Goodbye Grandma, and Thank You for Everything

My grandmother, Ruth Blough was one tough lady, and one fantastic grandmother.

She was born in 1923, the smaller of a set of twin girls born to the Arnold family in a farmhouse in rural Wayne County.  She was tiny and I remember her telling me the story of her parents putting she and her sister in the warming cabinet above the coal stove to keep them warm.  She would tell me about chasing chickens and making their own dresses and the tough life they led in the 30s.  She always offset the stories of the tough winters and meager means with a smile about the way her father played the violin or the fun they had playing in the cellar or with the animals.  There was always this sense of balance with grandma.  Play, but after a bit of work.  Candy or cookies, “piecing” as she called it, but only after some celery with peanut butter or only long enough before dinner that we would still have time to work up an appetite. 

Playing was always serious business at grandma’s house.  It was our job when we were there.  She provided us a mission on days that the weather permitted.  Normally it was to head out, bundled in old wool hats and with bread bags on our feet (to keep them dry) with a BB gun in hand, with a mission to hunt down blackbirds.  She loved and fed every other sort of bird under heaven with the best thistle seed and songbird seed money could buy, but when those “damned blackbirds” bullied their way into the bird feeders she made sure they were met with armed resistance.    As a young boy with my posse of younger brothers and cousins in rank, this was a noble purpose to which I was well suited, and I took on the mission with gusto.  We cleaned out the birdbaths, we cleaned the many feeders around her garden-like backyard, and we learned to be aware of what grew around us and what it meant to cultivate and strengthen the “good stuff” and to fight against the things that were undesirable.  She was a strong woman, firm, no nonsense and unladylike in all of the best ways.  She could kick a ball further than any of us, she would get down on her hands and knees in the dirt to look at bugs we had found and she would sit and rock us when things didn’t go as planned on a mission.  She knew the value of dirty hands on children and we knew the love hidden in every deep wrinkle in her work-hardened hands.

On days that the weather kept us indoors there was no time for television.  We pushed around an ancient “push broom” and watered and cleaned her dozens of cactus pots.  I think she appreciated the tough exterior of the cacti and how challenging it was to keep them “happy.”  When the chores were done we pulled out “colors” and sat and created.  She drew right alongside us.  We played “poker’keeno” with pennies and always ended up abandoning the game at some point to see who could sort through the mountain of copper to find the oldest penny.  It was always an adventure no matter what we did, and she was always right there with us.  She was never just a spectator in our lives; she was our leader, our commander and our mission control.  She allowed us to shoot bow and arrows, throw rocks and build completely unsafe structures from old scrap wood.  She allowed us just enough freedom to feel dangerous and wild, as boys should.  I have her to thank for so much of who I am today and who I want to see my boys become tomorrow.

I am glad my grandma was not the “fancy one” of the twins, which for some reason she always seemed apologetic about,  and I am so blessed to have had a lifetime worth of adventure packed into Thursdays and Fridays at grandma’s.

I will miss you grandma, but my mission is clear.  I will get my hands dirty right alongside my boys and let them know the value of balancing work with some “piecing” here and there.  Thank you for investing so much of your life in us all, your grandchildren are all better people for having you as our commander and chief.  Love you.  Thank You.

Christopher John

Run your life to win the finish, not the race.

Life is about finishing strong, not winning the race.

Greyson and I winning the finish.

Last weekend, among a 20 year class reunion to pull off, YMCA Basketball and a weekend of trick-or-treating, my family participated in a charity run in Dalton, the Rich Dalessandro Memorial 5K/2Mile.  Going in I had no clear picture of what it would be like.  I know what the events are normally set up like, having worked a few for various organizations throughout the years.  I figured my wife, who was running the 5K with a friend, would take off and the boys and I would stroll along at a nice leisurely pace for the 2 miles, grab a bottle of water and wait to cheer on the Momma and her friend when they passed us on the way to the finish line.

Yes, that “technically” explains a lot of the morning, but there was so much more to it for me.

We stretched together before the race (well I at least made it look like I was stretching) and there was a certain nervous energy in the air that made the dance music and commotion seem amplified even more.  The crowd of participants numbered over 800 and was a mix of true runners in the front quarter and varying levels of couch potato from there back.  I made sure we were in the back quarter.  The plan was for me to run with Greyson, who is 4 and a half and to walk and/or or carry him whenever he needed a break.  The older two boys I figured would start out strong and would be whining by the 1 mile mark.  They proved me wrong.

The coordinator of the event got on the bullhorn and gave us the starting instructions and the race was on.  Music blared and people shuffled, waiting for the space to open up to get in a full stride.  The boys were unsure what to do at first, it was a race…but nobody seemed to want to run?  I explained that they needed to let the runners pass and that we would start running when we got into the open.  By the quarter mile mark we were able to run a bit and the crowd thinned out to other young families with kids running and some older adults who were walking it.  At the half mile mark the older two boys ran back to G and I and asked if they could run ahead and catch up with Mom.  “Of course”, I instructed, “but be careful and stay out of the other runners’ way.”  

