Diva's Poem Thingy

A Tribute to Grandpa Jack

I parked my van in the alley and there he was. I put on my best smile, walked around the van and said, "Well, hello there! I'm your new neighbor to the rear!"...what came next suprised and comforted me all in one fell swoop. A hug. A loving hug from a stranger. The first of many to follow only...it wouldn't be from a stranger any longer...the hugs would be from Grandpa Jack.

My neighbor Jack is my nomination. Not just because of the hug I received the very first day we moved into our home. Because...well? He's amazing.

We talk all the time, through the fence, when he sneaks into my backyard with some little "extras" from his garden. But more importantly when we give him bags. Bags so full of clothes that it brings tears to his eyes.

Jack feeds the homeless every Friday night underneath a local overpass where the homeless gather. He's been doing this for over 50 years. He's always ready and willing with a hug and a "God Bless You" and an "I Love You". He's in his 80's. He fills his garage with boxes and boxes of "disaster blankets" to hand out when he goes out, he gathers food from the local grocery stores as well as gently used clothing from neighbors. He leaves at about 6pm every Friday and comes home well after 10pm.

When Jack sees us after a trip to the overpass, he always makes sure to let us know how quickly the clothes that we gave him were given away - The longest time I have heard of our clothes lasting was 5 minutes and that was because when my grandparents passed away we gave him a truckload. He said that at one point, not long ago, that they fed over 200 people under that overpass. He doesn't work for the city, or the state. Never has. He does this out of the love in his heart.

Jack is inspiring because he's giving comfort to those in need. He's not required to do so and he fully encompasses the words LOVE FOR YOUR FELLOW MAN.

The Greatest 10 Questions EVER!

The GREAT James Lipton of "Inside the Actor's Studio" asks these 10 questions of the Actors that come on his show before he opens up to the questions from the students in the audience. I thought it would be fun for us to do them here.

#1 What is your favorite word?

#2 What is your least favorite word?

#3 What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

#4 What turns you off?

#5 What is your favorite curse word?

#6 What sound or noise do you love?

#7 What sound or noise do you hate?

#8 What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

#9 What profession would you not like to do?

#10 If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Free At Last

I can remember him teaching me how to fish and work with wood. He was an all around "Handy Man" but could do things with wood that would make your head spin. When I was growing up he created a huge deck around our pool for my Mother and even completed kitchen cabinets in his own home. He was always doing something, tinkering.

We would spend a lot of time in the garage together, cutting shapes out of wood, because she was crafty and loved to paint and make things. We'd use the band saw and the sanding machine and the sawdust filled the air and it smelled so fresh, sometimes I would get a mouthful of dust that was flying through the air, but I didn't care. The smell of sawdust instantly reminds me of him...even to this day.

He was an ornery old coot. He would cuss and get pissed off at the stupidity of people constantly. It seemed as though his opinion was the only one that mattered. I guess that's just an attribute from those born in his generation. You know the type...the WWII vets. Yeah...they are tough old buggers. When I visited them, there wasn't one time where he wasn't all up in arms about something. Most of the time it was her. The sweetest southern Texan you'd ever want to meet. She's Indian. American Indian, but you wouldn't know it by looking at her, it's not like she'd dress in full on tribal wear or anything. She always would say, "Jerry! You better watch out! I CHOCTAW!" She'd say. "I CHOCTAW" all the time. Mostly when she was feeling feisty. I imagine I'll adopt that saying at some point as I get older.

He seemed to take his anger out on her the most. "God Dammit Penny! Jeezus Christ! That's just STUPID!" It bothered me when he would say that and for some reason even when he's furl his brow and say that, I was always the one who could talk him down. I don't know what it was...probably the love of his first grandchild, but I'd say, "Oh, Grandpaaaww!"...and I'd flash him a big smile and WHAMMO. I could melt him instantly. He'd say, "Well! God Dammit!" and then he'd trail off and hug me and kiss me. Kinda giggling at how ridiculous he sounded and maybe realizing that he was being too harsh.

About 8 years ago, we started noticing something different. He was forgetting things. He couldn't even remember how to use a measuring tape. We got him tested. He had Alzheimers. She took such wonderful care of him. He was a handful and had taken a special liking to the kitchen faucet. He would polish that thing for hours. At one point we were afraid the chrome would wear off. When we'd go to visit, you could see it in his eyes that he wanted so much to have a meaningful conversation. He called you sweetheart and "lovey". The only reason he did is because we would hug and kiss him, so obviously he should love us.

One day my Mother and Aunt and Uncle had a meeting with Grandma and they collectively decided that it was time for Grandpa to go into an assisted living facility because it was wearing Grandma out. She was finally ready to let go. She had cared for him for 4 years as he deteriorated. Through his night rage. Through his following her around like a puppy dog. It was time. She knew it. Everyone did.

