The Grand Experiment

I never fared well in science classes. The only D I ever received was in Mr. Miltenberger’s (“Uncle Chuck” behind his back) Chemistry class my junior year. As much as I want to disparage him, it was a well-earned D. It’s not like he picked on me. It was also a six-week progress report grade, not a semester mark. By the end of the December, I was up to a solid C, and second semester I rocked the house with a skin-of-your-teeth B.

The previous year found me in Biology, only slightly better than Chem. Mr. Thayer was my bearded sensei. I sat at a table with two cheerleaders and faked my way through the class in a vain (and lame) attempt to impress either of them. Sandra and Ginny were not, in fact, impressed, for good reason.

On frog dissection day (do they still do that?), I nearly passed out, a combination of the sight of frog guts and the smell of formaldehyde. I’m not sure who all noticed, but my lab partners did. I think Mr. Thayer did too. When he signed my yearbook, he wrote, “Best of luck” and drew a frog.

Senior year, I took Physics from (allegedly) the coolest, funniest teacher at Atwater HS, Mr. Withers. He tickled my funny bone not in the least. One time I left a metal pot on a bunsen burner until the water evaporated and the paint began to peel. Mr. Withers and the class shared many a laugh riot over that one the whole year. Me, I never cracked a smile. Because Physics was more math than hard science, I scraped out a couple of. B’s.

All of this led me on a career path wide and far from all the sciences. Even at WHS, when I walked through the science wing, I held my breath lest I inhale tainted air.

I mention all this not to riff on science, as the classes and teachers far, far in my rearview mirror. I simply mention it because I was ill-equipped to handle the rigors of science. Blame it on my skimpy science education from St. Anthony’s or the way my brain was wired or both.

My jog through the science subdivision of Memory Lane is prompted by musing on retirement. This week’s blog, all brought to you by the letter “G.” (Can you tell I’ve been watching Sesame Street with my one-year old granddaughter?)

Word on the street prior to having a grandchild in my life fell into a few categories. There was hyper joy (“best thing that ever happened to me!!”) and spiritual revival (“I have a renewed purpose”) and three-ring circus poetry (“all the fun and give ’em back when you’re done”).

But Mindy’s pregnancy announcement in 2017 left me bewildered. Now we have two in person and another on the way. But nine years ago, I had no blueprint and no idea of what “grandparent” might mean. All those positive platitudes were just words on Facebook. When I heard the dreaded word, I more often thought of adjectives like aged, mysterious, abrasive, or dead.

Quite a little ray of sunshine, aren’t I? Let me explain.

Granny Bernice (my dad’s mom) died very early in my life, so early I have virtually no memory of her. I’ve seen pictures, heard stories, but that’s it.

Her hubby, JP, lived longer but he resided in Wisconsin and then South Dakota. He was nice enough, but slow and old and passive. People speak highly of him. I recall a birthday party for him in Sioux Falls where my main memory is that the cake was good and that he sat down a lot.

On my mom’s side, there was Huds, short for Hudson. I liked Huds. He was funny, full of corny jokes, and a face with a wide smile. When I see him in my mind’s eye, he’s asleep (or passed out) in his recliner, the remnant of a highball on the table next to him. Let’s just say he overdid it on the bourbon. But he was gentle to me, fixed my electric train and reveled in repeating “What’s a malla me, is what’s a malla you!”

Grandmother, well, she was a handful. Caustic, abrasive, judgmental begin to tell the story. Like Huds, she tipped too many glasses. Unlike him, she was not a friendly drinker. My sibs, we hated the obligatory trip to Grandmother’s house.

For the final few years of her life, she lived in a care facility in Fresno, a place run by Catholic nuns. They couldn’t stand her, calling her the worst resident in their care. These were folks dedicated to helping the aged. I could go on, but I’ll stop there.

All of this to say, when I heard I was going to be a grandparent, my mind turned to those who held that role in my life. Not exactly a hall of fame lineup. True, I wasn’t any of them. I also was too young to fully recall their virtues, whatever kindnesses they displayed. But that simply left a gaping hole in my brain. I wanted a grandparent I could emulate. “People in hell want ice-water,” as my mom used to say.

The whole grandparent thing, I’ll be honest, I’m still figuring it out now. It’s not the same as parent, not by a long shot. I used to be the Big Dog. Not anymore. I don’t make the rules or drop the decisions from on high. There are no invites to Doughnuts with Dad or parent conferences at school. I don’t do bedtimes or dirty diapers, late night thunderstorms or early morning breakfast. I’m okay with that.

Even as a grandparent, I’m not nearly as fun as Melanie (aka, Mommel, the feisty Queen of fun). You ought to hear her laughter cascading through the house. It’s impressive and not really my style.

Woody Allen famously said, “90% of life is just showing up.” Well, I can do that. And it’s a good thing because we share a house with my daughter and son-in-law and their kiddos.

I’m taking Woody’s words to heart as a grandparent. Be available. Sometimes, Rubes drops by my office and sits at my desk while she draws or plays with her resin animals or rearranges my stuff to create a zoo. Now, Violet will waddle by, pick up one of my shoes by the laces, and wander away. Lately, she walks over with a picture book and rubs her tummy (sign language for “please”) and sits in my lap for a minute before the book bores her.

As I said, another is on the way, some time around June, another girl. At the moment, her name is Scarlet, but that may change. I will be to her as I’ve been to Violet and Ruby. Available.

“Pagwa” Ruby named me because she couldn’t pronounce “grandpa” when she was little. Now Violet is learning how to say the name, and someday Scarlet will follow their lead, as will others if any more show up. I never planned on being a Pagwa, but I embrace the name.

Like my grandparents before me, a day will arrive when I no longer walk this earth. I hope my grandkids remember me for my faith in Jesus, for my faithfulness in marriage. I hope they recall my face, maybe a few of my words, the sound of my voice. I hope they remember me as someone who showed up in their young lives.

Science was a bust to me, a series of confusing days. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t grasp the concepts like those around me. I was a stranger in a strange land doing strange experiments, hoping I wouldn’t burn the place down.

Despite my lack of role models from the elders who came before me, life is different for this Pagwa. It’s a grand experiment, one I can call a success.

Thanks for reading!

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