Have You Hugged Your Grandma Today?

Memorial Day is coming up, and while I am very fortunate to have not lost any family service members since the civil war, I do use the occasion to remember those family members I have lost. Memorial Day was a big deal for my mother's parents, aunts and uncles (my "grands and greats" for the sake of brevity). The whole family trekked out to the family plot at Bluff City Cemetery where we weeded, planted and even mowed to ensure that the final rests of our loved ones were worthy of the flags placed by the local VFW.

The closest--and best--family relationships I had growing up were with my "grands and greats." They were so down-to-earth, loving and simple. I say simple in the sense that they lived frugally without making a big deal about it or appearing poor in any regard. They may have been on modest, fixed incomes, but they were the most generous and freely giving people I have ever known. They spent a great deal of their time helping other family members, friends and even complete strangers. They volunteered at church, taught Sunday School, did laundry at "The Old People's Home" (an old style assisted living facility) and served in The Salvation Army.

They were deeply religious with strong, solid convictions. When my mother's youngest brother Bob was killed at 18 by a drunk driver, my grandmother spent a great deal of time counseling the driver and talking to him about his life and his choices. She explained how the God she knew and the faith she held could help him, too, and heal the emotional hurt he'd caused himself.

My "grands and greats" weren't a bunch of priests and nuns, however. They loved to laugh and poke fun at one another. They had wicked senses of humor and told great jokes. They loved games; my grandmother Kate was a mean "Flinch" player and we often accused her of cheating; Della was a whiz at Scrabble, and the Dictionary was kept right next to the family Bible. They were also full of wonderful stories. Some of my best memories are sitting on the big front porch at 153 Oak Street on hot summer nights listening to them tell all sorts of stories.

When the evening had grown pitch black we gathered to hear ghost stories like "Where's My Big Toe?" and Della's version (below) of a stanza from James Whitcomb's "Little Orphan Annie" poem.

Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers, and then one night he went away up stairs, his mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him call, but when they pulled the kivvers back, he wasn't there at all!

They seeked him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press and even up the chimney flu and everywhere, I guess, but all they ever found of him was his pants and round-abouts so you know the goblins will getcha if you don't watch out!


I spent a lot of time at 153 Oak Street. It holds my most vivid childhood memories--both good and bad. One of the most traumatic experiences of my life happened in that house. My sister Donna and I were staying overnight on the roll-away bed upstairs when my grandfather, Ira, had a massive stroke during the night.

Donna woke me around 7 a.m. full of fear and close to tears. "I think the house is on fire," she said. I looked out the window to the street below--full of emergency vehicles. We walked hand in hand to the head of the stairs in time to see the hallway below filled with firemen trying to move grandpa out the front door to the waiting ambulance. But Ira didn't want to go. His left hand held a staircase baluster and they couldn't pry his iron grip open to release it. And he was screaming, and screaming, and screaming "NO! NO! NO!" because he didn't want to leave his home. He didn't want to leave us. He didn't want to leave Kate. For the rest of his life, his left hand was curled as if still holding on to that baluster.

After a few months at home, his needs outstripped Kate's strength and he was moved to a nursing facility. The night Ira died, Dad took me and my sisters to the Howard Johnson's to use their pool (the manager was a client of Dad's). As usual, we did something to tick Dad off and he lashed out with a bombshell: "Your mother is sitting at your grandfather's deathbed RIGHT NOW and you can't behave for one hour! You are the most ungrateful, spoiled children I've ever met!" (Dad was always saying things like that.)

Then, only my grandmother, Kate, and my Aunt Della remained at 153 Oak Street. I loved Della dearly because we were kindred spirits. She was so unabashedly colorful--like Auntie Mame, but with an unmatched talent for embroidery. Della was a "flapper" back in the Roaring '20s, and she became the black sheep of the family when she eloped to Oklahoma on the back of a motorcycle. When she returned, Ira ran her new husband off with a very large rake.

A few years after Ira's death, Kate was standing in front of the kitchen window washing dishes when someone outside in the dark back yard took a shot at her. She wasn't hurt, but it left a small hole in the window and a larger, metaphorical hole in her mind. First fidgeting, then nervous, then forgetful, she descended into Alzheimer's and dementia and lost her grasp of reality. Lost in time, she unconsciously chose to relive the life she'd known in the 1950s. But she became paranoid and violent and could not be left alone.

She moved in with my family for a short time, but she became increasingly unmanageable and a danger to herself. Despite the fact that I had been born in 1961, she always recognized, trusted and relied upon me. I was the only one who could reach through the fog and comfort her, calm her and make her feel safe. But my efforts couldn't stop her growing confusion and we eventually had no choice but to place her in a nursing home.

