Nails and stuff

Call CPS! Yes, that is Andy on a bed of nails. He was unusually calm and patient as Grandma put him on the bed and the nails started to rise out of it. Didn't hurt a bit! This is one of the exhibits demonstrating risk at the Carnegie Science Center.

Here's a view out of our top floor window. It was a very rainy day with dark clouds, but the sun peeked through for a bit and brought out the color of the grass and trees.

Christmas 2006

Click here to view our holiday photos.

Small Favors

Andy and I arrived back in Pittsburgh yesterday, after five days in the Seattle area.

I had a couple of days alone with my grandmother after Pop's memorial service. These were long days, in which Gram mostly slept on her recliner, as the Cartoon network droned in the background, keeping Andy in his own docile haze. I don't know if Gram slept more because of her grief or if it was a consequence of her stroke, of aging. I puttered around her small apartment, wondering what I could possibly say or do to help her.

She told me she wanted to bawl her eyes out, but she never did. Oh, she cried. But something always pulled her back to the present moment. Often this was Andy, finding a ball of yarn and unraveling it all over her living room, or trying to insert a pair of scissors into an electrical outlet. And--unbelievably--she would smile. Laugh even. There was clearly nothing I could do to help Gram, but there was plenty that Andy could. If he didn't bring her to the present, he could take her to the happy past. One of her sons used to stick things in outlets, she recalled. (I thought this must have been my Dad or Jay, but no, it was Joe.)

I asked her, where did she think Pop was now? She replied "Oh, it's as the bible says... " and sighed, "But I'm not thinking of him. I'm selfishly thinking of me and how much I miss him. There's an empty place now, that hurts, way down here..." She longed for Pop to say he loved her again. They were married for 63 years. And they were happy years, she reassured me. "He was a good lover."

Gram asked me, was I scared, traveling alone with Andy? She wanted to know how I arranged for the car and if I minded sleeping in the cottage by myself. Gram is facing an empty bed for the first time.

I realized just how much I lean on Mike. He usually makes the flying arrangements, checks us in at the self-service kiosks, and determines which gate we are flying from. I appreciated this fact when I scrambled to find Gate "E" at the Pittsburgh airport. I managed to end up at a service elevator, where an employee took pity on me. He asked to look at my ticket.

"You're flying from gate B22," he told me.

"Not E?" I was flushed and flustered. Holding on to my active toddler's hand while balancing my purse and carry-on was about all I could manage. Getting both of our shoes on after sneaking his juice through inspections as he screamed for it had winded me. (They found the juice, anyway. After eyeing it suspiciously, it was returned to me.) Didn't I see E clearly marked on our ticket?

"No. I'm afraid the E stands for Electronic. As in, E-Ticket," he said quietly. But then, to make me feel better, added "It happens all the time. The gate number is actually very small...Right there, see? B22,"

"Oh," I thanked him profusely. He accompanied us on the tram, and pointed the way to terminal B. I felt like a complete idiot, of course, but grateful for the small favor. Actually, there were many acts of kindness toward us along the way. Like the rental shuttle driver, who found me a luggage cart, loaded it up with our bags, and sat Andy in the front of it, taking care that his legs were securely in. A different shuttle driver carried our bags all the way to the rental car and loaded them in for us. Sure, they could have been looking for a good tip, but I don't think so. I think they were genuinely pleased to help. As the employee who found us wandering at the wrong elevator mentioned when he said goodbye to us: "No problem. I'm glad I could do something worthwhile today,".

While Pop's presence was acutely missed in the Warm Beach apartment he and Gram shared--I often wondered what he would have said to lighten the heavy mood; it would have been clever and funny--Gram impressed me, as always, with her charm and grace. To everything and everyone, it was "Thank you, Dear." We left her apartment for an outing to Starbucks, and she noticed my rental car parked outside. "Is this your car? Good. I've always wanted to ride in a PT Cruiser," and she slowly climbed aboard, ready for another adventure.

Lynnton Houston Elwell 1920-2007

My Pop died last night at a nursing home north of Seattle. He had just turned 86. Up until a few months ago, he was living independently, with my grandmother, in a small apartment in a senior community. I am immensely grateful that we were able to visit Pop and Gram for two Thanksgivings, first when Andy was just two months old, and then a year later, at 14 months old. Sadly, we did not go this year.

My heart aches for my grandmother. She remained in her apartment, but went to visit Pop in nursing care for most of the day, even sneaking him into her dining room for an occasional lunch: the dining room where they had eaten their lunches and dinners together for the past several years. She took Pop there despite reprimand and despite the fact that he would sometimes pour juice into his coffee. How an 85 year old woman, barely ambulatory herself, managed to escort her mostly bed-bound husband to lunch is a remarkable feat in itself. I suppose she was insistent that their lives retain some shred of dignity.

I remember dining with Gram and Pop in the "Garden Room". To reach the entrance, we had to first walk through a passage way with a large window overlooking the skilled nursing cafeteria, where the more elderly and disabled residents would wait-- slumped in their wheelchairs, wearing oversized bibs-- for an aid to spoon pureed pears into their perpetually open mouths. Gram visibly shuddered each time we passed this sight. It seemed a cruel and needless reminder of what was inevitable. Gram expressed her hope that she and Pop would not end up there, and I think it was then that she told me: "Don't ever grow old, Barbara."

When I received the voicemail from my Dad, letting me know that his Dad had passed, I did not feel the sadness immediately. Physically, mentally and emotionally, Pop was suffering. He told Gram a few days ago: "Let's get some money and a car and get out of this place." When he had to end his life of service as a minister and teacher, when his sight began to fail him and he couldn't enjoy the pleasures of reading--and this was many years ago--that was when I began to mourn for him.

As a child, the highlights of my visits with Pop were when he'd make his signature drink for us grandchildren: gingerale and lime sherbet floats. He had an extensive wind-up toy collection, and once each visit he would wind each one of them up, so that the whole house came to life with little wheeling objects. My favorite was Santa Claus on a bicycle.

Pop had an incredible wit and sense of humor, that sometimes turned surly. When Jessica and I tried to use their old mop to clean their kitchen, we joked that it was time to buy a new one. He grew defensive and quipped that his old mop was a lot like our hair!

Pop needed to retreat often to the solitude of his study, to read and think in private. In fact, this is what I remember most about him. I have this same need, and I'm sure I get it from him. When I learned of his death, I had an overwhelming urge to be alone for awhile, to create this post for him. Some cyberspace equivalent of pen and ink, if not bricks and mortar, something to commemorate that he lived and he died.

I know he would be disappointed to hear it, but I have no idea where--or if-- he is, now. I did not inherit his faith. His passing is a reminder to me to appreciate the gift of life, to say the "I love yous", to write, read, think and be of service to others. To find the humor in situations. To get out the toys and wind them all up.

I think I will have a sherbet float and say a quiet toast to him. Maybe even a prayer.

Thank you, Pop, for your life. I will miss you.

Dec. 19, 1920-Jan. 1, 2007