Time Well Spent

I slowly approach the bed in the middle of my grandparent’s room. My heart aches. I gently touch the familiar wood of the bed frame, and the worn quilt that rests across the bed. The neighbors were so nice to come over and clean things up. I can’t help it as the first tears fall down my face. I miss my grandparents so much. My body shakes as more tears cascade down my face. The situation becomes real as I walk through their house. They weren’t here to greet me. Nana didn’t have dinner ready when I got here. The porch lights weren’t on. They were gone. Permanently. I lay back on the bed, tears still flowing, and my mind takes me to the days I spent with them.

I watch, mesmerized as Nana goes about her daily routine. My eyes are glued to the gigantic curling iron that frightens me a little bit. As a young girl of only 7 years old, I sit, very amazed at how confidently she waves the scorching hot wand around as she uses broad gestures to get her points across. She deliberately curls each piece of hair until she is satisfied. Then, she picks up the brush and smooths the defined curls, making them appear natural. I bounce in anticipation of what comes next. I love watching Nana put on her astonishingly bright pink lipstick. It fits her personality perfectly. She’s so vibrant and unique, bold and unafraid. I take in how she slowly and carefully traces the natural outline of her lips. When finished, she places her lipstick back in her ancient makeup basket. She looks right at me. She looks right into my eyes and says, “Now the difficulty in wearing such bold lipstick is making sure it never gets on your teeth.” We both throw our heads back and laugh because we both know that before this day is over, Nana will have gotten some lipstick on her teeth. I notice how the skin around Nana’s eyes crinkles. I love her smiling eyes. She laughs at herself, and I take a moment to appreciate her ability to do so.

My heart races and my hands shake. I knew I shouldn’t have come in here, but I had always wanted to know what was in these drawers. I slowly reached toward the second drawer; I already knew that the top drawer contained a copious amount of hair bows that Nana had purchased for all of her granddaughters.

Nana’s voice startled me out of my thoughts, “Joanna, what are you doing?” she asked, her voice carrying no trace of accusation.

“I,” my voice wavered as guilt began to overwhelm me, “I was wondering what was in these drawers.” I gestured to the drawer I had come so close to opening.

“Oh, Jojo. You know you can always ask me anything. Right?”

I nod my head. I had experienced Nana’s grace and mercy many times before. I absolutely know that I could ask Nana anything. Shame floods into my heart. I couldn’t help but ask myself what had driven me to go behind Nana’s back.

“Well, I came up here to tell you that everyone else has gone to finish some chores in the barn, and some people went with your mom and Aunt Rhoda to the Walmart in Linton. Would you like to go help with the chores, or would you like to do some exploring with me?”

Her eyes gleam when she finishes. I know exactly what I want to do. She knows exactly what I want to do. She pulls over a chair, as she has some trouble with her knees, and doesn’t want to sit on the floor. She grabs the handle of the second drawer.

She showed me all the pictures in those drawers; she showed me her life. She told me the stories behind every picture; she told me all about her life. That afternoon was so special, and certainly well spent.

I stare at the Bible that lays across Nana’s lap. The pages are worn and some are even torn. I know the tears are not from abuse, the situation is quite the opposite actually. They are from years and years of dedicated use. Nana reads from this Bible every day. Her hand glides across it as she reads it. Her hands are wrinkled from years of being a teacher, a loving mother, and an inspiring grandmother. Her hands are soft and gentle. Her wedding ring glistens even in the dim light, a token of almost 50 years of marriage, and a symbol of a promise that has been well kept. I am nestled in the gigantic bed between Nana and Grandpa John. Grandpa John has glasses on, and is reading from Luke. I have my glasses and am reading from Matthew. Nana has her glasses on and is reading from John. I smile contentedly. Grandpa John smiles and closes his Bible. I take this as my cue to close mine. He gives me a quick hug after I climb out of the bed. He says, “Goodnight Joanna Banana.” I laugh at the nickname he gave me years ago. I scurry around to Nana’s side of the bed. She pulls me into a tight hug. When she releases me, she tells me sincerely how much she loves me.

I walk to the end of the bed and slide into my sleeping bag. As Nana turns out her light she bids Grandpa John and me goodnight. The room is filled with darkness. I lay staring into the darkness. Soon, the room is filled with snores, and I smile to myself. The constant noise is a comfort as I am lulled to sleep.

The shrill echo of the phone ringing interrupts my conversation with Jessica. My mom smiles at me and says, “Hey Birthday Girl. I bet it’s for you, you better go answer it.” I return her smile before I run into the kitchen to grab the phone.  I press the button and immediately the shrill ringing stops. I hold the phone up to my ear and brightly greet the person who has yet to be identified. I only have the chance to get out a hello before Nana and Grandpa John begin to sing Happy Birthday to me. They are both strong singers, and I am amazed at how good they sound together. I walk to my parents’ room while I listen. They sound wonderful. I can imagine them sitting up in their bed, each singing into their own phones that are placed on either side of their bed.  When they finish off the 4th verse, I laugh out of pure joy. “Happy Birthday Joanna! We love you!” they chorus.

