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A BASKIN ROBBINS SUMMER (Part III of ? Please read from Part I)
The shock of seeing her was unbearable. My memories of my grandmother were of a fearsome woman larger than life, whom even my father feared. A woman who seemed to have impossibly large breasts, and even larger hands to smack your butt with. She put the fear of God into us, this woman. Yet my memories of her were also of sticks of gum and candy that came out of nowhere, hearty laughs that filled the house, and a sly smile that came at the most random moments. I loved her, and missed her terribly when she went back to Korea, years ago. The small form in front of me, that seemed little more than a skeleton, couldn’t be her. She saw me with milky white eyes and called out, “*****? (The name of my cousin)” My aunt gently told her that it wasn’t my cousin, but her 2nd grandchild from Korea. “guhl ee ah? (my Korean name is chung gul. Guhl ee ah was a phrase that elders used for any one, or all, of my brothers and myself) I said softly, “Hal muh ni. Juh yeh yeo. Sohn ja whas suh yeo. (grandmother, it’s me. I (your grandchild) am here.) My summer laziness and carefree manner rapidly became sorrowful. My nose crinkled in that familiar way, and as I kneeled before her and bowed formally, tears that were commanded to stay back somehow slid over the brims of my lower eyelids. My aunt and uncle went away, as I became reacquainted with my grandmother. We were both shy, and had trouble meeting the other’s eyes, though we had spent years together in the past. I didn’t want my shock and sorrow to show in my eyes, and she…I don’t know. She seemed a little ashamed of her state of existence.
As we gradually warmed up and chatted, she became much more livelier. She told me of how she read her extra large print bible daily, and sang various hymns. She told me of how no one came to talk to her anymore, because of the smell of her medicines. It was then that I first became aware of the smell that filled the small room. It was strong, true, but close enough to the smell of Ben-Gay for it to really bother me. I again felt tears coming. She was so lonely. I was getting angry at my relatives, who had passed her around and around, none willing to take responsibility for her care, and at my second uncle, who had her right under his own roof. My anger slowly dissipated as I realized that she harbored no ill will towards any of the same relatives. She did not blame them, because she knew that the smell was bad, that looking at her was depressing, and was especially grateful for my second uncle. Guilt came over me as I saw that my uncle had shown her the most love. Each time he came into grandmother’s room, he nearly buckled with sorrow. He hurt more deeply than any other, and I loved this silent, morose uncle for it.
Eventually, the evening came, and like most country people, my aunt and uncle were ready to sleep. They offered my cousin’s room for me (he was away in the army), but my grandmother asked, and almost pleaded as a little girl might, in a soft, unsure, and hopeful manner, if I would like to sleep next to her. “Mother,” my exasperated uncle said, “you can’t ask him to sleep next to you.” Both my aunt and uncle were seemingly apologetic of my grandmother’s request.
“It’s ok,” I said. “I’ll sleep next to her.” It was no big deal for me. The smell wasn’t that bad. Besides, I had come all the way from the US, and who knows when I would see her next?
I was awakened the next morning by a loud, resounding “boom!” that shook the house. “What’s going on?” I asked. Thoughts of earthquakes, war, and Armageddon went through my mind. My aunt was unfazed. “It’s the army.” She took me outside and pointed at a mountainside in the distance. “The tanks are shooting in the mountain. Target-practice.” My nerves were still firing. It took a while to calm down, and accept that North Koreans weren’t invading right now (my uncle’s farm was close on the northern part of Korea).
I spent the next two days talking with my grandmother. She hardly left her room, which was no more than an early grave. She took her meals in the doorway of her room and the living room, as if reluctant to leave the refuge where she was not shunned. She left only to go to the bathroom or to wash, and groaned and creaked all the way out and back in. It was painful to watch her movements. I couldn’t get over at how small her frame was, how thin her behind was. When in her room, she slowly rotated positions, because it hurt to stay in any one position. It hurt her to move, also, but the former pain was apparently greater.
She told the same stories countless times, sometimes telling the same story consecutively. She called me by my older brother’s name, by my younger brother’s name. Sometimes, she called me by my own, and I was able to feel a small glimpse of hope that maybe she wasn’t doing that bad, that maybe she knew exactly who I was. That hope was always dashed five or ten minutes later. She sang her hymns, all with the same monotone melody, with a quavering voice full of sorrow and hope. She talked about the cycle of life, citing the monster horse flies that occasionally flew in as examples. Over and over again, she said and did the same things.
My grandmother really did read the Bible faithfully, much more faithfully than I read the Word of God. She truly believed, for which I was extremely thankful for, and spoke of dying in a happy voice, eager to go to heaven. I was humbled by her faith and her assurance in heaven and God. I spend the entire time with her, hanging on a fine balance, struggling to keep my eyes as wide as possible to keep the tears back (not easy when you have small eyes like me), and just flat-out crying. We were both ashamed when I failed, and we cried together several times. I let the gates open when she took naps. I patiently listened to the same stories she told over and over again, told stories of America, read from my books, and occasionally sketched pictures of her.
