I was clearing out one of my message inboxes the other day and came across an exchange I had completely forgotten about. It was actually one that significantly impacted my life at the time. I was going to college, working part time, and newly married while my husband traveled for work. During that time I was buried by school and work--slowly digging myself down into nonexistence. Everything about my life felt foggy, and it wasn't just because of the January forecast---though that might have had some impact too. Then one day I ran into someone on campus. He was a friend I forgot I had.
I was walking out of the JKHB I think, one of the English buildings. I had my head down, hands in pockets, and walked at my usual college campus clip. I'm not sure how or why I looked up, but just at the right moment I glimpsed someone I vaguely recognized--but surely he wouldn't recognize me. I mean, it had been years and years since we had really been in contact. I was about to resume my stride when our eyes met. And though he now had a mustache and seemed a little shorter than I remembered, I saw my own spark of recognition glinting back at me in his eyes.
We started off conversation with the usual, "Hey!" The kind that says, I know you and I can see that you know me. That was followed by a brief exchange of how are you, what are you up to, how is life? We crammed in as much information as we could, each one of us heading to the next class or office. Before parting I mentioned I was on Facebook and he could find me there so we could continue our chat.
Now a little backstory. In junior high he was my stand partner for a while. It was Mr. Davis' orchestra class in 8th grade. We sat by each other and talked often. He was the only boy in the viola section. One of the girls in the section had a pretty big crush on him and she would ask me questions about him all the time, which was funny to me. I thought he was a pretty cool kid, but didn't think our stand-partnership really signified anything akin to friendship. He was just the boy I sat by in orchestra class. He was genuine, considerate, and funny. I wouldn't exactly call him popular or anything, not that he wasn't, but I would say he was a very likable person.
I was sorely disappointed when he broke not just one arm, but then the other just as he was about to get his other cast off. Mr. Davis was beside himself. Needless to say, he couldn't play the viola anymore and as such, couldn't be my stand partner. Instead he did jobs and things for Mr. Davis where he could. With the partnership dissolved we didn't interact very much anymore, though we often saw each other in passing throughout the rest of junior high and even high school. Maybe talked here and there. He was elected Student Body President our senior year, which I felt was fitting for a genuinely likable person.
However, it meant our paths separated, and hadn't really crossed in several years. Running into him was a surprise. I was going to college pretty much in the same town I had grown up in, but I never ran into anyone I knew from the area. When I did, it was rare and never amounted to much. So it was even more surprising when he didn't just acknowledge me, but acted like we were good friends. In just a couple of days he had found me on Facebook, even with my new last name, and we had exchanged a few messages. We talked about what we were studying, how married life was going for me and dating life was going for him. We even started a little back and forth "name that movie quote," game.
It was a fairly simple exchange that lasted maybe a month before we got busy and lost touch again. But it was a lifeline I didn't know I needed. College is an endless flow of change. You move from course to course and job to job. Your teachers, class mates, buildings, and bosses cycle through--and it is so difficult have and to hold on to those connections. This surprise encounter tethered me to my past and present, and gave me hope that things were going to work out just fine.
Today he is married with two kids and living happily in Colorado. We still aren't really in touch anymore, and that is just how it goes sometimes. But despite that, thanks friend, for stopping and taking the time eight years ago to acknowledge our connection. Looking back now I remember the feeling so clearly. That day I wasn't another face in the endless crowd on campus. I was me, and that meant something.
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Grandma Kaye Florence Holmstead
She was round and cozy, always opening her arms wide for big hugs. She had dark hair, short and soft with curls. Her eyes were hazel-warm, filled with kindness, and always watching for what her family might need. She wore clothes for comfort. Always elastic waist paints, sneakers or sandals, and sweatshirts. She also wore her glasses around her neck or on top of her head, and would still ask you if you had seen them even though they were right there. I remember her wearing visors on occasion in the summer, and a fanny pack on vacations. When she walked she was always careful--slow and steady so she wouldn't trip. And yet she still tripped and fell all too often, and usually had a bruise on her hip or leg or arm to show us. In her last few years she also had some false teeth that she sometimes took out to eat, much to her own embarrassment. She would also take a Beano at every meal, much to our embarrassment. Her face was wrinkly, and when she started loosing weight the skin sagged and wrinkled a little more. She loved to knit, crochet, and sew. She loved reading paperbacks, watching her programs on the television, and fussing over anyone who was visiting.
