Four in the picture. Only three were mature. But, who’s counting, anyway?

This is a famous trio on my left and right. No, .. not the Three Musketeers, Stooges, Marx Brothers, Bee Gees, or the Kingston Trio. The three surrounding this handsome gent are the only grandparents I ever knew. My other grandfather passed away shortly after I was born, and it’s his wife – my grandmother standing on the far right in the picture – who would be 113 today. Granted, that is an age not attained by many in today’s world. She died in 1999, at the age of 92, not quite seeing the turn of a century, but seeing a lot in her lifetime.

1770. 136 years before my grandmother was born. Bonn, Germany. Ludwig van Beethoven was baptized on December 17th. Now, I know this is one day off from today, December 16th. Historians are unsure as to the exact day of his birth, but it is presumed he was born the day before his baptism.

Why do I mention this?

We are a musical family. The “piano” line is direct from grandma-to mom-to me. This is not to exclude sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, dads, etc… AND it is not to assume a direct line back to the Master himself (I can, however, trace a teaching/pedagogical line from grandma back to Liszt from her instructor when she studied in Chicago). Heck, MY birthday is tied in with World War 2, so the “causation doesn’t equal correlation” fallacy chain, musically, is good only so far…

I mention Beethoven because it is a link to a memory. Today is a simple memory. Today is a day to celebrate the birthday of a lady who started it all – or, at the very least, kept it going. “It” being a love of music passed to her from her ancestors.

Her mom, my great-grandmother Ekas, I knew. A spirited little lady, she loved her card games. I didn’t know her as a musician as much as I remember her as a knitter, baker, and fierce pinochle player. I do know she – and her family – were singers. Not professional by trade, but singers in the home. Female chanters around the house. Carry-a -tuners. When we visited infrequently (made the trek west), the smell of cooking was always accompanied by a whistling tune of some origin. A female choir of voices.

My grandfather I didn’t know fiddled a tune in a local dance band according to family lore. I have yet to see pictures or hear recordings of such to validate any stories I’ve heard over the years. That said, I have no reason to believe this isn’t true. No reasonable person would make up a story such as that. I can see a fabled tale of gangsters, whiskey rebellions, and international crime … but, local fiddler dance band shenanigans?

Come to think of it, there were very few men around. Hmmmm. I wonder where they were? Either death came early voluntarily, or in an untimely…. well, suffice to say I shouldn’t speculate. I do know they, the men, worked hard in the steel mills of Western Pa. during a time when smoke billowed and towered above the mighty three rivers. I do believe the local watering holes sustained the sanity of those men and THAT’S why I, the underaged neophytic pre-teen, never saw the likes of them.

Her daughter, my grandma, was a lover of crosswords, Alex Trebek, pinochle (of course), Diane Bish, the organ, VW Beetles, Pittsburgh, her two daughters, Mrs. Cramer, her neighbors and friends she eventually got to know in Hollidaysburg, and her family. As her needs changed, it was a necessary move from Pittsburgh to Hollidaysburg. Closer to mom, medical care, opportunities for growth within the elderly communities, etc…

A trio of trios. Grandma, mom, and I sat together many times behind the 88 keys: Me – lower third, bass; mom – middle third, tenor / alto; grandma – upper third soprano primo. Thirty fingers, six hands, three players playing. The music rang (not always accurately). We had so much fun. You wouldn’t think it possible, but it was. Possible because we made it so.

“Life is possible because we make it so”. Probably this is the birthday lesson grandma gave me along with the perennial, “Life is like a piano…” sign predominantly displayed on her Yamaha grand: “…What you get out of it depends on how you play it.”

Mom isn’t here anymore. Neither is grandma. The entire trio above has been gone for a while now. Pap-pap was the most recent to pass away in 2010 … New Year’s Day.

Beethoven died March 26th, 1827. Coincidentally, that date is only one day before my mom’s birthday … well, his ending a hundred or so years before her beginning, of course. But, who’s counting, anyway?

Happy 113th, Grandma!! Miss You!… 92 was a long life with no regrets. You gave us a great mom, a wonderful aunt, and plenty of happy memories along the way.

Beethoven would be proud to share this “Ode to Joyous” day with you, I’m sure.

This is the face of illness. No need to specifically call out the disease. It has an ugly name. My mom, however, has a beautiful name: Beverly, It is etched into her gravestone above the date, March 19th, 2012. Over seven years ago, she died. No getting around the fact she is gone and will never again celebrate holidays with her family. We can argue the merits of an after-life belief, benefits of chemo vs the side-effects, herbals vs. no treatment, etc…, but, to what end? I can’t crack open a fresh pack of pinochle cards and struggle mightily against the forces of her always better melds.