Surprisingly, the woman who seemed somewhat apathetic towards her last days on earth was extremely critical of my sketches. I was a bit defensive and even argumentative, and firmly told her that she really DID look like that. I had often heard compliments for my sketches, and so criticism, even from my dying grandmother, did not jive with me (such is my proud heart. I blush to remember).
yakob at 3:48 PM
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The shock of seeing her was unbearable. My memories of my grandmother were of a fearsome woman larger than life, whom even my father feared. A woman who seemed to have impossibly large breasts, and even larger hands to smack your butt with. She put the fear of God into us, this woman. Yet my memories of her were also of sticks of gum and candy that came out of nowhere, hearty laughs that filled the house, and a sly smile that came at the most random moments. I loved her, and missed her terribly when she went back to Korea, years ago. The small form in front of me, that seemed little more than a skeleton, couldn’t be her. She saw me with milky white eyes and called out, “*****? (The name of my cousin)” My aunt gently told her that it wasn’t my cousin, but her 2nd grandchild from Korea. “guhl ee ah? (my Korean name is chung gul. Guhl ee ah was a phrase that elders used for any one, or all, of my brothers and myself) I said softly, “Hal muh ni. Juh yeh yeo. Sohn ja whas suh yeo. (grandmother, it’s me. I (your grandchild) am here.) My summer laziness and carefree manner rapidly became sorrowful. My nose crinkled in that familiar way, and as I kneeled before her and bowed formally, tears that were commanded to stay back somehow slid over the brims of my lower eyelids. My aunt and uncle went away, as I became reacquainted with my grandmother. We were both shy, and had trouble meeting the other’s eyes, though we had spent years together in the past. I didn’t want my shock and sorrow to show in my eyes, and she…I don’t know. She seemed a little ashamed of her state of existence.
As we gradually warmed up and chatted, she became much more livelier. She told me of how she read her extra large print bible daily, and sang various hymns. She told me of how no one came to talk to her anymore, because of the smell of her medicines. It was then that I first became aware of the smell that filled the small room. It was strong, true, but close enough to the smell of Ben-Gay for it to really bother me. I again felt tears coming. She was so lonely. I was getting angry at my relatives, who had passed her around and around, none willing to take responsibility for her care, and at my second uncle, who had her right under his own roof. My anger slowly dissipated as I realized that she harbored no ill will towards any of the same relatives. She did not blame them, because she knew that the smell was bad, that looking at her was depressing, and was especially grateful for my second uncle. Guilt came over me as I saw that my uncle had shown her the most love. Each time he came into grandmother’s room, he nearly buckled with sorrow. He hurt more deeply than any other, and I loved this silent, morose uncle for it.
Eventually, the evening came, and like most country people, my aunt and uncle were ready to sleep. They offered my cousin’s room for me (he was away in the army), but my grandmother asked, and almost pleaded as a little girl might, in a soft, unsure, and hopeful manner, if I would like to sleep next to her. “Mother,” my exasperated uncle said, “you can’t ask him to sleep next to you.” Both my aunt and uncle were seemingly apologetic of my grandmother’s request.
“It’s ok,” I said. “I’ll sleep next to her.” It was no big deal for me. The smell wasn’t that bad. Besides, I had come all the way from the US, and who knows when I would see her next?
I was awakened the next morning by a loud, resounding “boom!” that shook the house. “What’s going on?” I asked. Thoughts of earthquakes, war, and Armageddon went through my mind. My aunt was unfazed. “It’s the army.” She took me outside and pointed at a mountainside in the distance. “The tanks are shooting in the mountain. Target-practice.” My nerves were still firing. It took a while to calm down, and accept that North Koreans weren’t invading right now (my uncle’s farm was close on the northern part of Korea).
I spent the next two days talking with my grandmother. She hardly left her room, which was no more than an early grave. She took her meals in the doorway of her room and the living room, as if reluctant to leave the refuge where she was not shunned. She left only to go to the bathroom or to wash, and groaned and creaked all the way out and back in. It was painful to watch her movements. I couldn’t get over at how small her frame was, how thin her behind was. When in her room, she slowly rotated positions, because it hurt to stay in any one position. It hurt her to move, also, but the former pain was apparently greater.
She told the same stories countless times, sometimes telling the same story consecutively. She called me by my older brother’s name, by my younger brother’s name. Sometimes, she called me by my own, and I was able to feel a small glimpse of hope that maybe she wasn’t doing that bad, that maybe she knew exactly who I was. That hope was always dashed five or ten minutes later. She sang her hymns, all with the same monotone melody, with a quavering voice full of sorrow and hope. She talked about the cycle of life, citing the monster horse flies that occasionally flew in as examples. Over and over again, she said and did the same things.
My grandmother really did read the Bible faithfully, much more faithfully than I read the Word of God. She truly believed, for which I was extremely thankful for, and spoke of dying in a happy voice, eager to go to heaven. I was humbled by her faith and her assurance in heaven and God. I spend the entire time with her, hanging on a fine balance, struggling to keep my eyes as wide as possible to keep the tears back (not easy when you have small eyes like me), and just flat-out crying. We were both ashamed when I failed, and we cried together several times. I let the gates open when she took naps. I patiently listened to the same stories she told over and over again, told stories of America, read from my books, and occasionally sketched pictures of her.
Surprisingly, the woman who seemed somewhat apathetic towards her last days on earth was extremely critical of my sketches. I was a bit defensive and even argumentative, and firmly told her that she really DID look like that. I had often heard compliments for my sketches, and so criticism, even from my dying grandmother, did not jive with me (such is my proud heart. I blush to remember).
yakob at 3:48 PM