Remember When
When we were kids, twice a year we'd pile into my mom's mini van and make the trek from Georgia to Indiana: 10 hours to Indianapolis where my dad's parents lived, 11 hours to my mom's parents in Marion, and 12 hours to the lake.
At 13 I prided myself on the fact that I could go the entire drive without having to stop to pee. In retrospect that wasn't the healthiest thing, but my mom's need to stop every couple hours grated on me and somehow seemed an indication that she was weak. God, Mom! Develop a stronger bladder!
I'd put up with the visit to my dad's parents, but it was just dues we had to pay before we could get to the lake. There in my grandparents' ranch house with the 70s furniture and seashell themed bathroom, Grandma Drummond would feed us vegetables I wasn't allowed to turn down, while my brothers and I sat, backs straight and on our best behavior, listening to the adults talk. After dinner we'd all adjourn to the living room, where we sat in a circle and answered questions about school, work, hobbies, until finally it had been long enough that we could get back in the car and back on the road.
The lake, though, was the best. My mom's parents were the best. When we finally arrived, it might be dark already—but that didn't matter. Grandpa would take us out on the pontoon boat in our pajamas, bundled up in blankets because whether it was the middle of August or the beginning of February, Grandma was always concerned whether you were warm enough. I'd sit on the vinyl seat, elbows on the railing so I could see the rippling ribbon of silver the moon cast on the water, the familiar lights along the shore, the shadows of the ducks swimming away from our hulking shape—and I'd be smiling so hard my face hurt. It felt like coming home.
Sometimes Grandpa would sing, his voice echoing out over the water—"You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille! With four hungry children and a crop in the field..." or "He stopped loving her, today...they hung a wreath upon his door..."
One time he turned from the steering wheel and said, "You gonna go swimming, Haley?"
I laughed. "It's dark!"
"So?"
"I'm in my pajamas!"
"So?"
So next thing we know Matt and I—Scott must have been too young—are in the water in our pajamas, treading water and bobbing up and down, thrilled at the water covering our heads, my mom and grandma watching anxiously from above.
Whether we were at the lake or they were visiting us back home in Georgia, Grandma would always have something for us—presents, cookies, a project for us to do. She was the queen of random surprises she'd pull out at just the right moment—an entire box of Cheezits she pulled out of her purse while we were waiting at the laundromat, pedicure kits to keep my cousin and I busy, Japanese lanterns at my wedding reception. At Christmas we'd think all the presents were done, but then an hour later she'd be motioning me aside.
"You have one more surprise!"
I can hear her voice saying that to me now.
She spoiled us all, and we took it as our due. If our lake trip coincided with my birthday in July, which it usually did, I was especially spoiled. Birthday signs, balloons, decorations, cake. She'd have me make a list of things I wanted to do that day, and then everyone would have to do them. Usually all I wanted was to lay outside on a lounge chair, read, and then go somewhere great for dinner where I could stuff my face. But sometimes I made everyone go to the local mini-golf / arcade / batting cages center so I could win tickets at skeeball. On my 16th birthday, she made everyone gather every hour on the hour so I could open another present, which spread the present joy over the entire glorious, sun-filled day.
Remember when we vowed the vows and walked the walk
Gave our hearts, made the start, it was hard
We lived and learned, life threw curves
There was joy, there was hurt
Remember when
Remember when old ones died and new were born
And life was changed, disassembled, rearranged
We came together, fell apart
And broke each other's hearts
Remember when
Remember when the sound of little feet
Was the music we danced to week to week
Brought back the love, we found trust
Vowed we'd never give it up
Remember when
Remember when thirty seemed so old
Now lookin' back, it's just a steppin' stone
To where we are, where we've been
Said we'd do it all again
Remember when
Remember when we said when we turned gray
When the children grow up and move away
We won't be sad, we'll be glad
For all the life we've had
And we'll remember when
Remember when
At 13 I prided myself on the fact that I could go the entire drive without having to stop to pee. In retrospect that wasn't the healthiest thing, but my mom's need to stop every couple hours grated on me and somehow seemed an indication that she was weak. God, Mom! Develop a stronger bladder!
I'd put up with the visit to my dad's parents, but it was just dues we had to pay before we could get to the lake. There in my grandparents' ranch house with the 70s furniture and seashell themed bathroom, Grandma Drummond would feed us vegetables I wasn't allowed to turn down, while my brothers and I sat, backs straight and on our best behavior, listening to the adults talk. After dinner we'd all adjourn to the living room, where we sat in a circle and answered questions about school, work, hobbies, until finally it had been long enough that we could get back in the car and back on the road.
The lake, though, was the best. My mom's parents were the best. When we finally arrived, it might be dark already—but that didn't matter. Grandpa would take us out on the pontoon boat in our pajamas, bundled up in blankets because whether it was the middle of August or the beginning of February, Grandma was always concerned whether you were warm enough. I'd sit on the vinyl seat, elbows on the railing so I could see the rippling ribbon of silver the moon cast on the water, the familiar lights along the shore, the shadows of the ducks swimming away from our hulking shape—and I'd be smiling so hard my face hurt. It felt like coming home.
