I went to my grandma's funeral and all I got was this stupid egg

Oh, she's not dead.  Not yet. Not by a long shot.

But she's a dead ringer for that old dude slung over John Cleese's shoulder in The Holy Grail while Eric Idle pushes the death cart past the row of hovels, collecting corpses.

"I'm not dead!"

"'Ere.  He says he's not dead!"

"Yes, he is."

"I'm not!"

"He isn't?"

"Well, he will be soon.  He's very ill."

"I'm getting better.  [...]  I feel happy.  I feel happy."

*****

Absconding for most of a weekend with my two boys, Uncle Buster and I arrived at the international airport early Thursday morning, hurrying from truck to shuttle to glass-shrouded edifice as quickly as possible in the 35-below temperatures.  Relative scales sort of cease to matter then.  Wind chill really sucks.

It was so cold, in fact, that many of the smaller planes had to wait until the sun rose and the temperature ostensibly with it.  Because of that, our plane had no gate at which to park when it arrived and we were left waiting an extra hour in the terminal.  By the time we boarded, the wings had frosted over and it was too bloody cold to use the de-icing fluid (an ironic first in my experience), so we spent an additional hour in our seats while the airline's maintenance crews made their painstaking way from plane to plane, scurrying about the wings of each, brushing the frost off with brooms.  I restrained myself from saying out loud, when our turn came: "Hurry!  Hurry HARD!!"

Blessedly, the boys - at two and a half years, and 10 months - were incredibly well behaved from the time they woke up at six o'clock Thursday morning to the time they arrived at their great grandmother's house in Waterloo at 6.30 that night.  Didn't have to medicate them or anything.

The look on Gram's face when two tot-toting grandsons sauntered unexpectedly through her back door was worth any amount of unrealised fuss.

My brother and I planned this trip under the premonition that there was a good chance we would end up attending a funeral.  The reason for Gram's condition was unknown, but it had knocked her into a life-support sustained coma, leaving in its wake more than a little consternation about next steps and the concomitant familial bantering.  It is never an easy situation.

Gram, again for reasons unknown, eased out of her torpor, to the point where her feeding tube could be removed.  It had bruised her larynx, making speech nearly impossible, though she insisted on the effort immediately.  My mother and uncle were there at the time, neither of whom could decipher the scratchy whispers emanating from a damaged throat. 

(Picture poor almost-dead Wesley from The Princess Bride with a bellows inflating his lungs and Miracle Max with an ear pressed to his lips, and you get the idea -- though without the bellows.)

A nurse offered her translating abilities, claiming years of interpretive experience and likewise pressed her ear to the aged lips.

She stood with a baffled look on her face.  "Does 'Child of God' mean anything to either of you?"

My uncle, standing back from the bed, blanched, and tears streamed unbidden and unrestrained down his face.  He was the youngest of her six children and always had been the one to stand out from the family through his insolence, his habits, and frequently confrontational nature.  Such had been the topic of many discussions with his mother which, too, frequently devolved to words spoken in anger.  But Gram worked full time raising her children until the last was out of high school and came tempered with more patience than most of us will ever know.  Her last response to her recalcitrant baby boy was sometimes simply an admonition that no matter what he did and no matter what he said, he was still a child of God.

(He's never once neglected to send birthday and Christmas cards west to my brother and me.)

And so, a reminder of Gram's unfinished project was the first thing the pragmatic lady uttered.  My mother, later in the weekend, admitted to some envy.

Even after so long a day of travel, Tavish, Thursday night, was surprisingly content to sit in the lap of a strange old lady with a look of satisfied love in eyes that rarely strayed from the baby in front of her.  The two were separated by a gulf of over 80 years, but the warm - surprisingly soft - hands that enveloped my son crossed that space with an ease and an eagerness I am grateful to have witnessed.  Her lips descended frequently to brush the hair and forehead of this youngest scion of hers.

There was little else, really, that marked the weekend.  Aunts and uncles and cousins paraded through the house.  Amenities for the boys were graciously provided: a high chair, play pen, toys.  Amenities for us older visitors were provided: wine, spare beds, wine.  Meals were crowded around the kitchen table and evenings were spent lounging in the living room keeping breakables away from the baby and with Declan almost invariably found in someone's lap, foisting a book on the unwitting (never unwilling) victim.

My brother went to see co-workers he'd gotten to know from having spent two years in the city -- one of which living with this same grandmother.  (And, some evenings, quilting with her.)  I got to see friends from relationships fostered over distance and rarely bolstered in person.  We did some great bolstering.  Again, the boys were remarkably good.

Our flight home, painfully early Sunday morning, meant packing Saturday night and then gathered for a last time around the kitchen table.  Gram has a collection of colourful eggs - mostly gifts, mostly stone - that slowly grew over the decades.  She brought it out that night and Declan emptied the entire bowl, one by one, onto the table.  Gram wanted us each to have one to take home.  I chose one dark blue, speckled white.  It looked sort of galactic to me, and though I'd never gone through the collection with that night's attention, it was comfortably familiar, reassuringly heavy.

Picking his own is what caused my brother to utter - dryly and smirking - the phrase that is the title for this.  Everybody laughed, especially our grandmother.

