One Last Goodbye

Today my mom and I pulled up to my grandparents house for what we both know will be the very last time. I couldn’t help but take it all in; the sight, the sounds, the smells, the feel and the energy. I pulled into the curved driveway lined with Lily of the Nile plants, while my mom sat next to me in the passenger seat of her Nissan Murano. I questioned whether I should park in the driveway or maybe on the street, because we had arrived to take a selfie in front of the house, that was now for sale. The selfie was to record the experience we shared last night and this weekend in saying goodbye to this home, our childhood home and town where we were both loved and nurtured though a generation apart by my grandparents. 

The house appeared so much the same as when I was a child, yet so different. It was still the same color as I always remembered it being. Sort of a salmon pink stucco, while the front room (my room) a window on the front left side of the house was framed in dark brown wood panels, with white carved wood lining the pitch of the roof, mirroring that of the same type of woodwork above the kitchen sink inside of the house. Below the front window and in front of the porch, is a brick planter filled with Star of Jasmine. During my childhood on cool summer evenings the sweet smell of delicate flowers, the sounds of crickets and a distant train, would fill my open bedroom window. It truly was the scent and sounds of the comfort of home. This house was my home away from home where I spent my childhood summers with my grandparents taking the role of my parents and my cousins taking the roles of the siblings I never had. 

To the right of the front bedroom window is the porch, front door, corner kitchen window and garage. When my grandparents lived here, there were always two directors chairs on the front porch to the left of the front door, below the hall bathroom window. There was also a spider plant hanging above the brick planter filled with star of jasmine. Neither the chairs nor the spider plant are still there, but on my last visit with my grandma while she was still living in the house, we sat on those two chairs and visited while watching my toddler and baby play in the driveway. We talked about my grandma’s recent plans to move to an assisted living home and how it would be such a drastic change for her as she had lived in her home for nearly 55 years. 

“Are you sad you’re leaving your home?” I asked her.

I don’t remember her response exactly. Instead I remember the silence, the unsaid truths, her ability to slyly change the subject without actually ever answering me. And my knowing that she needed to leave the truth unsaid. The truth that she could no longer stay in her beloved home alone at 92 years old. The truth that she had lost her ability to take care of herself and her home, something that she had always taken great pride in. I believe she was unbearably sad, but tried not to show me, nor believe it herself. She always tried to hide her true emotions from her children and grandchildren, appearing so incredibly strong and sometimes heartless, but I knew better. 

It’s so hard to believe that conversation or lack thereof was over four years ago and that she actually moved out of the house only three weeks after that last visit. Now that wasn’t the last time I saw my grandma, just the last time I saw her in her home. The last time I was able to stay the night with her and the last time I was able to visit with her late into the night sitting at her kitchen table with her. It was that same visit that I went around the house and took pictures of the home and the yard as it was. That was my poor attempt to capture the house as it was with her living in it. My poor attempt to document my childhood home and preserve those memories on a digital camera’s memory stick. I think some of the photo documentation was fear of losing my own memory of the home and some of it was ceremonial for me. If I captured it, I could keep it with me forever and ever. The odd thing is I have yet to look back at those pictures. Maybe it’s too hard for me to reminisce yet, maybe it’s because I know those photographs would never do it the justice of what it really was, even now as I write this, I can’t bring myself to pull up those photos knowing they’re just a click away. Not yet, the wounds of that loss are too fresh. So instead I’m attempting to capture those memories with words.

To the right of the directors chairs was the front door which is white with a glass yellow window. The glass in the door looks as if it has been stamped with the bottom of a glass bottle over and over in neat rows and columns and is further divided into nine separate rectangles with the white panes of the window. I imagine hearing the familiar creak of that door, when my grandma would open it and bound out to meet us outside upon our arrival, exclaiming whether we were early or late, depending on how long it took us to drive the 234 miles compared to the kitchen timer she had set. It was such a disappointment to not see her ecstatic face waiting to embrace me and pull my face close to hers so she could plant a kiss on my cheek. As memory serves me I see my grandma getting slower and slower to come out the front door and over the years go from practically running to the unopened car door to see the new baby I brought to her house, to barely being able to stand on her own and open up the front door to see the second new baby I brought to her house just two years later.