Shortly after we survived the millennium turn, our family drove to Disney. Pennsylvania to Florida in a soccer mom van. I say, “our family”, but it was only four PA folk: two couples in search of a mid-winter respite. Mom, dad, my wife, and I eagerly, yet cautiously, humped our rears into a hunter-green Oldsmobile silhouette one early morning and headed south. “On the road” details unimportant for the purposes of this post. Suffice to say, I can enthusiastically report dad and I shared most of the driving, mom slept, we had an overnight in North Carolina, and arrived safely in Florida…

Mom always wanted a Disney trip. That, and a Grand Canyon visit. Happy to report we were able to get both her bucket list items in before there was an inkling of trouble on the horizon. I can’t even imagine her not having fulfilled these dreams at a time when she knew they were no longer possible. At a time during our conversations in the final month of her life, we talked openly about these trips. She was so grateful. Always grateful.

I have so few pictures of her at Disney. I like it that way. The ones I have are so precious. She was so happy there. I honestly think “I” was the adult and she was the child as we interacted with each other among the rides, venues, and characters. She rode “It’s a Small World” as if the magic of Walt Disney’s pen wrote a fantasy in front of her very eyes. When Mickey appeared in front of the Magic Castle shortly after we arrived, there were fireworks of splendor in her smile. This smile never left her face. You can see it in the picture above.

The visit lasted days. Universal, Epcot, … We tried to fit it all in for reasons most Pa folks understand. It was a long trip by car, the tickets weren’t cheap, and the time “chunk” to do it was not any small feat for four adults – two of which had to make a living. So, four weary adults humped their rears back into the same minivan and headed north. Same details. Same drivers – kinda. Arriving home the next day, safely, with the best memories Disney is so gifted to provide.

And then there’s …… cancer.

The two pictures above are squeezed together so tightly – and I’m glad they are. The space in between represents, so appropriately, the amount of time that seemed to go by between our Disney trip and her diagnosis. In actual time, of course, it was a few years, but it seems like only seconds. Time distorts memories. It never changes smiles, though.

In that small space between the pictures, there were chemo treatments, pills, surgeries, shots, many doctor visits, diet restrictions, colds, uncomfortable medical appliances, hospitals, nurses, trips, wigs, hair loss, neuropathy in her fingers, sore bones, pains all over, … for five years she endured as so many have. What started out as a small, little spot …. ended up going to three other areas in her body. She never really got a break. Every time she ended a treatment and her outlook was positive, a few months later her markers would be off and the disease would be somewhere else. All the while? A smile.

Look, it’s the holiday. No need to be sad. And, I’m not at all. The second picture of mom a month or so before she passed doesn’t make me sad at all. She is happy in that picture. The waitresses at a local restaurant bought her an angel and stopped by. They are a special breed…those waitresses. Mom was so happy. Probably, she was a bit embarrassed because the house may have been dusty (knowing mom, the house just “had” to be dust free for anyone to visit). That said, I suspect she was warmed of heart because she loved everyone. Period.

For me? I absolutely love these two pictures side by side for one reason. If you look closely, she is wearing the same blue and white overshirt she loved. I didn’t notice this until posting today. These pictures are over twelve years apart, and I KNOW she had this shirt in the 90’s, which makes it at least twenty years old.

You wonder why writing about my mom is so easy? She, apparently, never changed her shirt in the midst of the cancer storm life visited upon her.

And she never changed her smile either.

THAT’S a lesson for all of us.

I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.

His made up words rattle around in my brain. As fresh today as they were during the many years he was alive, these locutions are difficult for me to forget. I can say, “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind”, because he spoke them so frequently – with such joy and merriment. Times of sickness required a motherly hot-water bottle, Vicks Vapo-rub, and a grandfather’s visit with a made-up word or two to lessen the pain a bit. Birthdays and holidays?….same. Ups, downs, in-betweens?…..didn’t matter to him. Insert made-up word or phrase here.

I can’t say for sure if he made them up, or, they were passed down. I didn’t know anyone older than his generation. Most of his family passed before I was born. There were a few brothers I saw infrequently at reunions. Time spent delving into weird-word origins seemed like time wasted among Pittsburgh Steeler talk, potato salad, flies, women in flowered aprons talking recipes, young boys and girls enjoying life without electronics, and the smell of burning embers in the fire pit waiting for marshmallows later at dusk.

I think Pap-Pap used words to get through life (Hmmm, sounds familiar)… I have the added advantage of my musical talents which he didn’t have, though. He and I shared the gift of laughter. He was a silly guy, but probably had his serious moments we never saw. We knew he never strayed from his faith. The last few years of his century-filled life were filled with wonderful, healthy experiences. He managed them well without grandma: the nose-to-the-grindstone, go-get-’em gal he lost after so many happy years together.

