Memories

Today we buried my grandmother.

In the past three years I’ve eulogized my best friend and his father (my former scoutmaster) and written my grandmother’s obituary. Did a swell job each time, I am told. And I’m proud of the words I shared to enlighten others about those dear to me. But this task is wearisome and I’d rather my talents were exhibited in a happier venue. Then again, to pen the words that relate to friends and family who a loved one was to you is an honor and a legacy not everyone is allowed. 

Granny Buck, left, at her 90th birthday party, with a friend.

You’ll note I am absent from the accompanying photos. My sister swiftly found snapshots of her and Grandma Buck, “Granny” as she was known in my youth, and I haven’t mustered the industry to dig through family albums or my own in search of any more personal keepsakes. So I’ll share a few memories in word form, as is my nature (though I’m no slouch as a photographer, a certain former publisher’s assessment notwithstanding).

So here’s who Granny was to me over the years…

Cookies

More than any other person, including me, Granny is responsible for turning me into the human Cookie Monster. Really, it’s her fault. Ask my parents: Nothing is ever my fault. (Except the punctuation of that sentence. I’m not sure it should have been a colon or if a full stop would be more appropriate – or maybe just a comma. And really, that’s Mr. Krause’s fault for not making it clear to me in Grammar and Composition.) Anyway, like a good dope dealer, Granny got me hooked and made the goodies plentiful.

The Lazy Susan corner cupboard in her kitchen on South Seminary Street was regularly stocked with no fewer than half a dozen varieties of store-bought cookies, kept reasonably fresh (no longer than they lasted) in old coffee tins. There were big flower-shaped sugar cookies with a hole in the middle, Dutch windmill almond cookies, Fig Newtons, Oreos, Nutter Butters, Solerno shortbread butter cookies, the crunchy iced oatmeal kind, Keebler Fudge Stripes and more.

For Christmas and at random times of the year I can’t specifically recall, she baked. There were gingerbread (no offense, Granny, but I prefer Mum’s), peanut butter, cutouts and, the piece de resistance, Granny’s Famous Sugar Cookies. Those devilish delights were light and crispy and decorated with a sprinkle of red or green sugar. I couldn’t get enough of them. I fear I offended her with my exuberant declaration of desire for them.

“Grandma, do you put cocaine in your sugar cookies?” I teased. “Cuz they sure are addictive.”

“What!? No, I don’t put cocaine in my cookies!”

Pancakes for Lunch

Just about everyone’s grandma has a hang-up about feeding the family. Always asking if you’ve had enough, and regardless of your response, insisting you have another helping of mashed potatoes or using you to slight grandpa by forcing the last dab of casserole onto your plate.

Well, Granny figured out my sweet tooth early on and exploited the hell out of it. Besides cookies, she figured I could subsist on sweets in the right form. Enter pancakes. Not necessarily a sweet in themselves, but good ol’ Mrs. Butterworth does the trick. Granny’s not-so-secret pancake recipe was a package of Martha White’s Flap-Stax.

In my early days at The Register-Mail, Dad and I would go to Granny and Grandpa’s nearly every Thursday for lunch. Pancakes were in regular rotation on the menu. And I ate my fill. I think my personal record was a dozen in one sitting. (Hey, they were thin.)

Camper Cookouts

This is but a vague memory, seemingly lost among the rest of my family, but Granny and Grandpa had a pop-up camper for a time when I was young. Dad says they actually took it camping, but never with me in tow. I only remember it parked beside the garage, a silent echo of adventure. But on a couple of occasions I recall Granny cooking burgers for us in the camper and crowding around the tiny pop-up table to chow down.

Melissa shows Granny photos in her digital camera.

The Belscot Incident

Granny didn’t take no guff. And she wasn’t shy about expressing her opinion. My first personal experience came on a shopping trip to Belscot department store on West Fremont Street when I was maybe 7 or 8. I’m totaling guessing at my age. But Granny took me to the beloved Belscot I think to pick out a birthday gift. Seems odd that she didn’t just buy and wrap something, so maybe the gift was just because I was such a great kid. Ya got me.

Anyway, my hazy memory is that we wandered the store and I selected a kick-ass black plastic rifle, lever action like a Winchester Model 73, the classic cowboy carbine. Again, my hazy memory tells me this piece of plastic pleasure was priced at a whopping $9. So Granny goes to write a check for my precious prize and the a-hole at the register informs her they don’t take checks without ID. They must have needed two forms or something (unless, God forbid, she didn’t even have her driver’s license on her!), and she did not. She was fuming mad that she couldn’t buy her grandson the present he’d set his dear little heart on because of their asinine policy and she let them know it.

