Miss Minnesota

When my grandma died, I inherited her cedar chest and all of its contents.  I recently went through the treasures, and I discovered she had saved birthday, anniversary and sympathy cards, graduation programs, wedding invitations and embossed cocktail napkins, newspaper clippings of world events, prayer cards, obituaries, and letters from me, my mom, my grandpa, my uncles, and her best friend. She saved every greeting card I sent her, from the time I could barely scrawl my name until days before she died. I sat and gobbled up every bit of those letters and notes filled with teen-angst and love, and with updates about the weather, ballet recitals,  my garden and pet snakes.

I also read the notes that grandma and grandpa shared with each other over the years. There were married for 55 years in April, 2000. Grandpa died later that August. He was always such a warm and loving man, though I know he and my grandma had their moments, as any couple together that long would have. I heard them bicker and sigh at each other. But I mostly remember the kisses he would sneak up to steal, the back-rubs, the dancing, and of course, the laughing. But grandpa was pretty old-school. Although he loved to talk and socialize, I never pictured him expressing his emotions about love. Until I read the cards and letters.

He expressed his desire for the two of them to talk and make time to spend together, away from the t.v. shows and daily phone calls with relatives and doctors appointments. He told her he missed her (even though she was probably sitting in the easy chair next to his), that he was still in love with her, and he asked if they were still "going steady." I had no idea those thoughts even existed in his head. Grandma, however, was a little more hard to read. She could come across as crabby or withdrawn, when really she was just exceedingly shy or uncomfortable. Sometimes she was actually just crabby. And she did pick and nag at my grandpa quite a bit, which is something else I seem to have inherited, along with the cedar chest and 55 years worth of memories.

My grandma was never a soft, white haired old lady that just baked cookies and dismissively patted her grandchildren on the head while slipping a quarter into their grubby hands. When she felt comfortable around you, she could be quite feisty and opinionated. You could tell her comfort level by the way she used the following phrases:

1. Around strangers, mixed-company, or a more formal setting -  someone tells a joke, slips on a banana, or mentions the cost of gas is rising:

(Insert Minnesota accent) Grandma's reply, "Oh, for Pete's sake."

2. Around extended family or good friends, like at a family reunion or poker party - someone tells an off-colored joke, chokes on the stem of their Manhattan-soaked Maraschino cherry, or mentions that Elvis died of an overdose:

(Level of annoyance in tone is rising) Grandma's reply: "Oh, for God's sake."

3. Around her inner-circle (me, my mom, uncles, grandpa) -  someone tells a dirty joke, drops the pot roast on the floor, or mentions that Stefano DiMera is back from the dead and living in Salem:

(This is her version of WTF!!??) Grandma's reply: "Oh, for shit's sake."

I'm not kidding about Stefano. She actually threatened, on several occasions, to write a letter to that "stupid show" and tell them how dumb they were. And then she threatened to quit watching Days of Our Lives, after 30 years, because it was "crazy." The next day I would maybe ask if she wanted to go out for lunch or help clean up the pot roast off the floor, and she would say, "I can't! My show is on!"

Grandpa also had a favorite phrase that would change with the context of the story. See examples below:

1. You tell him something innocuous, like there was hail in Iowa earlier that day:

Grandpa's reply: "Well, I'll be . . . "

2. You tell him something unbelievable, like they just cancelled Bay Watch or the cost of gas is rising:

Grandpa's reply: "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

3. Kirby Puckett didn't jump high enough to make the catch, or you dropped the pot roast on the floor:

Grandpa's reply: "Well, I'll be a son of a gun."

Whoa, Nelly. Such language.  

My grandma wasn't all opinions and feistiness. She was very protective of me, and blindly defended me when a friend or foe hurt my feelings or did me wrong. She screened my phone calls when I stupidly gave out my real number to weird boys. She nursed my hangovers with ginger ale and toast and soothing words, telling me it would be alright. She let me cry but didn't scold me when my mom and I would get into a fight. I was a challenging teenager, I'm sure, and I still don't know how she put up with me.

Most of the cards that I had written to my grandparents when I was young ended with, "I can't wait to see you at Christmas!" or "I can't wait to see you this summer!" That's how I spent my time missing them; always waiting until the next vacation at their house in St. Paul. I loved it there. I often dream about that house (filled with cousins, aunts and uncles), the seasons, the smell of the air, the coziness.

Sometimes even now, if it's chilly, I can snuggle under the covers and pretend I'm back up in their bedroom attic and it's snowing outside. There was nothing like waking up in the middle of the night to look out the window and see snowflakes swirling through the street lamp light, so silent and sparkly. And in the morning, more silence drifted over piles of perfect white. And I knew that Grandma was downstairs making breakfast and the grocery list for Christmas dinner, and that Grandpa would soon stomp his boots up the back porch and burst through the door with declarations like, " Jiminy Christmas! It's cold out there!"

I also yearned for my summer vacations at their house. It was a different feeling, those adolescent early years, as I waited on the porch swing, safe from mosquitoes behind the screen doors and windows. My skinny legs would stick to the flat vinyl swing cushion, and I would eat Pudding Pops or drink iced tea, and I would watch the neighbor boys toss the baseball to each other. Nothing to do but wait and watch. But I was content. And in the evenings we would sometimes drive to the Dairy Queen - the kind with the walk up window - and Grandma would get her dip cone and Grandpa would get a Peanut Buster Parfait. On the 4th of July we would take our treats and park on hill near the cathedral to watch the fireworks over the State Capitol.