After my Mother and Aunt and Uncle left her that night, she went to lay down. She called one of her sisters and told her that she thought the Choctaw in her was dead. The next day my Uncle and Grandpa went on a road trip to Mt. Rainier. I got a call from my Mother who had just left for a road trip to the Oregon Coast with my Dad. She was frantic. She told me they were on their way back and I needed to get to Grandma’s house so I could stay with Grandpa. Grandma had had a heart attack and was on the way to the hospital. She called 911 herself. The ambulance was closing the doors and ready to pull away just as my Grandpa and Uncle arrived.

When I showed up at the house Grandpa was there and my Uncle didn’t seem to have a sense of urgency at all. It was very strange. I kept telling him to go to the hospital. GO! Just GO! He finally left and after about ½ an hour I decided I would take my Grandpa to the hospital. He kept asking about her. Even after she passed. We would tell him, and he would just get so sad. Eventually we quit telling him and just told him that she’d be here soon and she was just “shoppin’”. She liked to shop.

The weekend before he gave us quite a scare. If you have ever heard a “death rattle” you know what I mean. We stayed with him all weekend. None of us went home. Then on Sunday, he just snapped out of it. It was a miracle. He was able to kiss us and hug us and love on his great grandchildren. We savored that day.

The next weekend, on my Grandma’s birthday he sunk deeper and deeper into himself. He held on that day so that we could have her day to celebrate her. I just know that’s why he waited. November 15th. My hand resting on his chest. The entire family laying on his bed, all of us touching him, we felt him slip away. I had never had the chance to be there like this for anyone. To be there…when he took his last breath. To feel the last beat of his heart. I almost felt relief. Joy and sorrow all wrapped into one emotion. He wasn’t trapped anymore. He was free.

If he'd only stop...

I miss him. I don't know if he even knows that. Everyday my heart is heavy.

I've been told that he loves me. I've been told that he thinks about me all the time, but not by him. HE'S not the one that shares this with me.

Just once, I want to be the child who came from a loving home. Oh, I was loved...but I was traumatized too. There are times that I dreamed of hiding behind a sheer curtain, seeing the shadows moving across the room and the sound of the abuse still resonates in my skull. The room was filled with an orangey-red light in my dream. And when the fighting was over, the sheer was swept away from me, robbing me of my hiding place. I saw it all. Only later in life, did I realize this was an actual event. This dream that I had, over and over...was something I actually experienced. I later asked my mother if I was ever in a room when my father abused her – she said I had been…ONCE. She said I ran between them and told my father to stop hitting her.

There were the weekends where he said he'd come get me. I'd sit on the couch...waiting for the headlights to light up the room. Leaning against the back of the couch, parting the sheers with my hands and waiting. My knees would get sore. I’d rest my chin on the back of the couch just waiting.

Sometimes I would wait and wait. Sometimes he’d come…sometimes he wouldn’t. When he wouldn’t it would absolutely break my heart. When he’d show up, my heart would sing. It was as if when he’d show up it was a gift.

When he’d pick me up, we’d head out to whatever shack/house he was staying in. Most of the time it seemed like we were prisoners there. He’d get absorbed into watching football and, of course, drinking. Which would leave me to figure out what we would eat. Late in the night while I slept on the couch, he’d be in a drunken stupor and tip over is his chair. Drunkenly he’d say, “Get up! You’re not hurt!” or…”The main thing is not to panic.” Even typing those words gives me anxiety. It’s strange. A certain way someone speaks or smells or a place…how it affects you and conjures up visions of what you experienced...the brain truly works in a strange way.

It’s really sad when I think about the time we spent together because I only remember the anxiety of it. Whether or not he’d show up. If he showed up, is he going to be drunk? If he is drunk, is my Mom going to let me go with him anyway? By getting excited about the prospect of spending time with him am I setting myself up for failure? Because I only remember the bad things, does that make me a bad daughter? Why can’t I remember any of the good things that we did?

At times I blame him. At times, I blame the booze. At times I blame myself for even thinking that I don’t care, or that he owes me some parenting for missing so much of my life. I get angry because I grew up without having him around that much and part of me feels like a little girl when I am in his presence – even now, when I’m 37.  I wonder if he knows how I worry that one day his liver will just explode and I’ll get a call from someone to tell me that he’s been dead for a month? I wonder if that call does come if I’ll cry because I’m relieved or cry because I’m sad?

Alcoholism has robbed me of many things. A few things that it hasn’t robbed me of is the fact that I have the mentality that I will never become an alcoholic. My children will never need to sit in the car while I go into the bar and get hammered and then come out at 3AM to drive home. I will never puke in the middle of a trailer park after chugging an entire ½ gallon of vodka while my children watch. I will provide stability and safety. I will never subject my children to the mess that I was subject to.

I will not reach out to him. I believe that he knows where I stand as I have said it to him. I have said the words. He knows that I will support him if he stops drinking. He knows that he can be part of my children’s lives if he stops. He knows that we could have a relationship…if he’d only stop. Just stop. I will never understand why it’s so hard to stop. There is so much to lose….and so much to gain.