I know my grandma was a worker bee at heart. She had several jobs I heard about. She worked at the National Parks in Yellowstone, and the pictures from then were some of my favorites. She also worked at a soda shop, though I don't remember that. The job I remember her having was at the fabric store where she would measure and cut for the customers. In my mind t suited her and her grandma status. I remember running my hands over the crazy bolts of fabric when we would go visit her, and flipping through the catalogs with the patterns. I liked her apron with the fabric scissors always tucked in the pocket. But best of all, I liked watching her hands while she worked. It was something I never stopped doing the rest of her years.
Grandma worked with her hands, a lot. She would knit and crochet on the couch and was always in the middle of one project or another. While she wandered to fabric appliques, modge podge, and weaving with plastic sacks, she always came back to her yarn. She sewed just as much. Almost all of our Halloween costumes, Easter dresses, and Christmas pajamas were made by her careful hands. I remember being measured repeatedly. She would whisk out the measuring tape and tell me to turn around. Her hands were steady and she would mark down the sizes in her careful cursive. Even so, when it came time to try on our new clothes mine were always a little big. "You are just too skinny," she would always smile and say. And I was too, a scrawny little beanpole that always climbed and squeezed into all the best hiding places. While she sewed I would slip into the space between the wall and her foot board. I had a pillow hidden there that I could lay on. It smelled like her, and the whir of the machine would lull me to sleep. It was so comfortable, and always funny to pop out when she had forgotten I was there.
My earliest memories of her usually come with the shag green carpet of the living room floor and a stamp kit she would pull out once we had finished our after school snack--usually strawberry swirl cakes. For as long as I can really remember, my mom has worked. So that meant grandma would often pick us up from school in her Pontiac, gold Grand Prix I think, and take us to her house for the last few hours of the day. She would get us situated in the living room with cartoons on the television and snacks on the t.v. trays. We would also play on the floor with these crazy orange floor chairs. They were shaped like an "L" and the cushion would flap depending if you wanted to sit upright or just be propped up on the floor. We would watch, and eat, and stamp our hearts out. She would sit on the couch, her needles clicking rhythmically until mom came to claim us.
In later years, while I was in junior high and early high school, she would drive me to afternoon swim practice. I remember thinking she looked so small behind the wheel of a car. I also remember hearing about the time she ran into the trailer hitch on a truck and popped a circular hole in her bumper. "I couldn't see it all the way down there," she said. They never had it fixed and I would smile every time I saw it. She shuttled me to swim at first in that gold car, then in her new red Vibe that passed to my brother. It took me weeks to program and reprogram the radios. I swear every time I got back in she had managed to completely mess up all the stations. Not that we really listened to music. On the drive she would ask me about school and church and family. Once the preliminary conversation was over we sat in comfortable silence while the radio sang quietly from the the backseat speakers, also something she managed to do and I always had to fix.
Grandma was also a patron of the arts. She couldn't sing a single note on key, but she loved to listen to music. Christmas was an especially good time for her. Not only did she come to all our orchestra and choir concerts, but it also meant her favorite version of her favorite song was on all the time, "Little Drummer Boy." She loved the classics too by Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra. The holiday season is a little lonely without her handmade advent gifts and her pointed, cursive lettering.
I see her in my daughter's crooked pinky fingers, and the way the backs of my hands are starting to look with the protruding blue veins and the occasional age spot. I see her in my aunt's kindness and generosity. I feel her presence when we sing Christmas Carols, specifically "The Little Drummer Boy." I think of her when I pass skeins of yarn or pull out her old sewing machine for a project. It still kind of smells like her sewing room. I know she is still doing all she can to watch over her family and make sure we have everything we need.
