Christmas Prep
There’s a room upstairs in my grandparents’ house that’s full of boxes and miscellaneous junk—blankets, pillows, unused furniture. My grandma used it as her storage area, and before her funeral we used it as a place to shove things from downstairs so there’d be more room for people to visit after the service. Nobody’s been up there in a year.
This weekend my mom and I spent the night at Grandpa’s. We picked him up on our way to Wabash for First Friday, where we went shopping to spend the gift cards we still hadn’t used from last Christmas. Grandpa stood there quietly looking at things while we shopped, helped Mom get a purse down, said he liked the sweater I was trying on. I kept watching him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to get irritated, but instead he reminded me of a docile puppy—agreeable, patient.
After we walked over to a restaurant for dinner. They were understaffed and slow—it took an hour longer than it should have, but again, no more than mild complaints from Grandpa. On the way back to his house, we stopped at the Walkway of Lights in Marion. We drove through, pointing out all the various animals and scenes.
“There’s the elves throwing snowballs!”
“There’s the water dragon.”
“Oh, over here we have some butterflies.”
He pulled over to the side to let me take some pictures of the dinosaurs for Ryne. “Did you get enough?”
No mean-spirited jokes, no frustration, no restlessness. This is the version of my grandpa that makes my mom angry. “Where was this nice man when Grandma was around?” she rants. “He made her miserable.”
I don’t know if he made her miserable all the time—she seemed used to it. But there were times when it visibly upset her. She cried once in a Longhorn Steakhouse because he was being a jerk. Cried, grabbed her purse, and got up from the table, and our evening was over. It was striking because it was so unusual. Usually she placated him, made allowances, managed things so nothing would send him over the edge. Sometimes I feel like that's my role now.
That evening after shopping, dinner, and the lights, we went upstairs, the first two people to sleep up there since months before Grandma died. Grandma loved to decorate. Every time she came to visit me she'd bring new pillows or knick knacks designed to bring together the colors in my living room, or tile samples for kitchen backsplash. Every room she touched ended up perfectly accessorized like a photo in Better Homes & Gardens.
But now after over a year of neglect everything upstairs was piled in corners and covered in dust. Dead ladybugs and spiders littered the bathroom floor. Extra pillows and comforters were stacked on the twin beds, and three or four of Grandma's floppy hats perched on top of a high chair she'd gotten for when the great grandkids visited. Before we went to sleep we smacked lethargic flies buzzing around the window, using a rolled up newspaper from 2003.
I woke up with my throat and eyes scratchy from dust. Downstairs Grandpa had already pulled out the Christmas tubs so we could help him put up decorations—they were organized by theme, labeled in Grandma's neat script: "Silver." "Rustic." "Birds." Her friend Nancy had mentioned at the funeral that Grandma had bought some new Christmas decorations before she died, so as Mom helped Grandpa put lights on the tree downstairs, I breached open the door to the storage room, keeping my steps quiet, feeling like I was breaking into some sanctuary, some place I didn't belong. Pile by pile I started looking through the boxes and bags, the plastic tubs.There were garbage bags of clothes that must have been meant for Goodwill. Folders of old bills and paperwork. And in a Hobby Lobby bag, a styrofoam head with a wig on it—something that had giggles breaking past my lips and echoing through the room.
"Why would Grandma have a styrofoam head with a wig on it in a bag?" I asked, carrying it downstairs to show Mom and Grandpa. No one knows, but neither of them seemed very surprised.
The Christmas decorations were in unopened boxes from QVC—battery-powered wreaths and garlands, a small Christmas tree. In a corner were gold sprigs and peacock feathers from Michael's, which I was sure Grandma had planned to stick through the branches of the tree. She was big on sticking things in the tree, like it was a giant flower arrangement.
And with them was a small pile of what must have been Grandma's early Christmas shopping—a Paw Patrol book, two sets of Chopped knives, a bright orange shirt in a shirtbox that must have been for my dad. Pajamas, size small, still in plastic. A small cooker that might have been for my cousin.
Last year this would have hurt. This year I felt somehow comforted, like Grandma was standing over my shoulder, directing me—"This is for the boys. This is for your mom."—just as she had when as a child I used to help her wrap presents. She taught me to fold the corners of the wrapping paper so everything was neat and perfect, and to use the tape longways so it covered more surface area. Here was evidence she had lived, she had thought of us, she had taken care of us—not that I needed that evidence, because her whole life was that. But to be surrounded by it for awhile again felt good.