Sometimes Grandpa would sing, his voice echoing out over the water—"You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille! With four hungry children and a crop in the field..." or "He stopped loving her, today...they hung a wreath upon his door..."
One time he turned from the steering wheel and said, "You gonna go swimming, Haley?"
I laughed. "It's dark!"
"So?"
"I'm in my pajamas!"
"So?"
So next thing we know Matt and I—Scott must have been too young—are in the water in our pajamas, treading water and bobbing up and down, thrilled at the water covering our heads, my mom and grandma watching anxiously from above.
Whether we were at the lake or they were visiting us back home in Georgia, Grandma would always have something for us—presents, cookies, a project for us to do. She was the queen of random surprises she'd pull out at just the right moment—an entire box of Cheezits she pulled out of her purse while we were waiting at the laundromat, pedicure kits to keep my cousin and I busy, Japanese lanterns at my wedding reception. At Christmas we'd think all the presents were done, but then an hour later she'd be motioning me aside.
"You have one more surprise!"
I can hear her voice saying that to me now.
She spoiled us all, and we took it as our due. If our lake trip coincided with my birthday in July, which it usually did, I was especially spoiled. Birthday signs, balloons, decorations, cake. She'd have me make a list of things I wanted to do that day, and then everyone would have to do them. Usually all I wanted was to lay outside on a lounge chair, read, and then go somewhere great for dinner where I could stuff my face. But sometimes I made everyone go to the local mini-golf / arcade / batting cages center so I could win tickets at skeeball. On my 16th birthday, she made everyone gather every hour on the hour so I could open another present, which spread the present joy over the entire glorious, sun-filled day.
It sounds like an idyllic childhood, doesn't it? I was lucky. It was one of the best childhoods a kid could hope for. But there were the bad moments, too, ones that broke through the obliviousness of childhood and stuck with me. Everyone knew to get out of the way when Grandpa was angry. There were times when he'd make my mom cry, or when Grandma had to pretend she had a stomachache to explain why they weren't coming out on the boat to watch the fireworks. She wasn't sick—he was grumpy and she felt like she had to cover for him.
One summer not too long ago, my mom decided to get family photos taken. We found a photographer, we scheduled it when as many out-of-town family members could be there as possible, my mom and aunt planned the outfits the newest babies in the family would wear—and then the day of, my grandpa refused to change out of his ratty t-shirt, ball cap, and shorts. I don't know if he was irritated that everyone was at his house, if he didn't want his picture taken, or what, but he stomped outside in a sour mood and only because Grandma made him. In the pictures he's glaring at the camera while we all ignore him and smile.
The men on the Drook side of my family are a bunch of trolls—they tease and trick and rib and make fun. They're what my Great Grandma Drook called "ornery," but it's essentially just being an asshole. Example: every year at Christmas for as long as I can remember, my Uncle Jerry has thrown wads of wrapping paper at my head. I wouldn't feel like it was Christmas if he didn't. Even my dad gets a little more sarcastic and snarky when he's spent too much time with my grandpa and uncle, and he's one of the most laid back, agreeable people I know.
Grandpa's teasing is just as likely to be mean as it was funny.
"Haley, do you really have to go back home to Georgia? I have a pony in the barn you can have if you stay, do you want to see?"
"What are you reading, Haley?" And then once I'm a few minutes into detailing the plot—"Do you think I really care?"
"Kids, come here. I have a good Thanksgiving show to watch. Come see this deer get shot and butchered."
Now that Grandma's gone, Grandpa spends a lot of time romanticizing their past—how they didn't have any money to start, how they went on great vacations, how they fought and made up. It makes my mom angry—"He ruined every vacation we had," she says. "He made Grandma miserable. He remembers what he wants to remember."
Grandma isn't here to cover up for him or placate him anymore, so his anger comes out more than it used to. He yells at people for turning on ceiling fans, refuses to eat with the family, gets grumpy when there's a crowd at the lake house, even when days before he was talking about how lonely he is and how he has nothing to do.
My mom is a particular target of his—he depends on her, especially now, but he's also mean to her in a way that feels misogynistic and cruel. But it's all joking, you see. As I write about it, I keep searching my memory for the examples of the meanest things he's said, the words and jokes that really made me cringe. I know some happened just a few weeks ago. But I'm realizing I can't pull the worst things from my memory with any kind of certainty, though I know they're there. It's like my head won't let me retain that as a piece of my grandpa. My memory glosses over them and refuses to store them. He's my grandpa.
It's funny how different this version of my grandpa is from that one singing on the pontoon boat when I was a little girl—but they're the same person, and they always have been. I just didn't see it as a kid because I was protected from it. Sometimes I'm sure that my grandpa's anger is a symptom of living your whole life in a small town, of marrying when you were 18, of having kids young and feeling trapped into a life you weren't even really old enough to choose. But he would never see it that way.
