I arrived safely Friday afternoon into Portland (MAINE) airport. We had dinner, and I came to my father’s home, where he is recovering and my grandmother’s room still holds her memory. She has more photos of me than I’ve ever seen in one place, and I’ve asked for copies.

Saturday was the viewing – only my second ever. The first was my stepfather’s father, Jim, and I’ve written about that elsewhere. Gram – well, way more than Jim she looked like she was going to open her eyes and speak. Maybe because I never said goodbye to her, maybe because she was still hanging around (I think she wouldn’t have approved of having a viewing at all).

And I saw relatives I barely remember, most of whom seemed impressed by my hair. Not disdainful, as you’d expect in a small town. We’re a good clan.

I’ve asked, in addition to the photos, if I could have a quilt she’d made. I know she’s made hundreds through the years, and she’d said she was going to make me one, but never got to – if there’s one somewhere in storage, I want it – something she made with her own hands, to remember her by.

This is a woman whose memory is unsullied. Not a saint, but never cruel, never pushy, nosy, bigoted. Her old sepia photos tell a story of a woman raised in a time when women butchered animals for food and men hunted because if they didn’t their family would starve in the winter. She was tough. And she loved fiercely, even children and grandchildren who more-or-less abandoned her.

She outlived three husbands, and some number of children and grandchildren. And is survived by a vast sea of humanity with her eyes, her mother’s frown, her husbands’ hair.

She has a brass bell. A soapstone brick. Little silly things that used to be in her kitchen drawer. I used to play with these when visited. Not much in the way of toys, but it … it’s amazing they’re still there. I may ask for them, too.

Not that I think I deserve much – I was absentee grandson for the last 10 years or so. I visited for a grand total of less than a day in that time. But if no one else gets warm fuzzies from handling the warm soapstone … well, it’ll help me remember.

She’d started writing a memoir, and the families getting copies of that made. I surely want to read that.

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My Dad has a new (to him) computer – a little slow, a dialup connection, and no one knows how to make it sing. I’m spending some of my spare time teaching him, and I’ve already facilitated a sheaf of goofy jokes into my inbox. Ah, I want to stay connected to this part of my family, and if the price is a cluttered inbox, that’s not too much to spend.

Mother’s checking with her travel agent friend to see if she can get me extended to nest weekend. If she does, I’ll call and make sure Haven and my job know the new itinerary. Dad’s going back in tomorrow, so I kinda want to stick around anyway, and my Mum wants her end of the clan to have a chance to visit me. It’s good to be wanted, eh?

This time I’ve decided to save my breath, and I’m not going to spend any effort hunting down old, missing friends. It’s just depressing that they’ve all disappeared or are not returning their calls.

…I have 900 minutes left on my phone card – I’ll call home today or tomorrow likely just to touch base – and…

Well, I want to call Will. Let him know of the schedule change. See if I can actually reach him, and not his voice mail.

So … I’m enjoying my family here, missing my family there. And on dial-up. >_<

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2003-03-16