I know my grandma was a worker bee at heart. She had several jobs I heard about. She worked at the National Parks in Yellowstone, and the pictures from then were some of my favorites. She also worked at a soda shop, though I don't remember that. The job I remember her having was at the fabric store where she would measure and cut for the customers. In my mind t suited her and her grandma status. I remember running my hands over the crazy bolts of fabric when we would go visit her, and flipping through the catalogs with the patterns. I liked her apron with the fabric scissors always tucked in the pocket. But best of all, I liked watching her hands while she worked. It was something I never stopped doing the rest of her years.
Grandma worked with her hands, a lot. She would knit and crochet on the couch and was always in the middle of one project or another. While she wandered to fabric appliques, modge podge, and weaving with plastic sacks, she always came back to her yarn. She sewed just as much. Almost all of our Halloween costumes, Easter dresses, and Christmas pajamas were made by her careful hands. I remember being measured repeatedly. She would whisk out the measuring tape and tell me to turn around. Her hands were steady and she would mark down the sizes in her careful cursive. Even so, when it came time to try on our new clothes mine were always a little big. "You are just too skinny," she would always smile and say. And I was too, a scrawny little beanpole that always climbed and squeezed into all the best hiding places. While she sewed I would slip into the space between the wall and her foot board. I had a pillow hidden there that I could lay on. It smelled like her, and the whir of the machine would lull me to sleep. It was so comfortable, and always funny to pop out when she had forgotten I was there.
My earliest memories of her usually come with the shag green carpet of the living room floor and a stamp kit she would pull out once we had finished our after school snack--usually strawberry swirl cakes. For as long as I can really remember, my mom has worked. So that meant grandma would often pick us up from school in her Pontiac, gold Grand Prix I think, and take us to her house for the last few hours of the day. She would get us situated in the living room with cartoons on the television and snacks on the t.v. trays. We would also play on the floor with these crazy orange floor chairs. They were shaped like an "L" and the cushion would flap depending if you wanted to sit upright or just be propped up on the floor. We would watch, and eat, and stamp our hearts out. She would sit on the couch, her needles clicking rhythmically until mom came to claim us.
In later years, while I was in junior high and early high school, she would drive me to afternoon swim practice. I remember thinking she looked so small behind the wheel of a car. I also remember hearing about the time she ran into the trailer hitch on a truck and popped a circular hole in her bumper. "I couldn't see it all the way down there," she said. They never had it fixed and I would smile every time I saw it. She shuttled me to swim at first in that gold car, then in her new red Vibe that passed to my brother. It took me weeks to program and reprogram the radios. I swear every time I got back in she had managed to completely mess up all the stations. Not that we really listened to music. On the drive she would ask me about school and church and family. Once the preliminary conversation was over we sat in comfortable silence while the radio sang quietly from the the backseat speakers, also something she managed to do and I always had to fix.
Grandma was also a patron of the arts. She couldn't sing a single note on key, but she loved to listen to music. Christmas was an especially good time for her. Not only did she come to all our orchestra and choir concerts, but it also meant her favorite version of her favorite song was on all the time, "Little Drummer Boy." She loved the classics too by Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra. The holiday season is a little lonely without her handmade advent gifts and her pointed, cursive lettering.
