Grandpa Cliff

My name was almost Merford. That's what you get when you mix Clifford and Merrill, the names of my grandfathers, together. Whether (almost) a namesake or through other means, grandparents tend to leave their mark. That Grandpa Cliff did in spite of our very infrequent interactions has always been a bit of a mystery to me.

I wanted to know him better. The distance between Florida (where he lived) and Arizona is significant, and on average we had visits from Grandpa once every 2 years. I remember meeting him just shy of a handful times my entire life. And yet I can recall quite vividly the almost euphoric moments contemplating his arrival. They were probably even beyond what a child would experience near Christmas.

That I was a Miami Dolphins fan was entirely due to him. I liked Dan Marino and still remember watching him play live for half a quarter against the Cardinals in a pre-season game. As evidence that my appreciation of the Dolphins and of football in general is due to him, my interest greatly waned after my grandfather's death in 1999 (it didn't help that Dan the Man retired too). Every Dolphins sweatshirt and poster, and especially the jacket I wore every single day it was cold enough to get away with through Middle School were all through his influence. Yet the varieties of paraphernalia were purchased by my parents. It just seemed to matter to me that the Dolphins mattered to him.

Towards the end of his life he suffered from dementia. As things grew steadily worse we discussed sending me out to visit him during the Summer of 2000. I still don't know what we would have talked about or what he would have said to me. He was cared for during his last days by a lady friend whom I've never talked to and don't know. I'm glad they were there for each other. I sometimes think I would have liked to have been her. You can see from the pictures we have of him that he seemed to be a jovial sort of man. He often was sporting a "sheepish grin" I think he called it and there was no end to our amusement at watching him wiggle his ears.

I remember that he loved prune juice and recall seeing a jug of it on the top shelf of the fridge whenever he came to visit. Half drunk bottles were a reminder of the time he'd spent with us, but before long the container would make it to the trash, still half drunk (though maybe half drinkable would be the optimist's view).

I confess that this little impromptu ritual has been a mixed blessing for me. I am grateful to have known him. I have a strange nostalgia for him in memories of my childhood. And yet I know almost nothing about him. It's an odd kind of sadness, one that pushes me to get to know the people around me a bit better. Of all of the hopes I entertain and project onto the here-after, one of the clearest is that he and I will have that chance to get to know each other a bit better, to see as we are seen. Maybe then I'll get the chance to thank him for being my grandfather.

We decided against prune juice as a food offering. Instead we skipped the food offering and played "Rhapsody in Blue" by Gershwin, his favorite song, while we lit his candles and ate dinner. We thought this music would help him feel welcome.

To both of Jen's grandmothers, and to Grandpa Cliff, we say, You are always, always welcome in our home and hearts. You won't be forgotten.

Grandma Phyllis

Today we honor and remember my Grandmother Phyllis Truman Hunt Bracken, a complex individual I wish I had been able to spend more time with.

As a budding adolescent I felt some comfort knowing that my height and my curvy figure came from my Grandma Phyllis. She would be, frankly, more than slightly disappointed in my skills as a housekeeper. The state of my kitchen floor and my bed would appall her. Her cleaning gene just didn't make it down the chain.

Friendship meant a lot to my grandmother. She loathed the ranch she grew up on, near Gunlock, Utah. It was simply too isolated. I think she must have been lonely growing up. When she was able to live life her way she did it with a close circle of friends and neighbors. I remember riding in the backseat once while she gossiped with her neighbor and best friend, Grace. "Now don't you repeat this," she said to Grace as she shared a juicy piece of information. Even as a kid I thought this was hilarious.

Secretly I loved that my grandmother swore and said things like "shut up" when she was annoyed with someone. The fact that she never told me to shut up made it even more enjoyable. She seemed so salty and world-wise. She was very rarely sentimental. She survived two husbands. Her first husband was brutally murdered and left her a widow with three small children. I never heard her cry or talk about it. She was practical and sometimes embarrassingly honest.  True to her generation, she didn't care for fat people, was suspicious of "Injuns", and was an unabashed sexist. Somehow, with her, it was funny instead of infuriating. Mainstream spirituality wasn't what I would call her greatest strength. She was simply too contrary to fit into the perfect Mormon mold, if such a thing exists. She may have passed this gene on to me, though she never knew it.

Her favorite word was "shit". She used this word in every imaginable way. To babies: "Well aren't you the cutest little shit".  To adults (my dad): "You look like shit".  The fact that it annoyed my mother made it even more funny and idiosyncratic.

 

She loved babies. She loved her family. She made the best potato salad anyone's ever tasted. She liked going for drives too. I never remember her getting angry with me, even that one time I picked every single flower in her yard.  I wish she could have lived long enough to hold my daughter. I know had she been able to, Phyllis would have declared her the cutest little shit yet.

I wasn't able to make it to her funeral, and I'll always be sad about that. 

 

Tonight our food offering for Phyllis consists of bacon, which my grandmother ate every single morning. She had excellent taste, yes? Also some tea, which she drank every day. No doubt she would have been disappointed with my choice, Lemon Zinger, instead of her very scandalous (in Mormon circles, at least), Black.