I also loved the cool summer mornings when I would lay across their white chenille bedspread and watch the lace curtains heave and sigh from the open window overlooking the apple tree in the backyard. I could always smell the medley of grandma's Jaclyn Smith or Avon perfume mixed with Icy Hot muscle cream. I'm pretty sure my grandpa thought Icy Hot was an aphrodisiac. And I swear lately I can still smell my grandma's perfume in my bedroom. I guess that's why they call it Unforgettable.

We often spent summer weekends at my uncle's cabin in Nimrod (population 80), playing Uno cards or cribbage or marbles, fishing or floating on inner-tubes; and the aroma of Citronella and bug repellent and fresh cut grass lingered over our lazy, perfect Minnesota afternoons.

My entire life I claimed I missed Minnesota. I missed those wintery mornings or deep, humid days of summer vacation. I missed Como Zoo and the Frogtown Diner. I missed the Metrodome and Minnehaha Falls, the Victorian mansions on Summit Avenue, and walking to get Häagen-Dazs at Victoria Crossing. I missed sitting on the front porch in the summer twilight, hearing a cricket symphony. I missed gazing through the kitchen window and watching the cardinals eat from the suet feeder. I missed the squirrel (that grandpa named Rasputin), try to eat the suet as he swung wildly from the alleged squirrel-proof feeder. I missed Knödels with sauerkraut, Jell-O salad, cream-of-something hot dish, and pickles & olives.

Side note: Every time there was a family feast, everyone received a food assignment to bring to the party. I was usually assigned the pickles & olives, which is a HUGE part of any Minnesotan cornucopia. (And they had to be Gedney pickles. It's the Minnesota pickle. Look it up).  I eventually graduated to dinner rolls. I also preferred the fake jellied cranberries (the ones that keep the shape of the tin can when you dump them out), so I had to bring those along if I didn't want to eat the "real stuff." It was like BYOB for picky eaters. After I turned 30, I hosted my own dinner parties and didn't make anybody bring anything. But you can always count on me for pickles and olives. Otherwise, what kind of party would that be? For shit's sake.

I guess what I realize is that Minnesota will always be there. The seasons will still whirl and mesmerize with the delight of the first snow or the spring buds or the brisk, crunch of fall. But it's not Minnesota that I miss. It's them. They could have lived in Oregon or New Hampshire or even fictional Salem with the evil Stefano. It was my grandparents who made me love Minnesota. They WERE Minnesota. They were the zoo and the Dairy Queen and Kirby Puckett. They were the poker parties and the holidays and the hot dish. They were the picking and the nagging, sometimes. But mostly they were my comfort zone, my childhood, my champions, and my kindred spirits.

The three of us would watch movies or t.v. together. We watched Golden Girls and those two would laugh and cackle for a half an hour straight. I'm talking tears-in-your-eyes guffaws. I own the Golden Girls DVDs and watch them when I feel blue or sick. I still laugh out loud. But it's bittersweet, because I don't have my pals to share it with. Sometimes Sofia reminds me of my grandma. The way she cracks a joke and then looks sly about it. Usually the Golden Girls elicited "Oh, for God's sake!" from Grandma, as she was wiping the tears with her Kleenex. I also don't think they ever missed an episode (or re-run) of The Lawrence Welk Show. Grandpa liked Baywatch, but Grandma preferred Magnum, P.I. She thought Tom Selleck was a hunk.

Grandpa and I traded frog stuff with each other. We liked frog jokes and blonde jokes. Ribbit. Grandma used to forget my friend Danielle's name . . . and always called her "Delphinium." They sent flowers for every ballet recital. They knew the names of my friends (except Delphinium) and always asked about them. During my college years they hosted my college friends for dinners and sleepovers and free laundry sessions. They loved the Glenn Miller Band. They met on a blind date under the lions outside the Chicago library while Grandpa was still in the Navy during WWII. They raised three kids, had three grandkids, and three great-grandkids. My cousins would find refuge at my grandparents' house during their own tumultuous teen years. They were devout Catholics, but they were accepting of me and my mom as we wandered to discover our own faith and belief systems. They liked pie and cookies. They watched The Guiding Light and Paul Douglas on WCCO.   

My grandparents didn't have sophisticated palettes. They were meat and potatoes folks that came from hearty German families in Minnesota and Wisconsin. But they knew how to laugh and to make me feel loved. I keep discovering new surprises as I go through the treasure chest my grandma left to me. Each yellowed picture or clipping or card brings them so close I keep thinking they're in the next room, looking for the Kleenex box or fixing a bedtime snack (every night - like clockwork). But I want more. I'm searching for them, buried deep in the piles of memories. I need a hug from my grandma, and to hear her say, "It'll be ok, Tootsie." I need a new blonde joke from my grandpa. Why did the blonde have square boobs? Because she stuffed her blouse with the whole box of Kleenex!  (Kleenex was very important in our family, by the way. Right up there with pickles and Tom Selleck).

I own many of the pieces of my grandparents' furniture: the piano, grandma's dressing table from 1945, the stereo/record player from 1969, end tables, swivel chairs, the wedding crystal, photos, knickknacks, music boxes and hankies. But I don't need that stuff, and I don't need to be in Minnesota, to feel them around me all the time. I know they're with me - everywhere and every day - they're with me.

Maybe this blog piece didn't contain a social message about philanthropy or pet adoption or do-gooders. Maybe it was just about memories. Maybe I just needed to remind myself  that material possessions, letters and cards, or even places are great for helping preserve t hose memories - but the real heart comes from the folks you share all that stuff with. (A true Minnesotan always ends a sentence in a preposition).

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for being those Minnesota memories that make me who I am. But son of a  gun, I sure do miss you guys. 

Until next time, with peace and gratitude. And a little bit of  hot dish.