.  At one point, Grandma got pretty sick.  Like, hospital sick.  Doctors were apparently stumped–no one knew what was giving this young woman all these problems.  Eventually, they figured it out: Celiac Disease.  It’s becoming more well-known nowadays, but it was practically unheard of back then: a hereditary autoimmune disease that causes your immune system to start literally destroying your intestines whenever they try to digest gluten.

(In the ensuing decades, several of my uncles and cousins were also diagnosed, which was a bit of a challenge in, say, the early nineties, before gluten-free stuff was everywhere.  I remember my cousin ordering her ‘gluten-free pizza’ for delivery back then–basically, a pie tin filled with nothing but pizza sauce, pepperoni and melted cheese.  I like to say we were gluten-free before it was cool.)

Anyway, managing the disease answered the question about whether Grandma and Grandpa could have children.

They had eight.

…Sons.

(There were two sets of twins in there, too.)

I remember my uncles saying they used to sleep in dresser drawers when they were smaller because there were so many of them, but I could never be sure if that was a joke or not.  I’m told that Sunday mornings at the church down the street were a sight to behold, with Ted and Dolores and their eight boys taking up an entire pew.  There was no dissension among those ranks–the slightest sign that anyone was getting out of line would be met with a quick look from one of their parents.

I maintain that they were probably more worried about catching Grandma’s eye than Grandpa’s.

Anyway, as those eight boys grew up and had kids of their own, the family got bigger and more unwieldy.  I’ve written before about the family solution:  a number system.  Starting with Grandpa (#1) and Grandma (#2) and counting down, each member of the family gets a family number, similar to the player number on a sports team (I wasn’t kidding when I said we were bigger than a football team).  You get your number when you join the family–either on the day you’re born, or the day you marry in.  (I’m #18).  We’ve all got tee shirts with our numbers on the back, jersey style.  We wear them to family gatherings.

A couple Thanksgivings ago, when everyone had gathered, Grandma cleared her throat and silenced the room.

“I have an announcement to make,” she told the gathered family.  “I know everyone is looking forward to Anne joining the family next year,” she gestured to my cousin’s fiance, “but I’m sorry to say, Anne, that someone else is going to beat you to #60.”

Everyone leaned in, perplexed.

“I’m getting married again,” Grandma announced.

Everyone looked at each other in stunned silence.  Grandma’s second husband has just passed away the year before.  Who was this mystery third guy?

Absolutely no one doubted that Grandma was capable of attracting another beau.  She absolutely could.

Grandma’s let the silence go on until just before it got uncomfortable.  “I’m just kidding!” she said.  “Danielle (#24) is having a baby!”

She got us good.  In the year or so since, we’ve climbed to 62.  Number 63 is due in a few weeks.

Family First

I don’t think I can even express all the ways that this lady shaped the person that I am.  It begins with this: family is everything.

Until I moved to Florida after college, all Grandma’s children and grandchildren lived within a few miles of each other.  And every Sunday, after church, we gathered at Grandma’s house and spent the afternoon together as a family.

The Uncles sometimes watched whatever sport was in season, and we kids played board games, sometimes Nintendo or Atari, or played in the street with the neighborhood kids, who always knew that we’d be around on a Sunday.  (It was in this neighborhood that we had our most infamous trick-or-treating experience ever, as well.)  If it was yucky out, we sometimes had to invent our own amusement…which usually resulted in getting yelled at for shaking the chandelier or almost putting a hole in the wall at the bottom of Grandma’s stairs.

…And cards.  So many cards, you guys.  Grandma LOVED them.  Poker and pinochle and pokernochle and gin rummy and bridge.  Grandma was a patient teacher, but a serious player.  There was usually some kind of card game going on Sundays.   Grandma maintained her card shark reputation to the end, playing her last hand a few days before she passed away.  My brother (#21) has said that the reason so many of us grandkids did well in school is because we learned counting, math and critical thinking playing cards with Grandma.