“Thank you for calling!”

“So, how was your day?” Grandpa John asks.

“Well I just opened the present you sent me! The jacket fits perfectly, and I am actually wearing it right now!” I say a little louder than usual, in an attempt to make it easier for Grandpa John to hear me. I look down at the soft, turquoise jacket that had just arrived in the mail.

“I’m so glad!” Nana exclaims. I know she was the one that found me this jacket. She has a real talent for finding practical and meaningful gifts.

We had been able to talk for almost half an hour more. They always wanted an update on my grades, and my activities. Nana was always especially interested in my swimming. They gave me detailed updates of how their life on the farm was going. I cherished those Happy Birthday phone calls.

My eyes are red from tears at this point, and I curl into a protective ball. I want protection from the circumstances. I want Nana to comfort me. Instead, I pull myself up from their bed, walk in a determined fashion down the stairs, pull the cover off the piano, and sit down. My fingers hover above the keys. I debate internally over what to play. What would Nana want to hear? I start one of her favorite songs, Ripples. It was one of the songs that I played for her the most. She loved how happy it sounded. The cheerful refrains were a harsh contrast to my mood, and the atmosphere of the dimly lit house. I hadn’t even finished the song, when I realized that I had begun to play the familiar cadences of Amazing Grace.

I bounce in my seat between Buddy and Nana, and I look around the circle of chairs. I make eye contact with my mom and I give her a smile, she returns it before my eyes wander down to the song book in my lap. Every time my family gets together we have to sing. It’s tradition. Uncle Matt has taken control of this session. He’s very particular with the timing and rhythm of each song, and sometimes I find it hard to follow him, but he’s good at leading. He asks me to call out a song number. We each get to choose one song, we go around the circle, and it’s finally my turn. “129,” I call out, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

“Nice choice, Joanna,” Nana whispers to me with a bright and genuine smile. I can’t help the proud smile that crosses my face. This song is my favorite. My smile grows when I realize that Nana doesn’t open her book to see what song is it, nor does she open it to look at the words. She knows her song books well, and she knows each word by heart. I look up at her with admiration; my Nana is awesome. I close my song book. I want to see if I know every word.

Uncle Matt gives people time to find the page before he starts off the first verse of Amazing Grace. Nana is such a strong singer. I feel her voice empowering me as I make the decision to sing the soprano part with her. I’m obviously still learning to sing this high, and my voice cracks a couple times before I start getting the hang of it.

I play the final chord of the song. Dad comes downstairs with Uncle Andy and Aunt Rhoda. We had made a special trip down from Indianapolis to check on the farm. All was well and the carbon monoxide detector now read zero. My dad looks tired as I walk towards him to give him a hug. I don’t know if I am giving him a hug to comfort him, or if I was seeking his comfort, but I begin to feel much better when he rubs my back. Eventually, I pull away and we all  walk towards the front door. My dad makes sure all the lights are off before we get in the car to make the two hour drive back to Indy.

Creative Writing: Snapshot Moment (edited)

All I can think about is how cold my nose is. I can’t even feel my toes anymore. I can feel my cousin shivering on top of me. The landscape blurs as it zooms by, making it extremely difficult to appreciate the small shrubs that dot the tundra. The snow glistens brightly. It feels like every particle of refracted light shines right into my eyes. I should have brought my sunglasses. Now every sensory function in my face has been whisked away in the chilling December wind; the only thing that reassures me that it hasn’t gone completely numb yet is the fact that I can still feel the wisps of fur from my parka brushing against my face every time we get an extremely aggressive billow of wind. The harsh wind carries the unsettled snow into little whirlwinds that surround our wooden sled . Most sounds are drowned out by the thunderous snow machine that is pulling us over the sharp snow banks.

My squinted eyes are peeled away from the landscape when Adria holds her snow goggles up over her head. I reach out and seize them, anxious to relieve my eyes. Normally I would feel guilty taking these from my younger cousin, but her head is buried under mountains of blankets anyway, so I don’t think she needs them. I slide the goggles on and greedily soak up my surroundings. As soon as the goggles are secured on my eyes, I can see every detail of the tundra. My eyes function much like the auto focus on any digital camera, focusing first on the things far away, then at the things closer to our path. At first glance, the snow is untouched, but if you take a closer look you can see little footprints across it. The footprints come from every direction. There are no large footprints; all the large animals are taking long winter naps

My eyes scan everything, but soon I find them zeroing in on the strings on Jessica’s hat. They whip around her head, as she has no protection from the wind while she sits on the snow machine. My trance is broken when she ducks behind my dad’s back. Her strings quickly still on her shoulders.

