Peaks and valleys

A month? I haven't posted in a month?

For shame.

Sorry folks (uh, mom). It's been quite the four weeks. First my parents were in town, (good!), then my grandfather died (bad). After that I thought I had hemorrhoids (bad), but it turns out I didn't (good!). And how does someone think they have hemorrhoids but actually be in possession of blessedly normal bowels? (bad... and good?) Anyway, then I got slammed with freelance work (good!), but got an insurance bill for over $9,000 for June's birth. Uh, bad. But as I suspected, we were billed in error. Good.

Very good.

But now I sit with a few minutes to spare, listening to the tickticktick of the kitchen timer laying in wait for the roast chicken and potatoes in the oven. Beautiful baby's in bed, sun's slipping away behind the hills, husband's chatting on the phone, cool summer breeze is creeping in through the windows. It's a jeans-and-flipflops kinda night. I love the roasting, stifling heat of a Chicago summer's eve (uh huh huh), but this is pretty nice, too.

As I mentioned, my grandfather died several weeks ago. He was 94. It was neither tragic in the untimely sense, nor terribly sudden, nor greeted with the wash of regret over missed opportunities a lot of folks feel when an elderly loved one passes. Spoose knew precisely how I felt about him, and God bless his kind heart, I knew precisely how he felt about me.

It's very weird that he's gone. Dad and I kept repeating those words when we were in Winnetka a few weeks ago. How is that possible? He's here, then he isn't? But I just talked to him? He just told me he couldn't carry my shoes (but he effed up and said "I couldn't carry your jock" ... then started laughing really hard. "I haven't said that since I was in the service!" he said. Which got me thinking, what the hell was he telling guys in the service that for anyway? That's awfully, um, loaded.)The point stands -- and as Trish said when I wrote to tell her, "Moose and Spoose always felt strangely immortal to me." And how. Sure he had his "spells," or, you know, had one ear, but he was with it, and funny, and sweet. It's easy to ignore the fact that he was repeating himself, when he's telling you how much he loves you.

Spoose's death is hitting me in waves. The morning I found out was one wave, the night of his funeral was another. I had a good cry the other day when I finally grew the balls to re-watch the video my dad made months ago when he met June for the first time, and a couple Saturdays ago when my spectacular and oddly-dialed-in-to-the-cosmos mother-in-law, Sharon, told me about the vivid dream she had of her own beloved grandfather. "I was thinking about what you said to me after your grandfather died," she said in her whispery-sweet voice. "Where does that energy go?" My guess is the only place we're not too distracted to give that energy a platform: the zzzz's.

I'm hoping for a dream like Sharon had -- one where he appears with a smile, gives me a hug, tells me I'm "the greatest", and is so vivid that I could feel the nubby wool of his soup-stained John Gardner's Tennis Ranch jacket. But Sharon's grandfather died decades ago, so I guess I ought to be patient and grateful for when it does come.

I did dream the other day that we were with him, but he wasn't doing so well. We were at a grocery store, he was talking to a bag boy and then fell -- he closed his eyes and that was it. I woke up.

June and I were back in Winnetka last week for a planned visit. June got sick, as did I, so we spent the last two days of our trip either at the doctor's or trying to get an appointment. We didn't see Moose until our last day when she stopped by, looking cute in her skinny jeans and oxford shirt and driving that death trap of a Pontiac with no working seatbelts. She looked great, was funny and loving, but there was a sadness to her. Hey, she had Spoose around for 67 years so what do we expect? She said several times as we were talking, "It's so quiet. I pretend he's on a trip." I'm sure psychiatrists would recommend confronting the loss and working through it in order to process the grief and move on. I said to her do whatever helps you sleep at night. If it's pretending he's still around, why not. She's 89. She's had enough pain and loss in her life. She's also had a tremendous amount of joy and laughter. Whatever she did to rectify the bad stuff in the past has worked.

I'm not so good at pretending he's still around, because he's simply not. But it's strange living so far away and attempting to accept it. His death is difficult to confront because I am not around to really sense his absence. In some respects I feel like I can get in touch with him a little more easily now. I find myself quoting him a lot more. Talking about him a lot more. Talking to him a lot more. I know folks who had lousy grandparents so their death never had an impact. It's like when the face fell off the Old Man of the Mountain here in New Hampshire. This community built an identity around this presence, but now the presence is gone. Folks thought, "Well, now what?" The identity is still there, but the face has changed. The only difference is this sucks more.

I had Spoose for 33 years. That's remarkable for anyone in terms of a grandparent. A week before he died mom and dad were here visiting and dad and I spent some time after dinner one night talking about Spoose's war service. He was a pack rat -- not a hoarder -- but someone who held on to seemingly meaningless stuff. But when he returned from his time at sea on the escort ship, he got rid of all his military belongings. No hats, no papers, no jackets. He gave some away, tossed the rest. That part of his life was over and he was ready to move on.

Dad told me that he heard from a friend who was at the funeral who witnessed something pretty spectacular. Right before the eulogies started June began to get a little squirmy. Greg got up from our front row pew and made his way down the center aisle toward the back of church with our baby as "Mountains of Mourne," an old Irish song and one of Spoose's favorites, was played by the musicians. Dad's friend said June was beaming the whole way back, and looking up toward the ceiling, her huge blue eyes affixed on something worthwhile. It was a powerful sight, the friend said.

It's instances like that that has me convinced his "energy" is still floating around. I walked through our house today and, I swear, I could smell him -- that comforting blend of dryer sheets, the ocean in Southern California and the faintest traces of Moose's "Charlie" perfume. He's not here, but in some respects he's here more than ever.

The face of that mountain may have changed, but the mountain is still worth visiting.