Grandma, Mick Jagger, and Eddie Damn Vedder

 

Grandma turned 75 this summer. Mick Jagger turned 66: he is 9 years younger than Grandma. Mick Jagger rocks and wears belly shirts. We all pray Grandma does not show belly or any other parts these days.  Grandma enjoys a waltz, a fox-trot, or on occasion, a robust polka or two, but much less often these days. Mick Jagger’s hips still work the crowd.  Out of respect for Grandma, we do not discuss her hips. Nine years difference….but it might as well be a lifetime.

And maybe, it actually is a lifetime, the life lived, that makes the difference. The bold, driving performance of Mick Jagger contrasts greatly with the often present fear and timidity of Grandma. Grandma was raised by anxious parents who “protected” her, but she was on the young end of 6 children, and frequently left in the hands of older siblings, who were as likely to torment as to protect. Money was scarce, children worked next to adults on family farms, and air-raid drills were common in grade schools. Something in this childhood, perhaps the message that she was not able to protect herself, contributed to this life-long anxiety. And the anxiety is in fine form as we celebrate 75 years of Grandma with a family gathering in Chicago.

Two years ago, we were in Chicago during the hottest, most humid weekend of the summer. It was also Lollapalooza and we were displaced from our favorite hotel room by Eddie “Damn” Vedder as the rock festival crowd descended on Grant Park. My daughter, remembering our trip to Chicago during Lollapalooza  two summers ago, names this summer’s trip, Grandma’s birthday weekend, “Grandmapalooza.”

Grandmapalooza does not involve Eddie Vedder or Mick Jagger (oh, how we wish it did). Rather, Grandma’s three daughters and their families met in Chicago to take Grandma on a dinner-dancing-fireworks cruise along the Lake Michigan shoreline. It’s a celebration, but at the same time, a melancholy occasion. Often when the extended family gathers together the absence of Pop is felt, however this time seems particularly poignant. Pop, Grandma’s husband, died 16 years ago--at 61 years old. How he would have loved watching the Navy Pier Fireworks from the deck of the boat. He would delight in this gathering of children and grandchildren, and their ability to set aside the individual issues (which we all have, no one’s worse than another’s) long enough to come together for the sake of celebrating the family.

This is one of those landmark birthdays that bring about re-evaluation, for Grandma and the family. Throughout the weekend, observations are made as if seeing things through a new lens: look how tall Jacob is now; the boys are so handsome in their suits; Jordan looks so grown-up now; it’s hard to believe Kirby is leaving for college. How proud Grandma is of all the college degrees around the table; she did not attend college, the people sitting with her at dinner represent her life’s work.  

Granted, this may be skewed perception on my part. Grandma’s 75th birthday comes the same summer as my 5oth. More than once this summer the thought, “that can’t be right,” has surfaced.  Inside I am still the little girl who clowns for the camera as her Nana sits nearby.

 

Inside is the scrawny, anxious, 8-year-old girl, crouched on the basement stair, ear pressed to the door while upstairs they are preparing to take her mother to a psychiatric hospital. I’m still the mischievous big sister who shows the little sisters how to carefully, but artistically paint the family cat with markers. I’m the rebellious teen who can’t sit still when she hears the Rolling Stones. I can still do cartwheels, but the graceful walkovers of my youth are gone.

How did it happen that the outside of me is 50 years old? And what’s with all the existential questions that won’t be put off until tomorrow anymore? What do I want to see when I look back and review my life’s work?

When Grandma’s grandsons were little, we would often hear cries from the backyard, “DO-OVER!” or “RE-DO!” or my personal favorite, “RE-OVER!” And we would know they were going for the gusto in whatever game they were playing. “I would have hit a home run if Emily wasn’t in the way!” “Alex wasn’t ready, no fair!” “Chris kept going, I couldn’t call time out!” There might be some discussion, but 9 times out of 10 a re-over was granted, an opportunity to do something better, higher, faster, stronger, smarter. We would watch as the little boys would take their opportunity to go back in time and try again.

We don’t get the re-over in life, and honestly, I don’t think I would want it. Things aren’t perfect, but it’s the imperfections that often mean the most. Our mistakes, and at times other’s mistakes, shape the characters in our story. I plod along, working on my narrative, and at 75, Grandma continues to shape her story as well. We all stay tuned.

And when Grandmapalooza draws to a close, my youngest son, who bears a likeness to his Pop, asks Grandma to dance the final dance  of the evening. As I listen to the romantic words and haunting melody of "At Last," the love and pleasure in my heart for this caring, thoughtful young man who is my son combines with a familiar ache. And I wonder if I will dance with his son in 25 or 30 years.