Oh SNAP!

 If you've ever driven through a small, southern town on a Sunday afternoon, you've probably noticed a porch full of people- families gathered together after church.  Grandchildren are running around, parents are sipping sweet tea, and the youngest is always perched on the lap of the oldest in attendance.  The south is notorious for Sunday gatherings, though I'm sure they're not the only ones.



My grandmother, southern and modest, having her leg shown
after my Papa pulled up her skirt.

In our family, Sundays were always spent at my grandparents' home, either swimming in their pool during the spring and summer months or fighting for the corner spot on the couch in front of the fireplace the rest of the year.  There was always sweet tea, brownies, and chocolate candy despite the fact my grandfather is diabetic.  It was the comfort of being with family, the ease in which we came and went, and the release of stress that occurred when you walked in the door that I cherished most.  The memories are etched in my mind I just wish I had some to hold.


My grandfather, not really a fan of cameras, is hardly in any of the pictures I do have.  Now that I am 2,000+ miles from home and my grandmother has passed, I wish I had more.  Which brings me to the reason I'm writing today:  take pictures.



Like my grandfather, I also hated being in pictures (though I was always about snapping them).  I never like my outfits, hair... basically, I never liked the way I looked.  And so, I always found a reason to leave the room when a camera was around or turn my head right as a picture was being snapped.  That is, until I realized that life is not forever. 

Some time after my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's (which you can read about here), I realized how important these family relics were.  I made my plea as we gathered for holidays and my grandpa, finally understanding, smiled for at least a few.  By the time we were married, my grandmother barely knew who I was.  I never got a picture of us together with her in my wedding gown (something I will regret forever), but rushed home after our honeymoon to take one in their yard.  Her hair was ruffled, her makeup missing, and her clothes mismatched.  She would've died if she knew what she had looked like-  to me it is one of my most cherished pictures.  She is real and that picture gives me a look in to what I hope will one day be our future-  standing with our grandchildren after they're married. 



With my grandparents celebrating our first week of marriage. 

So now, I beg you, take pictures.  Lots of them. And then... BE IN THEM!  You may not like the way you look, the awkward face you've made, or the lack of perfect hair and make-up.  But, the person taking it loves you the way you are.  And one day, they will be all that's left.  Have them taken by friends, family, and finally- professionally!  One day, you will be happy you did!

 



Some things never change...

In the south, the only thing that comes before family is God.



For the past several years I have had the pleasure of spending nearly every weekend with my grandparents.  What started as weekly trips to take a dip in their pool, turned in to a lasting tradition where more times than not, I never jumped off the diving board or even dipped my toes in the water.  My time was spent in the living room, curled up on the couch, with my head in my Grandmother's lap while Papa talked of his good deals at Costco, his friends up at the gym, or the neighbor's dog (who also thought he belonged to my grandparents).  Most stories I heard more than once, but remembering my manners, I always asked questions and laughed when I should, never letting on I had heard it before. 

As I entered in to my late 20s, I wondered how many others were as lucky as I; a grandmother who spoke as if I could do no wrong and a Papa who always had brownies or Hershey kisses, a place where I could be carefree and for a few hours each week, forget the world that raised hell around me and instead soak up laughter and love.

 As my grandmother became less and less aware of others, our conversations moved to the sitting room where the sun would spill over her shoulders and cast an angelic glow.  Sinatra would be playing on the record machine and my grandpa would sing what he remembered and hum what he didn't.  Most often, my grandmother would not say anything, but sing, she would.  Her voice, as sweet as honey, nearly brought me to tears every time. 

When she no longer remembered the words to her favorite artists and later when she had trouble piecing together sentences, I'd visit her in her bedroom.  Our conversations were mostly one-sided, but holding my hand, I could hear everything she wasn't saying.  I'd spend the remainder of my time in the living room with my Papa, trying to avoid what we both knew was ahead of us, and instead  recall times that made us both laugh.  Our hugs got stronger and lasted longer as the days began to turn colder. 

In January my Sundays came to an end.  I kissed my grandmother on her forehead and fought back the tears, knowing it would be the last time I saw her.  She smiled and kissed my cheek, something she hadn't done in months.  I breathed her in, trying to remember everything about the moment.  No longer able to keep my composure, I crawled in to bed beside her, and lifted her head to my lap.  I played with her hair like she had done so many times before, told her how beautiful she was, and shakily sang my favorite song.  When it was time for me to go, I thanked her for being the Grandmother every child should have and walked towards the door.  My Papa met me in the hall with a hug, tears streaming down his face, and we exchanged heavy sighs as we both let the impact of the moment hit us. 


A few weeks later, my mother called to tell me what I already knew.  My grandmother, after fighting for the better part of the year, had lost her final battle with Alzheimer's.  She slipped away early in the morning, wrapped in my Papa's arms.  I imagine him, softly stroking her hair, whispering in her ear, and holding on to those final moments.  How sweet her last breaths must have been.  On the flight back to California, I listened to Sinatra, held tight to a picture of my Grandmother, and remembered every Sunday. 


After her death, I reinvented my Sundays with Papa.  No longer able to visit in person, we opted for phone calls and Skype when available.  He still talks of his savings at Costco, the nurses who took care of my Grandmother, and Rocky, the neighbor's dog.  We both talk about Grandmother and how much we miss her, recalling some of the times that make us both smile.  My Sundays are now filled with church, gardening, and work, but I always make time for my Papa.  Some things, never change.  And for that, I am thankful.