The details are dim, but I know she was in a huff that day.

Food, Glorious Food

Not only could she bake, but Granny was one hell of a cook. Classic meat loaf, roast, taters, applesauce, vegetable beef barley soup, ham and beans, you name it. Come Thanksgiving, she shined. Aunt Betty and my Mum and later my wife and I and my cousins helped out, but she was queen of the kitchen. She orchestrated it all. Grandpa shepherded the turkey, but Granny was in the details and she was the boss.

It only made sense that I should seek her counsel when it came time to earn my cooking merit badge on the road to Eagle Scout. I was nearing the deadline of my 18^th birthday, so it’s kind of a blur to me now, but she got me through it and I don’t think she let me slide too much. Thanks, Granny.

Granny bathes my sister in the very tub in which I passed out.

The Drunk Tank

So how did I repay Granny’s kindness? Back in the early summer of 1980 I was preparing for high school the way any teenager would – experimenting with pot and booze. Actually, I think I was done with the pot by then, but booze in its many forms was easy to come by. One need look no farther than the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, eh?

Well, one Saturday while the folks were away for the day, I had a buddy over and we decided to see what drinks we could mix with the slim assortment in my house. Unlike the plentiful liquor cabinets some friends’ parents stocked, my house was limited to cheap beer, Jim Beam, brandy and Aunt Betty’s homemade vino.

Well, my pal and I mixed and matched (OK, none of that shit matches, so it was a mixed-up mess o’ trouble) and drank ourselves silly. Buddy boy got outta Dodge while the gettin’ was good. Being a resident of the Buck house, I kinda had to stick around. It seems brandy and Beam and Schlitz and homemade wine aren’t good drinking buddies. Put ‘em all in the same little room – a teenager’s tummy, for example – and they tend to brawl.

My parents were gone and I wasn’t feeling well. I’m no tough guy. Everybody needs his mommy or granny now and then. That was one of those times. I called Granny.

“Grandma, I don’t feel good. Can you come over?”

Being a grandma, there was only one answer. She was on her way. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel well enough to wait up for her. I drew a hot bath and slunk into the tub. I guess I passed out sometime between then and Granny’s arrival. It seems she found me lolled in the tub, unresponsive, and feared I was dead. I paid for the inadvertent ruse. Sometime in there my parents arrived home and eventually I roused enough to begin barfing in the toilet. Seeing as the adults were all downstairs, I was left alone to experience my first drunken retching all alone.

Let me tell you, homemade wine with extras has the hue of blood to the uninitiated. I screamed bloody murder. Well, not murder, but bloody death. For I swore I was vomiting blood. My loving, if irritated, folks rushed up the stairs and soon assured me I was not, in fact, throwing up blood. Later, as I walked it off in the backyard, Dad allowed as how I’d paid a pretty good price for my wayward-ness. I was let off with a week’s grounding and a warning that another incident would cost me my trip to Philmont Scout Ranch.

That is a perfect example of a grandmother’s love, as my sister reminded me at lunch Thursday. No matter how much any of us screwed up, she was always there for us. And now she’s not.

Thanks for the memories, Granny.

p.s. I’m not one to grieve in public, aside from the occasional lovelorn lament on Facebook, but I needed to write. I hope you’ll forgive me this indulgence. Honestly, I don’t deal well with condolences and all that. It feels awkward no matter what; I haven’t even told all my friends. In closing, here is a link to the obituary I wrote and another link to the brief bio I wrote about 13 years ago when Granny, a new permanent resident of the Knox County Nursing Home, was offering her testimony in support of a county tax to support improvements at the nursing home.  

p.p.s. I did run today, in part to legitimize the blog. Then I picked up my race packed for the Run Galesburg Run Half Marathon Express this Sunday and bought my new Mizuno Wave Inspire 9 kicks. The shoes feel great and look awesome in silver, black and orange.

Today's Stats

Temp: 64 degrees F

Distance: 2.85 miles

Weekly Total: 14.55 miles

Treasure: None.

iPod Playlist (Shuffle):

Excitable Boy – Warren Zevon

Don’t Let It End – Styx

Mrs. McGrath (live) – Bruce Springsteen

I’ll Cry Instead – The Beatles

Seven Bridges Road – The Eagles

Angel of Harlem – U2

Til September – The Usual

Doctor Robert – The Beatles

Give Me The Night – George Benson