Downstairs again, I put ornaments on the tree, thinking about all the times in the past when I'd helped her put her tree up. This tree wasn't going to look as nice as what she would do herself, but I would do my best.
This weekend my mom and I spent the night at Grandpa’s. We picked him up on our way to Wabash for First Friday, where we went shopping to spend the gift cards we still hadn’t used from last Christmas. Grandpa stood there quietly looking at things while we shopped, helped Mom get a purse down, said he liked the sweater I was trying on. I kept watching him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to get irritated, but instead he reminded me of a docile puppy—agreeable, patient.
After we walked over to a restaurant for dinner. They were understaffed and slow—it took an hour longer than it should have, but again, no more than mild complaints from Grandpa. On the way back to his house, we stopped at the Walkway of Lights in Marion. We drove through, pointing out all the various animals and scenes.
“There’s the elves throwing snowballs!”
“There’s the water dragon.”
“Oh, over here we have some butterflies.”
He pulled over to the side to let me take some pictures of the dinosaurs for Ryne. “Did you get enough?”
No mean-spirited jokes, no frustration, no restlessness. This is the version of my grandpa that makes my mom angry. “Where was this nice man when Grandma was around?” she rants. “He made her miserable.”
I don’t know if he made her miserable all the time—she seemed used to it. But there were times when it visibly upset her. She cried once in a Longhorn Steakhouse because he was being a jerk. Cried, grabbed her purse, and got up from the table, and our evening was over. It was striking because it was so unusual. Usually she placated him, made allowances, managed things so nothing would send him over the edge. Sometimes I feel like that's my role now.
That evening after shopping, dinner, and the lights, we went upstairs, the first two people to sleep up there since months before Grandma died. Grandma loved to decorate. Every time she came to visit me she'd bring new pillows or knick knacks designed to bring together the colors in my living room, or tile samples for kitchen backsplash. Every room she touched ended up perfectly accessorized like a photo in Better Homes & Gardens.
But now after over a year of neglect everything upstairs was piled in corners and covered in dust. Dead ladybugs and spiders littered the bathroom floor. Extra pillows and comforters were stacked on the twin beds, and three or four of Grandma's floppy hats perched on top of a high chair she'd gotten for when the great grandkids visited. Before we went to sleep we smacked lethargic flies buzzing around the window, using a rolled up newspaper from 2003.
I woke up with my throat and eyes scratchy from dust. Downstairs Grandpa had already pulled out the Christmas tubs so we could help him put up decorations—they were organized by theme, labeled in Grandma's neat script: "Silver." "Rustic." "Birds." Her friend Nancy had mentioned at the funeral that Grandma had bought some new Christmas decorations before she died, so as Mom helped Grandpa put lights on the tree downstairs, I breached open the door to the storage room, keeping my steps quiet, feeling like I was breaking into some sanctuary, some place I didn't belong. Pile by pile I started looking through the boxes and bags, the plastic tubs.There were garbage bags of clothes that must have been meant for Goodwill. Folders of old bills and paperwork. And in a Hobby Lobby bag, a styrofoam head with a wig on it—something that had giggles breaking past my lips and echoing through the room.
"Why would Grandma have a styrofoam head with a wig on it in a bag?" I asked, carrying it downstairs to show Mom and Grandpa. No one knows, but neither of them seemed very surprised.
The Christmas decorations were in unopened boxes from QVC—battery-powered wreaths and garlands, a small Christmas tree. In a corner were gold sprigs and peacock feathers from Michael's, which I was sure Grandma had planned to stick through the branches of the tree. She was big on sticking things in the tree, like it was a giant flower arrangement.
And with them was a small pile of what must have been Grandma's early Christmas shopping—a Paw Patrol book, two sets of Chopped knives, a bright orange shirt in a shirtbox that must have been for my dad. Pajamas, size small, still in plastic. A small cooker that might have been for my cousin.
Last year this would have hurt. This year I felt somehow comforted, like Grandma was standing over my shoulder, directing me—"This is for the boys. This is for your mom."—just as she had when as a child I used to help her wrap presents. She taught me to fold the corners of the wrapping paper so everything was neat and perfect, and to use the tape longways so it covered more surface area. Here was evidence she had lived, she had thought of us, she had taken care of us—not that I needed that evidence, because her whole life was that. But to be surrounded by it for awhile again felt good.
Downstairs again, I put ornaments on the tree, thinking about all the times in the past when I'd helped her put her tree up. This tree wasn't going to look as nice as what she would do herself, but I would do my best.