That was the last I would see of them until we crossed the finish line.

With them having run ahead I was able to focus solely on Greyson and the experience we were having.  He was determined.  He firmly gripped my hand and set the pace, which was actually a decent jog for my old legs.  He took at least 4 strides for every one of mine and his shoes hit the pavement hard.  I looked down after a quarter mile and he was visibly tired.   “Ok, break time buddy, want to walk or get on my shoulders?”  He chose to walk, still firmly gripping my hand.  He looked upset.

“What’s wrong G?  Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I wanted to win.”  He looked up with huge eyes, welling up with tears and true disappointment.

It was hard not to start laughing, but I composed myself, took a deep breath and a look into those big glassy eyes and told him that we are not running the race to win it, we just want to finish strong.

“But it is a race Daddy, and we are losing.”  He was angrier now than sad.

I walked us over to the curb and picked up the little man.

 

“Look at all of the people in front of us, now (we turned around) look at all of the people behind us.  We are not winning, you’re right, but we sure are not losing either.  We are going to finish the race and do our best and if we do that we are winners, Ok buddy?”  He seemed to calm down a bit and looked up with a determined smile, “Let’s run now Daddy!”  And we did, for another quarter mile.

A while down the road, after walking quietly for a bit, I looked around us.  There were several women slowly jogging ahead of us, there more for the camaraderie than the exercise or competition.  There were a few older couples, holding hands and briskly walking behind us.  Probably a hundred or so ahead and the same number behind were visible along the route.  I started thinking about the race’s namesake and what I had heard about him and what a good man he was, right up until the end, when cancer had cut his well-lived life too short.  I recalled the story I had read about his sister, brother-in-law and father who had organized the race as a way to keep his memory alive in the community he had loved and to raise money for others who were struggling with the disease.  Then I started thinking of those I had lost to cancer in my life.  I thought of my Aunt Bonnie who had been such a great influence on me as a boy, always with a laugh and smile, quirky in the best of ways.  I thought about how much she loved life and how much she missed in seeing her two sons grow into men, and how much fun she would have had as a grandmother to the two boys she never had the opportunity to meet.  Then I thought of her father, my grandfather, who fought cancer for several years before it took him from a family he loved.  I thought about how much my boys would have loved going to his workshop.  I thought of the things he would have taught them and the things they could have made together.  I started to well up a bit and realized I hadn’t checked in mentally with Greyson in a few minutes.  I looked down and asked him how he was doing and could tell he was getting tired.  I stopped for a second, scooped him up and put him on my shoulders.  We started walking at first, then a young girl, maybe 7 or 8 years old passed us on the left.  Greyson said “Run Dad, like she is.”  And so we did.  She was wearing a pink coat and dark sweats and was running back and forth, filled with the kind of energy that makes adults jealous and the kind of joy that makes God smile back.  I picked up the pace a bit and G started laughing and going into the “go horsey go” chant.  

After a few more minutes the extra weight of G on my shoulders, and more so the fact that I hadn’t run in a LONG time, became too much for my knees.  I stopped, pulled him off of my shoulders and started walking, slowly.  The little girl we had been running behind came to what appeared to be a mother or grandmother and grabbed some water.  She spoke with her briefly and then took off her pink stocking hat.  Under the hat was a pale pink head, as bald as could be.  I never had the opportunity to get any closer than that too her and didn’t get the chance to talk to the woman who was acting as her support crew as she ran around the course, and that’s Ok.  I saw the joy and energy she was full of, despite the struggles that I am sure she has faced and will face in the future and I was reminded of how lucky I am in this very moment.

At that very moment I was healthy enough to run, I was holding the hand of a strong and healthy 4 year old, his two strong and healthy brothers were sprinting to the finish line and their mother was striding along at a healthy pace beside a good friend up ahead. I am truly, and fully blessed.

My assumption is that the little girl is battling some form of childhood cancer, perhaps leukemia, as is the focus of the charity run we were in the midst of, and I am sure there is pain and bad days and treatments that are horrendous but for the time I got to be in her presence, she was as nimble as ballerina and glowing like a princess.

I picked G back up and placed him back on my shoulders and ran with purpose about another quarter mile until we got to a school where we had to turn and run around the school drive and campus.  G wanted to run and we ran from there to the water station at the half way point.  We danced a bit to the music the DJ was playing, had our cup of water and then took off.  The rest of the race was spent alternating slow jogs and walking, talking about the houses we were passing, whether his brothers had caught up with the Momma yet, and what we would do later that day.  G was tired, my knees were killing me, and the rain was starting to come, but we were healthy and we were happy to be a part of the action. 

When we came around the final curve there was about a 300 yard straightaway to the finish line.  Greyson lit up,  grabbed my hand hard and yelled “Come on Dad, we gotta win this part!”

I agreed, we picked up speed, and we did exactly that.

Thank you to the Dalessandro and Fratena families and all who organize the race each year.  It was perfect.