Today, my memory hears the sound of the door, but we haven’t actually opened the door. I’m brought back to the present moment of just my mom and me standing on the front porch one last time before we both leave town headed separate directions in two different modes of transportation, her driving home to Reno, while I take BART to Oakland. I looked up at the corner kitchen window, half expecting to see my grandma’s head of grey curly hair bopping around inside. Of course she wasn’t there, she hasn’t been there for years. But there are still remnants of her presence there. Her jade plant is still in the same place on her front porch, below the kitchen window, in it’s terra cotta pot, big and thriving. The hen and chicks succulents she planted, now cover the rectangle of soil along side the front porch steps. I miss my grandma and wish she was still here and that we weren’t selling this house. 

I crave to be able to go inside and join her at the round kitchen table sitting under her colorful Tiffany lamp, visiting late into the night with friends and family. Or better yet, have her stay up late with me to help me with a sewing project or help me bake perfectly round delicious little cookies. But inside is completely different now. It’s not her furniture in there. It’s not how she set it up. The house has been staged with large modern furniture and has been updated to sell. All of the plush light carpet throughout the bedrooms, formal living room and hallway has been pulled out and the hardwood floor beneath has been refinished. My uncle told us that there was one area where the hardwood had been worn out beneath the carpet. It was where my grandma had shuffled back and forth for many years in and out of her bedroom door. We laughed at the thought of her shuffling back and forth. She was such a busy body, never one to sit still for too long and for as tiny as she was, she walked so heavily always with the intent to get the job done.

Yesterday we toured the house as if we were potential buyers, crashing the open house to experience the updates and see what the buyer will see. My mom also wanted to meet the realtor. After all, the fate of my mom’s and uncles’ inheritance is in the realtor’s hands. It probably was a good idea to meet her. It was so incredibly strange to see the house as it was, with all new oversized furniture, in all the wrong places. I couldn’t help but cringe at the way it was set up, while nice and modern, my grandma would not have appreciated what they had done to her home. It felt like on every wall there were pairs of pictures hanging, much like the formalness of a hotel rather than the comfort of a family home. There was nothing personal about the decor, it felt somewhat sterile and unfamiliar with the scent of the fresh paint and newly refinished wood floors. There were no whimsical oddities, nor artwork hanging or displayed that various family members had made, so many familiar things were missing, her matchbox car collection, the 8x10 pictures of her babies that hung in the hall my entire life, the grandfather clock above the mantle. It was all gone, everything was new and printed not handmade. 

As we looked at the house and around the yard, I saw remnants of my grandpa too, even though it had been 21 years since he passed away and my grandma eradicated his presence as much as she could shortly after he passed. I believe removing his things worked two fold. It was her way of taking complete control of their home and also helped her heal by purging all of his belongings. His influence was still there, however slight as it was. One thing that was still present was the tile roof he had so proudly chosen. I can still hear my grandpa laughing over 25 years ago after exclaiming that the new roof would be guaranteed longer than he would live. As I looked up and smiled at the sturdy roof that always interfered with our cellular service (something my grandpa never got to experience), I spotted the bracket where he would post the American flag proudly. I know he put the flag up regularly, I’m sure on all major patriotic holidays, but the days that I remember most vividly and probably because it was usually during the summer, was Flag Day and the 4^th of July. Every Flag Day and every 4^th of July my grandpa would get out his silver ladder (which by the way was still in the garage when we crashed the open house), and climb to the top to put the flag in the bracket. It was from him that I learned the meaning of patriotism not by definition, but by example. 

Seeing the garage now, though very different from when I was a child, it still reminded me of my grandpa. This was his place, where I watched him build things, fix things and create things at his work bench that my grandma got rid of so many years ago. I have a vivid memory of him putting the finishing touches on a clay TV bank that my uncle would then make replicas of and sell to help fund the high school art program he ran. I still have one of those TV banks sitting on my bedroom dresser. I watched intently as my grandpa carved a design of his initials into the TV bank signing his work, leaving his artist’s mark. I was fascinated with the agility of his big strong hands, wishing someday to be just as talented an artist as he was.