Every part of Grandma’s house seemed magical–the front steps where the grandkids would pose for our annual photo every Easter morning in our Sunday finest, the railings of which were strewn with bird seed for the cardinals; the well-tended fireplace (it was also a jackpot for the Easter morning egghunt–remember, if you spot an egg hidden below your waist, you leave it for the little kids to find); the aforementioned treacherous chandelier; the kitchen, with its never-ending supply of wafer cookies, Twizzlers, and Ecto Cooler; the staircase that we would surf down on the back of a five-foot tall plush Christmas elf (I told you, we made our own fun); the upstairs bedrooms, where the little kids devised and performed a Thanksgiving pageant featuring Squanto (followed by many, many sequels, which, like any good franchise, grew more extravagant and ridiculous each time); and the attic where, according to the Uncles, at least, dwelt the dangerously unstable Ninth Brother (Victor? Vince? I can’t remember) in eternal gloom, like the family’s own Phantom of the Opera.

The average Sunday at Grandma’s was a party of epic proportions, is what I’m trying to say.

And that’s nothing compared to the ACTUAL parties.  Every summer, Grandma would take us to a resort somewhere for the weekend and we would spend close to 72 hours going nonstop–bags tournaments, volleyball, card tournaments until dawn, occasional late night ping pong, sitting around the fire pit telling stories or listening to cousin Nick (#35) play the guitar, and occasional singalongs.

Our Matriarch

And I haven’t even gotten to Christmas yet.  After a delicious meal, complete with homemade Polish sausage and pierogies, and after all the Christmas gifts were exchanged, Grandma–from her prime seat in the center of the living room–would pronounce it time for the keyboard to come out.

You guys, family gatherings are VASTLY improved when your family contains a professional pianist.  My cousin Andrew (#46) would dutifully comply, setting up his keyboard and speakers, and what would commence can only be described as the greatest karaoke you will ever experience.

Grandma would create the playlist from her seat, calling out the next number.  “Wayne–now you sing ‘Chantilly Lace’.”  (He’s #5.) “Steven, Nicky–sing the one you sang last year.”  (#33 and #35, respectively, in case you were wondering.) Most people in the family had ‘their’ song–the one that they had sung at least twice before, and to which they were now forever tied.  The three sisters (numbers 12, 13, and 16) would sing selections from the showtune repertoire they amassed back in their days as singing waitresses.  My father and his twin brother (numbers 6 and 7) would sing “I Sing Noel”, a la Sandler and Young.  My sister (#28), it could be counted upon, would get a request for an aria.  It goes on until the wee hours of the morning–and Grandma was known to outlast many of her grandkids at the party.

We all knew Grandma’s playlist.  I’m not sure how everyone felt about it–I suspect Amy (#32) might be a bit tired of singing ‘Sleigh Ride’ every year for twenty or so years, for example.  I’ve always hoped that Andrew was enjoying himself despite being tied to the keyboard for hours.  The thing is, not doing it was never a question.  If Grandma asked something of you, you did it, and not even begrudgingly.  Just because Grandma asked you to.

And in between calling the shots, Grandma would just sit there quietly, taking in the performance, content to be in the center of a crowded room surrounded by her many descendants–not just talented musicians, but engineers, scientists, artists, teachers, literal cowboys, some who’ve climbed the ladder in their professions, some who’ve grown from precocious children to devoted spouses and proud parents, some who’ve been thrown a curveball in life and beaten the odds…some who write blogs.

She’d sit there content, enjoying the nonstop show that is our family, taking it all in.

Dancing Through Life

 Grandma has always loved to dance.  When she was eight, Grandma got to dance at the 1933 World’s Fair.

Later, she was a dancer for the USO.

I was five when my Grandpa died.  I wish I remembered him better.  Mostly, I remember that he told his own, silly, unique, absolutely wonderful brand of fairy tale, and his one rule: “No crying in Grandpa’s house.”

Grandma was a single widow for roughly a decade, and I think that decade taught me some of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned, because she didn’t let being alone defeat her, or stop her from doing WHATEVER THE HECK SHE WANTED.  Grandma had a powerful support group of friends–they called themselves the Golden Girls–with whom she got up to all kinds of hijinks.  They played cards, took ceramics classes, traveled the world.  Just a group of ladies, living their best life, totally unconcerned about doing what the rest of the world says that elderly single ladies should do.

