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| *Grandpa Hodge (James) and me at Niagara Falls |
I’m sitting in Santora’s restaurant by the UB North campus
and it’s all TV screens and loudness at 7:30 on a Saturday. Greg and I have
landed here after a failed attempt to see “Gone Girl” at the Maple Ridge movie
complex. We didn’t get busted for the bags of popcorn we tried to smuggle in
under our coats, but instead were told that the only seats available together
would be in the front row, which at $12.50 a pop, what would be the point? Do
we really have to buy seats online in advance for $3 more to watch a movie in
the theatre these days? Of course, this one has swanky reclining seats, but
still. No wonder we wait until they come out on DVD or stream them on Netflix.
So here we
are at Santora’s feeling a little grumpy amidst the beer and chicken wings when
the room empties out a little and we see this magnificent couple enter and sit
down a few tables away from us. They are so stunning that I literally cannot
look away, as if Kate and William have just arrived in a motorcade with
paparazzi snapping pictures behind them. Here in our midst is a little blonde
girl about six wearing a sparkly headband and sparkly sweater to match. Her
movements are graceful and light, her presence both grounded and ethereal. She
smiles sweetly at her companion, a man in his seventies with tousled grey hair and
glasses, who smiles back leaning in to speak to her softly. It’s an intimate
encounter that we strangers bear witness to, so much love radiating between this
lovely pair. And yet it feels familiar and somewhat personal. Am I really
seeing strangers here or visitors from my past and future selves? Is this
little blondie a perplexing vision of a gone girl who used to be…me?
I have been lucky enough to know
all my grandparents and as I’ve written about before, my maternal grandfather
was a big fan of my sister and me, bowing to our every whim. He took us on
“dates” like the one I’m witnessing, hung on our every word and delighted in
our smallest achievements. My paternal grandfather lived in South Carolina so
we didn’t get to see him as much, but when we did it was the same kind of love
fest. He would do crazy southern things, like let us sit on his lap and drive
his car, and give us gifts of dyed baby chicks at Easter. In my mind he was as
tall as Abraham Lincoln and I loved when he carried me around so I could see
things from up high like he did.
My grandmothers were equally indulgent
in their own ways. Gammy would sit on her porch doing paint by numbers with us
then take us out for lunch and order us kiddie cocktails so we could follow in
her footsteps as alcoholics. Grandma Hodge would make pajamas and beds for our
dolls to match our own. She would spend her last pennies to buy us candy and
when we got older, drive around Sumter like a maniac pointing out and honking
her horn at all the cute guys she’d picked out for us.
We all love our children
unconditionally, but with the added burden of making them into responsible,
loving human beings which requires guidance that sometimes feels like judgment.
Grandparents don’t have to do that. They are free to love recklessly, indeed spoil
us, when all they expect and long for in return is our presence to receive
their unbridled affection and adoration. We are their futures and we hold so much
hope for them.
When I visited the Spiritualist
Community, Lilydale, a few years ago with my friend, Tim, we sat outside where
practicing mediums chose people from the group assembled to give them their
messages from beyond. I was chosen twice. Both times they were from an older
gentleman named James (my paternal grandfather) offering vague assurances and
guidance about important life decisions I was dealing with at that time. While not
a complete skeptic, I am leery of the idea that my southern grandfather, who
died when I was still a child, would be hanging around in New York state waiting
for me to show up at Lilydale this first time and make contact. But I was
deeply touched by the thought that though over fifty years had passed since we were
together on Earth that there was still some connection. That somehow Grandpa
Hodge had managed to continue seeing me as I grew into an adult and made himself
known so he could offer his advice…twice.
The holidays are hard for a lot
people because so many have passed on to whatever or wherever your beliefs make
sense of what happens after death. I am uncertain of what this is but what I
know right now is that distance, time, and even death don’t separate us from
those with whom we are deeply connected. The love continues and we are never
gone to each other.
***
*Photo sent by Aunt Peggy. Thank you!
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