Grandma Norma

Today my family is honoring and remembering my grandmother, Norma Alice Ricks Durfey, who passed away last spring.

Grandma, we invite your warmth and presence to be with us today and 

always as we take this moment to recognize and honor you.

Growing up I didn't always feel that my Grandma Norma and I had a lot in common. I think that was partially an age thing, but also we were, like everyone else, unique individuals in a common family.  As I've gotten older, and especially with the sharp contrast of having her no longer here with us, I see echoes of my grandmother in myself. 

My grandma was the original minimalist in our family. Very unattached to material things and unphased by passing trends, she was a great example to me of someone who could make do with simply being comfortable. 

I spent a few weeks with my grandparents the summer I was 12 or 13.  This was when hippie vintage reigned, and more than anything else in the world I desperately desired a pair of frayed shorts with psychedelic patches glued on them.  My grandma tried to appease me. We went to the store to pick out patches. The patches I wanted were too expensive, she explained. I conceded. We made the more practical, but unstylish, purchase of patches used to actually patch up jeans. Plain squares were glued onto my shorts.  Instead of letting me fray my shorts, my grandmother simply sewed some yellowed lace onto the bottom.  We made a lot of compromises that day, and despite my disappointment that they hadn't turned out exactly like I'd wanted I still wore the shorts with pride. She even took pictures of me modeling them in a very saucy manner. She must have been laughing on the inside.

 

Our food offering for Norma tonight consists of her own Dixie Salad. In the era of Mormon 1950's infamous and horrid fruit salads comprised of canned fruit, jello and marshmallows, my grandma somehow invented or chanced upon this creation, which kept the spirit of the Mormon 1950's salad but violated the horrendousness. No canned fruit. No jello. And no marshmallows. But still thoroughly Southern Utah. It even depends on some St. George local fare (pomegranates and pecans). 

Just make some whipped cream. Add some chopped apples (we prefer sweet, not tart), chopped pecans and pomegranate seeds. 

This was my absolute favorite dish at every Thanksgiving dinner, and my grandma Norma took pride in making it for everyone to enjoy. Making it tonight I smelled the cream and apples and was enveloped by memories of family get-togethers. It would have made her very happy.

sparing the rod

I've contemplated recording some, for me at least, formative family stories; recountings that seemed to define a quality of my family's, or that made me pause and think.  Here's a doozy for you, and I even have a contemporary equivalent to boot:

I was playing a card game with my inlaws the other night. This may seem archaic, but I was never, ever allowed to play with face cards growing up. I didn't learn what to do with a Joker, Queen, King or Ace until well after I moved out.  Like much of my family's history, the rule about not playing with face cards began somewhere in the not-so-recorded annals of Mormon history. I'm not sure exactly what General Authority spoke out against them (maybe a reader could enlighten me?), but my great-grandfather on my mom's side felt that playing with them lead to gambling and other forms of licentiousness. My grandfather and mom passed the tradition down, referring to obscure GA commentary on the subject of face cards.  So we played our games with Rook cards and I never really knew the difference. It was a deprivation without much fanfare or consequence.

I mentioned to my inlaws my former ignorance of the use of face cards, and told them a story my maternal grandfather tells with a glint of pride in his eye:

My grandfather grew up in Bicknell, Utah during the Great Depression.  My great-grandfather owned a cattle ranch and hired hands to do work for him.  One day, with my grandfather in tow, my great-grandfather checked on some of his hands who were staying in a tent out with the cattle. He walked into the tent unannounced and found them playing with face cards.  Apparently my great-grandfather had warned them at the outset to never play with face cards while they worked for him, or they would be dismissed. After all, my grandfather adds, my great-grandfather had quite a few children, and boys old enough to get caught up in a gambling habit. 

True to his word, my great-grandfather told the men they were fired. One of the men, my grandfather remembers, started crying, saying that he had a wife and children he was supporting with his work at the ranch. "I told you!" my grandfather remembers my great-grandfather saying. Both men were dismissed.

In Jordan this summer, I met a formidable Austrian who worked for a security company. His was the business of hiring and managing local Jordanians to do guardwork.  One man, he said, after a warning, fell asleep again on the job and my Austrian friend caught him in the act a second time. The man begged to keep his position, referencing his wife and many children as well. "What will I tell my children?" the Jordanian man asked. "Tell them they have a sh***y father who isn't willing to provide for them", my friend responded.  Interestingly, the Austrian had a glint of pride similar to my grandfather's when he told this particular story.

In response to my grandfather's story, my father-in-law responded, using choice words, that maybe my great-grandfather should've pulled the rod out of his butt instead of forcing other people to live the way he did. Derrick's grandma and I responded with an "but aren't people always the product of their time?" argument. 

You could argue that both sets of men getting the "pink slip" had been warned.  I can understand that argument.  The part that makes me most uncomfortable with both stories is the apparent pride and righteous indignation accompanying the utter lack of mercy. Justice or mercy? Spare the rod, spoil the child? or aren't we all beggars? What do you think?

Do any of you have stories in your family that have made you ponder your family's (and your own) rightness?