Most importantly, they went ballroom dancing.

That’s where Grandma met John–and he became her dancing partner, and eventually her husband of fifteen years.  It took some adjusting to having a Papa John (#44) after so many years of Grandma being a strong, independent woman, but before long, we all arrived at the same conclusion: he was family.  And just like the rest of us, he would walk to the ends of the earth for my Grandma.

Adventure is Out There

When I say Grandma traveled the world, I’m not kidding.  She and the other Golden Girls loved to cruise, a passion that she shared with the family more than once by treating us to the occasional Caribbean excursion.

But, like, cruising aside, she traveled A LOT, to a lot of different places.  I distinctly remember her bringing back fancy little vials of perfume for all the Aunts from a trip to Egypt, for example.

And then there was this phone call my dad (#6) got one day:

“Jimmy, I’m just calling to let you know I got here safely.”

“Got here?  …Mom, where are you?”

“I’m in Panama, Jimmy.”

“Panama?! What are you doing in Panama?”

“I thought for sure I told you about this trip. …Maybe it was Rick I told.”  (He’s #3).

Anyway, because Grandma was constantly jetting around the globe so much, there was a running gag in the family (which I might have started, I don’t remember) that Grandma was actually a spy.

Editor’s Note: Actually, it was my brother that originated the spy theory.  Sorry bro.

Grandma was well aware that I had this impression of her.  She’d say something innocuous, like: “Anyway, you can’t come over this Sunday, because I’ll be in Paris with the girls.”

And I’d snark back with: “Suuuuuure you will, Grandma.  Definitely Paris, and not fighting Russian agents on the wing of a moving plane.  And I suppose this is a normal pen.  …Oh, it is actually a normal pen.”

Anyway, Grandma was actually, really in eastern Europe at the time that Slobodan Milosevic was overthrown, so you can’t convince me she wasn’t a spy.

***

A few weeks ago, Grandma, stubborn as ever, decided that she wanted to leave this world on her own terms.  If that was the way Grandma wanted it, then we would all make darn sure it would happen.

…But first, we threw her a party.  Sixtyish people crammed together under one roof to celebrate her life.  There were wafer cookies, and Twizzlers, and cards, and some impromptu musical numbers.  And Grandma sat in the center of it all.  The seat next to her was never empty as her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren grabbed a few moments to tell her the latest in their lives.

Uncle Don (#4)  Put on a video–a sort of ‘This is Your Life’ style tribute to Grandma that he’d made for her 75th birthday several years ago–and we all crowded in to the living room to watch raptly.

“She looks so much like Malissa (#38) in that picture!”

“Look at that wedding dress!  How gorgeous!”

“Look–it’s baby Rick!”  (He was #3).

And Grandma sat contentedly in the center of it all, surrounded by her many descendants, taking it all in.

***

Grandma passed away two weeks later to the day.  We have a few last commands to carry out: there was a particular song Grandma always loved that my cousins, sister and I will have to sing.  There are to be eight pallbearers–one grandchild from each of her sons’ families.  And most importantly, by Grandma decree, no one is to wear black.  Bright colors only at this funeral!

Over the past few days, my uncles, aunts, cousins, parents, and siblings have all shared their own tributes to Grandma–sometimes, in ways that make me wish I could have expressed myself so beautifully.

A lot of what’s in this post repeats some of the memories that they’ve shared–wonderful thing about her that they’ve reminded me of.  I’m not trying to steal from them, I just…wanted them all in one place, I guess.  One easy click, and there’s the story of Grandma.  …As much of the story as I know, anyway.

One of my favorite authors says, “No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away – until the clock he wound winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life…is only the core of their actual existence.”

I fervently believe this is the case, especially for Grandma–because 62 people are moving through the world living the lessons she taught them. Grandma’s ripples will go on for a long, long time.