When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to live at Oak Street so I could help them with the things they couldn't do themselves. When Ira had his stroke, I begged my mother to take what little savings I had ($37.50) and use it to help them. But kids grow up. And when you're a teenager about to graduate high school, you're eager to kick off the shackles of family and run towards freedom and adulthood. You work very hard to push away the guilt you feel at leaving your aging, fading "grands and greats" behind.

I passed her nursing home almost every day, but I only stopped by once a month at best. I never visited her often enough. It hurt too much to see her doped with rope burns on her wrists from being tied down in a lazy attempt to keep her safe during the occasional epileptic seizure. Thorazine, Haldol and other generously administered neuroleptics ensured that her fog never lifted. And yet she always knew me. She was just five minutes away from my home, but I never took the opportunity to say good-bye. It is my life's one regret.

My "grands and greats" taught me so many life lessons; not by lecture, but by example. Their lives--lived quietly, fully and joyfully--showed what it truly meant to be a Christian. They didn't picket funerals. They didn't stand on street corners waving placards and shaming people who were different. They didn't presume to know the mind of God and predict his actions or pass judgment on others. They simply lived.

Ira taught me that a man can be strong, sensitive, shy, loving and quiet.

Kate taught me that everyone deserves love, no matter how much they may have hurt you.

Della taught me that joy is a gift from God and it must be expressed and shared with everyone in every way possible.

Myrtle taught me that physical pain doesn't define you, limit you or prevent you from being who you are or doing what you want.

Lyman taught me that material things don't define us and that a simple, time-worn coffee cup can hold a wealth of memories.

Perry taught me at the age of 5 how to bow my head and pray.

Eileen died before I was born, but she taught me that a life well lived is a legacy. All my "grands and greats" spoke lovingly of her and kept her widowed husband, Harry, close.

Lee taught me that volunteering not only helps others, it builds self-respect and generates self-fulfillment.

William taught me that the secret to a long life is to always have someone to care for and love.

I'll be thinking of each of my "grand and greats" this weekend with love. I hope you'll think of yours as well.

They have pharmacies in Alaska, don't they?

The news media have seized onto yet another carefully crafted soundbite from Sarah Palin and her pack of sled dog groomers. I suppose that since the assassination of Osama Bin Laden (there, I said it), it's been a pretty slow news week (in Osama's defense he was trying to honor his Mother and every Mother's advice; he wasn't reaching for a gun when he was shot, he was trying to find a clean pair of underwear).

Anyhoo, the Palindrome has announced that she has "a fire in her belly" for running for President.

What? They don't sell Prilosec up north? Being so homespun and "down to earth", surely she knows the medicinal benefits of buttermilk? Someone needs to put that fire out and fast. While a woman's place is definitely in government, a society's place is not behind 30-foot-high walls designed to keep out anyone and anything that is not white, chromosonally heterosexual and brainwashed to subconsciously emulate and revere Joe McCarthy.

More importantly, our economy--and ourselves--cannot afford to thumb our noses at the rest of the world. Had FDR not abandoned the prevailing policy of isolation under the cover of fighting evil this country would have not enjoyed the highest standard of living in our history.

Returning to an unwarranted attitude of supremacy and "go eff yourself" jingoism would be the greatest evil and self-inflicted injury we could possibly do. Unless, of course, we were to elect a candidate who admires the name and self-serving accomplishments of anyone named "Bush." Except for Barbara. It took courage, humor and class to kick Millie in the groin for so diligently cleaning herself on live national television while Sam Donaldson surreptitiously adjusted his toupee and giggled.

A Sense of Perspective

Ever watch HeeHaw back in the '70s? It was a favorite of my grandparents. Or, as I reconsider today, it may have been a favorite parenting tool (grand or otherwise).

Kate and Ira (my grandparents) had one favorite, particular skit, and the volume was always dutifully cranked in order to enhance their enjoyment of it.

Four moonshiners, jugs in hand, would swig and croon:

Gloom, despair and agony on me (moan)
Deep down depression, excessive misery (wail)
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all (sob)
Gloom, despair and agony on me!

The lesson was probably wasted on us kids because as seasoned complainers ("it's what kids do," said a vampire on The Dresden Files, "they complain") we failed to recognize it as satire and uncover the underlying message: "Be grateful and appreciative for every blessing you enjoy; don't destroy what little you have because you have so little."