My fingers wrap around the warm packet inside my seal fur mittens. I welcome the heat. The warmth seeps into my hands and suddenly I am filled with gratitude towards my mother, who found the hand warmers for me. I imagine my fingers defrosting from a blue frozen state, and slowly returning to their normal flesh color. I have this strangely soothing image in my head as I duck back under the protection of the blanket.

Here, under the covers, I smell my grandma’s house, with a colder edge. My face slowly thaws, and the sensation of breath fanning across my face registers in my brain. My body stiffens for only a moment, before I realize that it must be my cousin’s breath that is slowly warming me. Her even breathing leads me to believe that she has fallen asleep, and I decide to join her, in the land of dreams.

        My fingers curl around the hard wooden handle. I’ve prolonged this enough; there [SA7] are only three people left in the line, so I may as well go now. I approach the tall, proud tree. I place the saw in the crook and slowly begin [SA8] moving it back and forth. The grate of the wood causes the saw to vibrate in my hands as I continue to saw away at the tree. I watch as the shavings join their neighbors in a pile on top of the snow around the trunk. I think about all the times we’ve done this in the past. I think about how many times I’ve used this very saw to claim a Christmas tree. I am lost in my thoughts until I hear my dad approaching. I stop sawing, straighten myself, and with a smile, make an exchange with my dad. I give him the saw as he hands me the camera.

I stand on top of the small bank of snow, hoping to get a good angle on the scene. I want to catch the cold noses, the loving smiles, the thrown snowballs, the tree that we’ve conquered. I want to catch it all. Since my fingers are vulnerable away from the warmth of my mittens, the auto focus function on the camera is the only thing that tells me when I’ve pressed the shutter button. I watch the taller trees bow as they take on the brunt of the wind’s force. My eyes peer through the viewfinder on my camera, and the view I find is absolutely breathtaking. The sun has begun it’s lengthy return to the horizon, and casts out brilliant pinks and oranges. The watercolors across the sky shimmer on the snow’s surface, and causes everyone’s cold cheeks to glow. I take an “eskimo picture,” as my grandpa likes to call it, and I gaze at the amazing scene before me.

        My eyes capture this wonderful atmosphere of love. The ornaments are coming out of their yearly homes, to find a seasonal dwelling on a lovely perch in our Christmas tree. Each ornament holds a memory. I look down at the ornament that my grandma’s weathered hands have just handed me. This particular ornament has the memories flowing in my brain. I remember the green countryside. I remember the amazing accents that seemed so foreign at the time. I remember the castles that were built out of angular stone. The smooth porcelain Scottish Royal Guardsmen is cold in my hands, after spending many months in the basement. The country name “Scotland” is engraved in the little pedestal on which the small man stands. The vibrant red accents make me smile, as I remember meeting men that wore this exact uniform outside the Edinburgh Castle.

        I am in my own little world as I stare down at the fragile statuette. All of a sudden, I am brought out of my bubble when I am bumped from behind. My delicate grip on the little man has been completely lost. Dread and fright flood me, and exit in the form of a helpless scream. The memento hits the ground at full speed. The sound of it hitting the ground shatters all hope I had of him surviving the treacherous drop. I watch as the pieces slide across the floor, as fireworks slide across the dark sky.                                                                                                                             Every person in the room has their eyes glued to the fractured pieces. No one says a word as I my eyes scour over the porcelain that is spewed across the wooden floor. My eyes wander up towards my grandma. Her gaze is directed at the head of the little man, and her face looks thoughtful, as though she is trying to remember where she placed something. She looks up at me, and a brilliant smile crosses her face. She then breaks the long silence by saying, “Oh Joanna. I am so happy.                                                                                                                     

She receives no reply more than confused stares. “I guess I should explain myself. When I bought the Royal Guardsman, the vendor had talked me into buying two of them, and once I was out of the shop, I realized that I had nothing to do with the second ornament. So, now I can put him on my tree,” she explains happily before scurrying back to her bedroom to retrieve the replacement.

       

        I open the little box and I am greeted by steely porcelain eyes that peer back at me. Relief courses through me as I carefully remove him from his cardboard and plastic restraints. The porcelain figure is warmer in my chilled fingers than his predecessor, since he did not serve any time in the basement.                                                                                                                         I grip him tightly as I walk across the span of the room. I peer at the floor cautiously before I place each foot. As I approach the tree, I tilt my head back, so I can see the top. I test the strength of multiple branches. I grab each prickly branch and slowly weed them out until I find the perfect one. This is where the Royal Guardsmen will reside. The sappy residue on the branch sticks to my skin as I place the Guardsmen as gently as possible. Finally, I allow myself to take a step back, and I feel content as I see him staring back at me, safe in his new haven.