Birthdays

I remember as a child looking forward to my birthday like no other day of the year.

It could be a regular day of going to school or running errands or kicking around at home, but in the back of my mind, in the corner of my giddy heart, I knew it was MY day. 

I knew there was something special to come that day.

Presents!

My favorite meal!

Cake!

Besides all that, it was about the extra bit of attention I could anticipate on that day.

Oh, the year my parents had a Barbie cake made just for me. I was on top of the world!

This year, my 49th year for feeling giddy and special and important, Mom and Dad gathered as many of our local family together at their house (a little early this year...we celebrated on Mother's Day), prepared some of my favorite food, plus the richest banana pudding I love...

The candles wouldn't stand up in the larger bowl of pudding, so Mom made me my very own.

Look at my cute vintage cherry hat I was given for a birthday gift.

I received so many special gifts, carefully chosen for me. A cherry hat, lovely hankies, two small vintage prints of the cutest people, money for Tybee, a Kelly Rae Roberts wall plaque, a vintage girl with bird print.

And this morning, on my actual birthday, the day after school was out at Moss Elementary, two days before our 30th anniversary trip to Tybee Island, I'm feeling exactly as I did as a child.

Special. I'm feeling special because I'm not rushing to get ready for a regular day of school or just running, like normal.

Special. Because of the piles of cards in the mailbox yesterday.

And for so many special Facebook messages, texts and sing-songy birthday phone calls. 

Special food planned by Mom and Dad for lunch (new potatoes are a regular item for my birthday meal but they weren't ready on Mother's Day, so I invited myself out to their house today).

Another special meal planned by Vaughn for this evening.

And he's agreed to my request for a fire in the backyard bathtub this evening (weather permitting). One of my favorite, most special, activities in the world.

Except when I'm being Gram

I am a rule follower.  I like it when people have schedules and adhere to a routine and do what they say they're gonna do.

Except when I'm being Gram. In the case of being Gram, I realize schedules and routine don't particularly matter to me. We sort of "fly by the seats of our pants" when we're together.

I say what I mean and mean what I say. I'm a teacher, after all. When I ask a student to do something, I expect that to be done or there will be a consequence. 

Except when I'm being Gram. The Little Girls get all the chances to meet my expectations they need. And if they decide they don't want to do it at all, I'll forgive them. I'll do it for them. I'll hug them while I do it for them.

I like a tidy house. Yes, I do. I enjoy the staging of certain holiday items with my regular decor. I worry about dog hair under chairs and dead bugs in the corners. I feel guilty about window sills and panes. I pride myself in keeping things picked up on a "as we go" basis so the housekeeping doesn't get on top of me.

Except when I'm being Gram. It gets pretty bad (and FAST) before we get around to picking up after ourselves. When we're playing, let the Monopoly money fall where it may. We might need it again when we're pretending to take train trips to "Beechago" (Chicago) and Hawaii and Alaska and San Francisco...all of these in the mind of a five year old. She stops the train in Chicago to go to the American Girl store and begins to shop the upstairs playroom for items she bought. Magnolia follows suit, gathering doll clothes and blankets and decks of cards she purchased as well. Oh well. They'll all get put back eventually.

This is no where close to the way I was as a young mom. I mean, that's where these rules started working for me. So what is it about being a grandparent that makes normal, structured people become so wishy-washy?

Nona

Nona passed away last Sunday after a long illness.

And before that, a difficult struggle with arthritis in her hands. Hands that had done so much for so many.

Nona loved flowers. In fact, she was a gifted arranger of flowers at a shop in Wewoka for years. 

And what a cook she was. People at church fought to get one of her pieces of pie at potlucks.

One time she gave me a clear glass dish with a lid, "perfect for a small meatloaf", she had said. At the time I remember thinking it was such a neat dish, but no way, no how, would it work for our family with two boys who were eating us out of house and home. But our story has changed, with both boys grown, and of course, Nona was so right about the dish's perfectness for a small meatloaf. For two. What a treasure to me now.

Nona gave even when it wasn't easy to give. I could tell lots of stories about her generosity and kindness.

Mom must have told Nona I loved old needlepoint. That's when she gave me the happiest, framed needlework her daughter made. How Nona fretted over Donna's battle with cancer. And how hard it was for her to lose Donna and her husband, Jack, within two months of one another. The needlepoint will be appreciated for many years to come at the Johnson House.

Nona loved Vaughn. If we both stopped by to visit her, she barely noticed I was there. She sometimes called him her "boyfriend". She almost always had a little honey-do for him to take care of when we visited.

She loved her church. She and Jack were regulars at Community of Christ in Seminole, favorite pew and all. When she wasn't able to attend anymore, members stopped by as often as possible with communion and a visit. Sometimes she had us stop at Long John Silvers and bring her some fish.

Nona loved her family. And they loved her.

At the funeral Wednesday, I got to see all the family gathered. I put faces with names, the names Nona had bragged about so often when we visited.

The service was lovely. So many flowers and photos to enjoy. Kind words were shared from everyone who knew her.

I got in the car to join the procession to the cemetery, turned on my lights. As soon as we turned the corner, I watched as people who were on their porches stopped in their tracks and paid respects. I love this about Oklahoma, or maybe all of Small Town America (not sure). For a moment, obligations were put off by those who were walking, or those in cars who pulled to the side of the road. All was quiet.

The police officer escorting the procession got out of his car at the intersection, lights flashing, and stood with his hands behind his back, protecting us as we traveled to Nona's final resting spot, up on the hill with Jack and Donna.

Oh, she'll be missed. But what a reunion Nona had last Sunday morning in Heaven. No more pain, no more loneliness, no more struggles.