"You know that Alan Jackson song, 'Remember When?' That's exactly how it was."
He's said these exact words to me multiple times, both before Grandma died and after. I had it played at my wedding because of him, because I knew he'd dance with Grandma and sing it in her ear, and I could dance with Michael at the same time, and it'd feel like a circle. And that's what happened. I have a picture of it, actually, Michael and I kissing in the foreground and my grandparents dancing off to the side, my grandma smiling towards us, her hand clasped in Grandpa's, and him singing softly over her head. It's one of my favorites.
He used to refer to the song fondly, but now when he mentions it it makes him cry.
Remember when I was young and so were you
And time stood still and love was all we knew
You were the first, so was I
We made love and then you cried
Remember when
One summer not too long ago, my mom decided to get family photos taken. We found a photographer, we scheduled it when as many out-of-town family members could be there as possible, my mom and aunt planned the outfits the newest babies in the family would wear—and then the day of, my grandpa refused to change out of his ratty t-shirt, ball cap, and shorts. I don't know if he was irritated that everyone was at his house, if he didn't want his picture taken, or what, but he stomped outside in a sour mood and only because Grandma made him. In the pictures he's glaring at the camera while we all ignore him and smile.
The men on the Drook side of my family are a bunch of trolls—they tease and trick and rib and make fun. They're what my Great Grandma Drook called "ornery," but it's essentially just being an asshole. Example: every year at Christmas for as long as I can remember, my Uncle Jerry has thrown wads of wrapping paper at my head. I wouldn't feel like it was Christmas if he didn't. Even my dad gets a little more sarcastic and snarky when he's spent too much time with my grandpa and uncle, and he's one of the most laid back, agreeable people I know.
Grandpa's teasing is just as likely to be mean as it was funny.
"Haley, do you really have to go back home to Georgia? I have a pony in the barn you can have if you stay, do you want to see?"
"What are you reading, Haley?" And then once I'm a few minutes into detailing the plot—"Do you think I really care?"
"Kids, come here. I have a good Thanksgiving show to watch. Come see this deer get shot and butchered."
Now that Grandma's gone, Grandpa spends a lot of time romanticizing their past—how they didn't have any money to start, how they went on great vacations, how they fought and made up. It makes my mom angry—"He ruined every vacation we had," she says. "He made Grandma miserable. He remembers what he wants to remember."
Grandma isn't here to cover up for him or placate him anymore, so his anger comes out more than it used to. He yells at people for turning on ceiling fans, refuses to eat with the family, gets grumpy when there's a crowd at the lake house, even when days before he was talking about how lonely he is and how he has nothing to do.
My mom is a particular target of his—he depends on her, especially now, but he's also mean to her in a way that feels misogynistic and cruel. But it's all joking, you see. As I write about it, I keep searching my memory for the examples of the meanest things he's said, the words and jokes that really made me cringe. I know some happened just a few weeks ago. But I'm realizing I can't pull the worst things from my memory with any kind of certainty, though I know they're there. It's like my head won't let me retain that as a piece of my grandpa. My memory glosses over them and refuses to store them. He's my grandpa.
It's funny how different this version of my grandpa is from that one singing on the pontoon boat when I was a little girl—but they're the same person, and they always have been. I just didn't see it as a kid because I was protected from it. Sometimes I'm sure that my grandpa's anger is a symptom of living your whole life in a small town, of marrying when you were 18, of having kids young and feeling trapped into a life you weren't even really old enough to choose. But he would never see it that way.
"You know that Alan Jackson song, 'Remember When?' That's exactly how it was."
He's said these exact words to me multiple times, both before Grandma died and after. I had it played at my wedding because of him, because I knew he'd dance with Grandma and sing it in her ear, and I could dance with Michael at the same time, and it'd feel like a circle. And that's what happened. I have a picture of it, actually, Michael and I kissing in the foreground and my grandparents dancing off to the side, my grandma smiling towards us, her hand clasped in Grandpa's, and him singing softly over her head. It's one of my favorites.
He used to refer to the song fondly, but now when he mentions it it makes him cry.
Remember when I was young and so were you
And time stood still and love was all we knew
You were the first, so was I
We made love and then you cried
Remember when
Remember when we vowed the vows and walked the walk
Gave our hearts, made the start, it was hard
We lived and learned, life threw curves
There was joy, there was hurt
Remember when
Remember when old ones died and new were born
And life was changed, disassembled, rearranged
We came together, fell apart
And broke each other's hearts
Remember when
Remember when the sound of little feet
Was the music we danced to week to week
Brought back the love, we found trust
Vowed we'd never give it up
Remember when
Remember when thirty seemed so old
Now lookin' back, it's just a steppin' stone
To where we are, where we've been
Said we'd do it all again
Remember when
Remember when we said when we turned gray
When the children grow up and move away
We won't be sad, we'll be glad
For all the life we've had
And we'll remember when
Remember when
Maybe it can be both. Both the romanticized versions and the imperfect versions. Maybe both are true.