Words did mean something to him. One never knew what was truth or fantasy. The sparkle in his eye – I came to know early on – was a give away. As I aged (can’t say matured, obviously) I began to notice the “set-up” as another. I began to enjoy – rather, look forward to – his terminological twist even though I knew, most assuredly, what was to come. Reliving, forty years later, the little sick boy in bed listening to nonsensical words in hopes of feeling just a bit better about life. Adult, child? It never mattered. Pap-Pap was the same to me.

The last time I saw him alive and aware, he was in the hospital. I went in, alone, to see him. We couldn’t communicate well because he had a mask on and was hooked up to machines. As time passed, and family came in and out, he faded away and eventually passed – surrounded by family. Simply stated, after one-hundred years, his body was done. He was in pretty good shape a week prior – Christmas day – but fell ill suddenly a few days hence. He died New Year’s Day, 2010. He made it to his 100th year, but not to his 100th birthday. In all of our minds, he lived to be 100.

I’ve heard, “There are no words….”, used many times in many different contexts. From deep sorrow to endless elation, there can be times when words do not fit. Sometimes only a strong hug comforts the grieving when despair grips a soul. Or, so much happiness overrides overflowing joy in a heart and words are unattainable. Yes, silence is golden at times.

For me, silence isn’t one of my best attributes. I like to talk. It’s a good thing. Probably got the “skill” from grandma who was the salesperson. Pap-Pap, the goofy one who spun a story once in a while … choosing his moments carefully … would be proud of me. I think. But I don’t use made-up words like he did. The twisted irony of all this? … I still mix up dangling participles, clitics, schwas (wink wink Ms. Renee), malaphors, and sluicings ….. which ARE real grammar usage words. Geesh.

So, I lift my glass to Pap-Pap: The purveyor of purposefully meaningless words such as “Lumpuckaroo” and “Cringidabingess”. May you rest in peace.

• 

Four pianists. Four organists. One church.

Hard to imagine this happened, but it did – and not too long ago. Early 2000’s (probably around 2003 … the Bicentennial celebration of Zion Lutheran church in Hollidaysburg, Pa.). This was during the time when all four of us (Donna, Bev – aka “mom” -, Gail, and I) were on staff as keyboard specialists. If you are wondering who was my mom, you aren’t looking close enough.

Churches are in need of organists. The very church in which this picture was taken is currently looking for a full-time organist. I am busy with other endeavors, but holding down the fort Saturday night. Donna and Gail are doing what they can on a very limited basis. Mom, unfortunately for all of us, passed away. We have a very active praise band led by a talented group of musicians and a young man fills in at the organ when he can on Sundays. I think this is happening in a lot of churches, although, I have no concrete evidence supporting such a claim.

How fortunate Zion was to have all four of us. If you know me at all, this is written in the most humblest of ways. The differences in our playing styles and gifts were evident. Mom and I had the great fortune of a maternal “organ” gene passed down from her mom, Janet, who played professionally in Chicago before the depression forced her back to Pittsburgh, into marriage, and a steel-mill/steady job life with a husband and family. She managed to play regularly in churches around the city. In her retirement, when she relocated to Hollidaysburg, she played at the Methodist church on Walnut Street and at Zion on occasion.

Gail is born and bred Zion. She has gifted Zion with her skills as long as I can remember … plus she’s older than I. Insert slight chuckle here. Donna? Well, I don’t know much about her, sadly. She’s always been willing to jump in and play – quite well if I might say so.

So, that’s the summary to date. I love this picture of us. If the date I mentioned above is correct, the three of us alive today are sixteen years older. Yuk. THAT I don’t like. Within those years, I’ve lost mom, dislocated one and then sliced open the other thumb thirteen years later, started a goofy/fun hotdawg business, and really found out some strange things about myself. So, so many strange things over the 4×4 years that have passed. Don’t ask.

If only I could tug on my mom’s ear one more time. She’d understand, I’m sure.

• 

This is my mom.
She’s gone. Miss her today.

For some reason more than many yesterdays since her passing in March of 2012.

This is my favorite picture of her.
Smiles, joy, happiness.
Simple. So simple.

How easy life was at Disney for her.
How difficult it was for her – six years later – the day she learned of her cancer.
How comforting her journey through the five years of treatment – to the day of her death.

Her daily mantra going through chemo, surgeries, sickness, hair loss, depression, anger: “Today is my new normal”
Her final words to me moments before passing: “Don’t watch me die.”

It wasn’t about her that last moment she spoke.
She was being mom.
Protecting me.
Then gone.

I miss her today. A lot.
I know why.
I loved her.
And still do.
Simple.