a cherished empty box

I think I’ve started every writing of the last two weeks with some version of “gray day.” And rain this morning, like so many others. If this was snow, we’d be up to our eyeballs.

But it is not.

I do like waking up early, before Julia (which is rare), making coffee and sitting down to write. And admittedly, the gray, rainy days make sitting in front of the usually over sunny front-of-the-house window easy on the eyes.

I started a Christmas post late on that day. Intended to be mostly pictures with a few words. When I looked at the result, I laughed at myself. The pictures were of the darling boy. Almost all of them, a few glimpses of Justin, his dad, and Julia but only because the two of them were helping Wilbur unwrap something.

And I thought, what a besotted grandma I have become! Not really like every other grandparent, but like many that I know. Not like my own parents—they had their hands full raising one grandchild and had another three who lived closer than we did and were more to their liking.

I can’t remember the whole story right now, but at sometime when she was seven, something that Cheshire was doing was ignored by my parents. I felt badly when I saw their lack of reaction to her and when I asked her about it, she assured me that ‘it’s alright, Babja only likes me when I do something that she likes.’ And I marveled at the wisdom of this little one who had taken in and understood two people when I had clocked many hours of therapy trying to get to that point. And yet, it was Cheshire who visited her Babja on weekends during her grandmother’s last few months, bringing her treats and doing what she could for her which was mostly keeping her company. Talking to my mother on the phone after one of those visits, my mother commented that Cheshire was such a delightful companion. She commented as if the observation was a huge surprise. My first impulse was to say, ‘if you had taken the time to know her years ago,’ . . . but I only replied, ‘yes, she is.’

It was David’s father, Grandpa to Cheshire, who was the besotted one. He was always interested, always attentive. Her accomplishments, however small, were miraculous. She was beautiful and clever and his pride.

A memory I have not thought of for years—we named her Inez Cheshire. Inez for David’s mother who had died 5 and a half years before Cheshire was born. When Grandpa found out about our naming decision, he asked that we never call her Inez. We had always intended to call her Cheshire, so it was an easy ‘yes,’ but right now, I connect his name request with his refusal to come to David’s memorial service. David’s death shook him to the core and he was 90, but he was still traveling from Jersey to Florida twice a year and his niece volunteered to accompany him to and from Wisconsin. And early the next year, when Julia and I were in Florida at a conference, we planned to drive from Disney World to Boca Raton which was near his winter home. The evening before we were to drive down, he called and asked us not to come. It put me in an awful bind—I had a flight back to Wisconsin in two days, a rental car for the drive and a hotel reservation near his home. I had no where to stay at or near Disney for the next two nights. None of these things came out of anger or spite, none of it felt personal. It was him, all him, not being able to deal with the sadnesses in his life. And I feel such sadness for him now.

For any or all of that, he was a wonderful grandfather to Cheshire, and although he thought that David and I were too protective and sheltered her too much, he took a lot of pride in the child, teen and young woman she became. His attention and love added so much to her growing and her life.

And so, I am not going to feel slightly embarrassed by the plethora of pictures I took of my darling boy. Everyone, everywhere needs, should have a besotted elder assigned to them to admire and cherish all of their doings.

It was a lovely Christmas—the Christmas eve party at Ed’s niece’s house, then the late night service at church with what has become my favorite tune sung by the women of the choir, a quick drive up to Cheshire’s house where we spent the night to wake up with Cheshire, Justin and Wilbur. We opened presents taking breaks for breakfast and coffee. When it was over, it was almost time for Wilbur’s nap, and I read to him and put him down, after which I needed a nap as well. I awoke to lovely dinner time smells coming from the kitchen, and after we took a very quiet walk, and Ed joined us, we sat down to a lovely dinner which ended with my only contribution—a box of cookies made the week before. And we left just as Wilbur needed to start his bedtime routine arriving home in time to watch Call the Midwife on tv.

And so, I will post some pictures, though I will admit to a bit of embarrassment that I did not take pictures of the rest of us, but I did get some excellent ones of the boy!

First, a tree, some stockings, a glass of milk and a kiss for Murphy, the dog.