I've never had a problem with snommen melting, until now. They are clocks but with more death insinuated. What better way to scream "time's a flying!" like frivolity decomposing on your front lawn? You put on the cute nose and add eyes for character, and by the afternoon they're on the ground. I look away when I walk by.
Don't melt, Mr. Snowman. You shrink and the kids grow. Another few gallons of milk is gone; another pair of shoes becomes too small. I pull away to work on a cold Monday morning and see the dirty remains on the lawn. I pause for a moment and think about the Saturday afternoon when the clouds cleared and sun made the snow just right. I forgot about everything while I showed our oldest how to roll up the "biggest ball ever."
I back away and go, and you gradually sink into the ground. There are pictures, too, and I'll look fondly at those and be happy I knew I had it so good. Because snowmen never last long.
I don't know if it's how most people talk about the death of a beloved family member, but it's how we deal. I'd stepped away from the table at our favorite pizza joint and took the call. It was my Aunt Leslie. She told me the guy from Harvard was on his way to extract it.
The hope is that they can find out something more about Alzheimer's, the disease that for eight years eroded a Parthenon of strength and generosity, wit and wisdom. But I have other requests. While you're looking around Grandma's brain, I would like to ask if you could find how to make her broccoli salad. I've never had broccoli that was so good. And I don't care who you are, sometimes it's hard to get excited about broccoli. I think that salad helped me land my then-girlfriend, Sarah, a vegetarian who wondered how she was going to subsist in my family (Of course she had to pick around the bacon. Grandmas know good broccoli is covered with bacon.)
I'd also request that you find out how to be so durable. My grandma endured harsh winters, two dead husbands, a lifetime of work and decades of self doubt. I've never seen anyone who so often thought they could do so little. So maybe, Harvard scientist, you could locate the epicenter of self doubt. It's the Alzheimer's of the functional--where you just can't remember how good you really are.
While you're in there, you'll see how good she really was.
To kids, grandmas don't have back stories. They were never little girls or playful ladies who danced the night away. They came as you knew them; with their weekly hair appointments, their cat and decorative spoons next to some black and white portraits of the olden days.
They came with candy dishes, afghans and quiet, carpeted rooms.
I called my brother to tell him and he said, "I thought she was going to outlive all of us."
She'll breeze on, in her curly white hair; worrying, doting, feeding, spoiling and making the food you want to eat. There was no stress at Grandma's house. It was a cleaner place, without the clutter. It was like a hotel, but with all the free snacks you could eat. Grandparents don't freak out about the dangers of sugar.
Harvard, we want Alzheimer's gone, and as you can see my grandma is still working to help. It's what she does. But while you're in there, please find out how to be so strong, yet so classy; graceful, but with her ridiculous work ethic. Also, find out how she whipped up that Thanksgiving dinner and that garden and all those quick one liners and the energy to volunteer for hospitals, elections and weeks with the grandkids. It would also be useful to see how you maintian your own vehicle. And to know how to love a grandchild who visits for two weeks and doesn't shower, and maybe even sleepwalks and pees in the bathtub. Check on all that. Oh...and how to leave the world a better place than when you found it. That would be good too.
Sunday, December 18, 2011 at 09:18PM 