Outside of the garage by the lamppost that at night would light up the driveway, a memory of my grandpa comes to life. Again I’m watching intently as he wraps a folded beach towel that he uses when he goes out to the spa around the bar of his bike; taking duct tape wrapping it around the towel to make me a padded seat to ride on his bike with him. I must have been 4 or 5 years old to fit there on the bar between his bike seat and handle bars. I remember the breeze and sweet smell of the blooming air as we rode beneath the shade trees my grandma and cousins riding along side us as we toured the neighborhood. The whole time my grandpa sang to me, his “brown eyed girl.” It still blows my mind how vivid some of my memories are, over 30 years later.

I’m brought back to the current reality, the bike ride of a distant past. Currently the huge shade trees in the front yard were recently pruned and the pink camilla my grandma planted was in full bloom. The majority of the front yard appeared overgrown and wild with vegetation. I imagine my grandparents wouldn’t be thrilled with the wildness of their former front yard. Though my grandma had left the house nearly 4 years ago and my grandpa 21 years ago, remnants of their touch remained all over the front yard, throughout the house and in the backyard. This time my mom and I did not open the white front door. It was just the two of us one last time, while we had the key, we chose not to go in. Maybe because we were both afraid of experiencing those emotions all over again. We had our ceremony, our final goodbyes last night. 

After the open house, we checked into our hotel room. Which oddly enough was located next door to one of my grandma’s favorite restaurants (this restaurant gives cotton candy with the check), one that we went to together multiple times; the three of us, well, four, then five of us with my children. My mom and I both recalled the last memory of dining together there, when it was cold outside and the three of us all ordered the meatloaf. We laughed at my then toddler’s first experience with cotton candy. He didn’t know what to think of it and it showed all over his face. He was confused by the fluffiness and how it would disappear in his mouth. We delighted in the memory of my grandma enjoying that little bit of cotton candy, she loved it and laughed with pleasure watching her great-grandson experience the sweet treat. I think that’s why it was one of her favorite places. Then I remembered her commenting on what a good baby my new baby was, since he didn’t make a peep all of dinner. Her telling me, “your kids are so well behaved, because you’re a good mom,” was the best compliment she could have ever given me. In the five years she knew me as a mom, she told me regularly, “Niki you’re a good mom,” and it meant the world to me every time. The compliment of all compliments coming from the matriarch of my family.

When my mom and I finished our dinner, we headed back to the house. It was time to honor my grandparents and say our final goodbyes. We had stopped to pick up two candles and brought with us some excerpts my grandma had chosen for us to read when she passed away. Unfortunately those excerpts never got read at her memorial dinner. We felt the need to finally honor her wishes two years later. We also felt that she and my grandpa would want to come home. My mom had brought with her a little bit of ashes from both my grandparents. We wanted to spread their ashes to leave a little bit of them together at home. They loved their home and truly made it their paradise, spending hours gardening together in both the front and backyard. We chose the backyard to do our little ceremony. 

We lit a candle for each grandparent, placing them in their favorite places. We placed my grandpa’s candle back where his spa used to be, where he spent every night before retiring to bed, staring up at the night star filled sky, relaxing doing his back exercises in his spa. We placed my grandma’s candle between her garden and where the picnic table used to be, a place where they entertained all of their friends and family over five decades. We chose this spot, because one of my mom’s favorite pictures captured my 92 year old grandma and my oldest son at 2 years old holding hands looking out over her garden, in this particular spot. This is where we lit her candle and read the excerpts she wanted. Then with tears we spread her ashes all over the yard. We spread my grandpa’s ashes over by the spa since that was his favorite place. I took one last whiff of the backyard shed, bringing back all of those memories of watching my grandpa take care of the spa and balance the chemicals. And for shits and giggles I pulled my grandma’s clothesline across the yard one last time too. She loved her laundry to dry outside, because she loved it to smell like the outdoors. Then when the ashes were all gone, my mom and I sat for a long time by where the spa used to be and looked out at the starry night sky. I think in that moment as tough as it was, we both felt at peace. It was sad to say goodbye, but finally it was a good, good-bye. We had the closure we both needed.

While neither my mom or I will probably ever visit that house or town again, I know that my grandparents will always be with me. I see it in my behavior and in the reflection of my children’s eyes. I share with the boys my love for reading, baking, sewing, singing and dancing just like she did and have a strong presence just like my grandpa did, plus the desire to tinker, to create, to figure things out just like him. While my children may not ever know my grandparents like I did, I am able to share with them everything they taught me to be and for that, I am truly grateful.