As I get older, however, the universe, God and Dear Abby like to throw little reminders at me to tell me how some of us have greater concerns than prolonged unemployment, annoying bill collectors, crabgrass and medflies. Tonight, I learned my beautiful, funny, talented and inspiring friend has MS. And while I grieve for her, I am grateful for my own life--medflies and all. I'd like to think I've given Kate and Ira a reason to be just a little bit proud.

Livin' Large in Zoo World

I have an addiction. No, it's not what you're thinking. It's not booze or drugs or illicit sex with tropical plant life. You might even consider it trivial, but I've got one big monkey on my back. In fact, I have several--along with a few Mandrills, Orangutans, Gorillas and over 3800 other animals. That's right, I'm addicted to Zoo World, a Facebook game.

At first glance, it looks like a child's game but make no mistake: this is a game tailor-made for the adult, unemployed masses of the world. Short on cash in your personal life? Soothe your subconscious guilt by weilding billions in purchasing power!

Concerned over those home improvement projects you've let slide? No matter! Build yourself a community with some of the world's most famous buildings: St. Basil's Cathedral, the Parthenon, the Sydney Opera House, Big Ben and more. (Okay, I admit it; I still haven't quite figured out why you would put Big Ben in the middle of a zoo but it just might be possible that animals are curious about the time, too, you know?)

I suspect that there is no current treatment for this particular affliction. People roll their eyes and snicker when they see me collect unbroken animal hearts and pass out animal treats. Their disdain and ridicule have driven me to spend hours in secluded privacy, huddled over my laptop. Mine is a lonely existence. So I've decided to help myself and others like me, to give us the power to cast aside our mouses (mice? meese?) and shun repetitive stress injuries.

I've decided to start my own 12-step program.

Step 1: I admit that I am powerless over Zoo World and that my life has become laughable.

Step 2: I have come to believe that Mark Zuckerberg (a Power greater than ourselves) could restore me to sanity.

Step 3: I have decided to turn my zoo over to the care of Zoomates as I understand them.

Step 4: I have made a searching and fearless inventory of my zoo (1592 uncommon, 1872 rare and 3 ultra rare animals from 89 uncommon, 244 rare and 1 ultra rare species).

Step 5: I have admitted to Comcast, myself, my Dalmatian and my chihuahua the childish nature of this game.

Step 6: I am entirely ready to "unlike" this application.

Step 7: I have humbly asked my roommate to remove my bookmarks.

Step 8: I have made a list of all Zoomates, and I am willing to send "limited gifts" to them all.

Step 9: I have made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would compromise their "zoo happiness" or allow them to advance a level or two past me.

Step 10: I have continued to take hire maintenance managers and when I have received zoo gifts, sent gifts in return.

Step 11: I have sought through animal breeding and island expansion to improve my zoo happiness as I understand it, asking only that those stupid "Oops!", "Zoo Alerts" and "ultra rare animal" 99-cent purchase opportunities stop, please, stop. And what's with that muzak from the Rain Forest Cafe?

Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, I will try to carry this message to zoo-holics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

On second thought, you might hear something go bump in the night later. No worries. That's just me falling off the animal feed wagon. There's a flash sale on Jacaranda Trees!

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

You wouldn't think that a punk rock band like The Clash would be prescient, but they had the right of it 20 years ago when they sang about being between a rock and a hard place. Clearly, that narrowly defined crevice was South Florida.

If you're a South Florida homeowner like I am, you're probably becoming increasingly aware of vacant homes, shuttered businesses and rising prices. Sometimes, at night, when I've taken a few too many Tylenol P.M., I have flashbacks to gas shortages, double-digit inflation and the droning voice of Richard Nixon exhorting his "fellow Americans" to tough it out. Frankly, I'd rather dig up LBJ to re-declare war on poverty.

There, I said it. Poverty. P-o-v-e-r-t-y. Yet the poor didn't just invade Bocahontas and her faltering sisters. They became poor just standing in place. If that sounds strange, take a look around and you'll see that the middle class is fast disappearing. In fact, it's pretty much already gone. All that's left are the fat cats with their grotesque oceanside homes (with matching boathouse on the Intracoastal Waterway) and that kid behind the register at McDonald's (the one that smells like stale grease).

Anyone with the slightest bit of insight could tell you that this situation has its roots in the heady refinance-now-and-take-out-equity days before the market waffled. Developers, banks and mortgage brokers further muddied the waters when they transformed thousands of rental units into condos that went unsold. No matter. The banks and mortgage companies got their bailouts, swallowed their bonuses and are now gleefully foreclosing on homes faster than you can say "vacant lot."

All of this leaves me wondering: what will we do when the greater Fort Lauderdale area becomes the "Detroit of the South?" No, don't bother answering. I can't listen and pack at the same time.