Sunday morning (I can't overemphasize how grossly early it came) was an amazing 45 minute whirlwind of waking, dressing and tearful goodbyes.  Tavish, one last time, sat in his great grandmother's lap.  He and I both, then, were the recipients of the great lady's soft, warm touch and lingering gaze.  Uncle Buster and I buckled the boys into a packed car.  We left our mother a private farewell with her own.

The hour long drive back to the airport on a nearly deserted highway was very fast and very quiet.  There were no delays and, again, two well-behaved boys in the air.

The only regrets were the lack of time to get Tim Hortons coffee before boarding, and the fact of leaving all the rest of our family 3,500 km behind.

Comments

[TerriTorial]

Well you did it Simon. You made me cry.

Family is such a special thing, many take it for granted, as I have been lately. You've made me see the light Simon. Will be seeing my grandmothers very soon.

[Moksha Gren]

Really a beautiful story. It's easy to tell an exciting tale, an "eventful" tale. It's harder to express the subtleties that create the truly meaningful moments. Well done. And you even managed to work in a curling references. Well played, skip.

[Paul]

I did seem to feel particularly bolstered Saturday evening for some reason.

[Mark]

Very heartwarming. Sounds like you could have used some of that warming on the exterior, though.

Now I understand why you refuse to own a vehicle with the gas cap on the passenger's side -- the driver would freeze to death in the time it takes to walk around to the other side of the vehicle and back (I assume there's no possible way you stand out there the entire time the fuel is pumping).

Back to family. It bothers me that my only remaining grandparent lives six hours' drive away, and that he's so deaf he's never heard and never will hear any of his great-grandchildren's voices (he has five now). It's great that your grandmother can talk to your boys.

A surprise visit is a great idea, Simon. Thanks.

[Simon]

Terri, the importance of family is driven further home each time I trip east. I sigh.

Moksha, it's the emotion of the weekend I wanted to try to capture. The actual events were secondary at best. Just spending time there was all we needed.

Paul, I still am.

Mark, you're wrong about the fuel pumping. It's a matter of stubborn western pride to stand by the fuel nozzle with one arm flung casually over the box of your truck and a sneer on your face that says, "Cold? This ain't fuckin' cold -- I shoulda worn shorts today fer chrissake!"

[Linda]

No one will understand this but you Si and there's no need to explain it but you've now earned the status of Peanut Butter Fudge and a week at the beach. Best part is, you can go on remembering the feeling until you're very, very old. Put the pictures somewhere familiar so the kids will grow up knowing the importance of the occasion. Gram will surely want copies...
Thanks for sharing this with us. It's hard to type blinking tears you know.

[marian]

Beautifully written, Simon. I'm completely boggled by the fact that the boys behaved well the whole time, though. That's the most other-worldly aspect of the entire story! Must be a guy thing.

[Paula]

Marian, you would NOT have believed how completely content those two boys were, so much so that there was a THREE HOUR restaurant lunch. Those boys sure know how to boost some bolstering. Of friendships and family.

[Moksha Gren]

I don't have much to say this morning that hasn't already been said. However, I wanted to keep the dialogue going as a way of supporting the very valid reason you skipped posting last night.

So, I'll add that I too have an egg. My Great-Great Aunt Ethel bought these expensive glass paperweight eggy things a few years before she died. Spent a fortune on getting one for each family member as a keepsake. We all kind of mocked her at the time but now...I'll be damned if I don't think of Ethel everytime I see that egg in my china hutch. The incredible in-edible egg, eh?

[Simon]

Thanks, Moksha, for wanting to keep the impetus going, and for seeing through the not-so-subtle subtleties I left in that comment over at Mark's place.

My own egg, too, is in the china hutch, resting contentedly in the silver quaiche (Scottish drinking bowl) also stored behind the glass doors. I think my eyes and hands will be returning to it often.

Linda, I appreciate the peanut butter and the week at the beach. Yes, I know exactly what that implies and I appreciate it. I'll try to live up to it.

Marian, I think the boys behaving well was largely a guy thing. Dex is totally a daddy's boy, much to his mother's consternation and Tavish does seem to settle down some when confined by confident arms. By the time we'd been east for three days, the little guy couldn't be out of eyeshot of me else he'd start raising the roof.

Paula, VERY glad that the young lads helped catalyze what bolstering we were able to do. Thanks for making the drive.

[Moksha Gren]

Always happy to help.
A quaiche, eh? Can't say I have one of those. However, I may have to be diving into Scottish heritage. Moonshot's mother's side is Scottish. They've traced the lineage back, but Moonshot's never really been interested. Since Norah was born, however, it seems to matter more to her. We're planning to start looking back and seeing what we can find. So maybe Norah and Tavish can compare plaids in later years.

[e-belle]

Good on ya', Simon. One of my most priceless posessions is the small collection of photos of myself, my father, my grandfather, and great-grandfather all in one shot. Thankfully I've been able to be in some four-gen shots with my own offspring. Your boys may never KNOW her, but they'll never forget her.

Glad you're home safe. I'll have to send some Tim Tam's so ya'll can warm up.