I see her in my daughter's crooked pinky fingers, and the way the backs of my hands are starting to look with the protruding blue veins and the occasional age spot. I see her in my aunt's kindness and generosity. I feel her presence when we sing Christmas Carols, specifically "The Little Drummer Boy." I think of her when I pass skeins of yarn or pull out her old sewing machine for a project. It still kind of smells like her sewing room. I know she is still doing all she can to watch over her family and make sure we have everything we need.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Grandpa Wayne Vance Gygi
He was tall, with kinky white hair and square, 70's glasses with bi-focal lenses. I think he wore dirty jeans and a button up shirt every day of his life except on Sundays. On Sundays it was a grey suit and white shirt. He also had on a ball cap 90% of the time. The Geneva Rock ball cap sticks out the most in my mind, navy blue with the yellow logo and stiff brim. He would wear his clothes until they were thread-bare, grow his hair until my mom or aunt sat him down to cut it in the living room, and swing his arms slightly away from his body when he walked jovially. He had yellowy teeth, and hair in his ears that always hand me wondering if that was why he couldn't hear through his hearing aids. Though his face was often scruffy with grey hair, he never grew a beard or mustache from what I remember. He loved jigsaw puzzles, Dr. Pepper, and working out in the yard. He also loved all of us, very much, and showed it in his own way.
My earliest memories of this great man are a little stiff around the edges. I don't remember being particularly fond of him when I was very young. He was there on weekends, but always working on some home project or tucked away in his bedroom watching the Jazz game. He was a dedicated worker, always. Mostly I remember him being absent, working for "The Company," traveling--much like my own father in those early days.
Orson H. Gygi Co. was a wonder to behold in action, up close and personal. The restaurant supply company owned by the Gygi clan was in bright, shiny working order. On occasion I was allowed to visit with my dad, but because it was clear up in Salt Lake the occasions were rare. I remember the smell of the place. Smells much the same today, even though the building is new. It smells spicy--like a mixture of industrial metal mixers and hundreds of cookie sheets combined with crates and barrels of every spice any cook would ever desire. It also reminds me of Jelly Beans, mostly because Uncle Perry (my grandpa's brother) would feed me handfuls every time I would visit. At the company I would ride around in the big truck with my dad making deliveries, slide down the box shoot with the plates and napkins, and sometimes get lucky with free scones from Friar Tucks. But I don't really remember much of seeing my grandfather work there. I know he was there, doing much the same thing my own father did. He was the invisible worker. While his sisters ran the company up front, he was behind the scenes I think, helping make everything come together. I would maybe catch a glimpse of him here and there, but the man never stopped moving.
No, my memories of Grandpa Gygi come later, when he grew a little softer and slower with retirement and old age. I can clearly see him laying out on the grass or sidewalk, propped up on one elbow picking out rocks or weeds from the grass and flower beds--one little pick at a time, with his bare hands. I remember the way he used to walk into the room, turn on some George Straight, and dance with his hardly bending knees while he sang along to every lyric. I can still see him sitting at the head of our traditional Saturday lunch table, often frowning about the noise or the lack of Dr. Pepper. Best of all, I see him after my swim practice, sitting in the hot tub at the Rec Center. He just finished practicing his infamous hook-shots (showing those young men a thing or two) and I would always bend down to say hello to him and the other wrinkly men sitting there, relaxing in the steam. He would always smile up at me and introduce me to the others, his granddaughter on the swim team. I always wanted him to be proud, and I think he was, though he would never say it outright. It was just there in his eyes.
For some reason I think my cousin Mattison understood him best. Mati was a gangly, whispy little thing as a girl, and she would latch on to him like none of us other grand kids ever did--except maybe Kelsey. At Disneyland she was firmly attached to his hand. At Thanksgiving point, same thing. Those are the two times I remember it most clearly, but I am sure it happened every time we all got together. He would point, and direct, and lecture. She would stand attentively at his side while the rest of us just rolled our eyes. He would also talk to her about Spanish a lot, a language connection I never shared because I chose to take French. She would laugh and tease and smile right back. For some reason that always touched my heart, and would pull a smile at the corner of my mouth. Her tender, little hand in his.
My grandfather was also a beloved crossing guard for Geneva Elementary. I only got to see him in his bight orange gear a handful of times. However the cones and sign were a staple in the back of his car. They called him "Mr. Smiley." The students always gave him little notes and yellow smiley-face stickers, and even made him a giant poster when he left the post. Admittedly I was always a little jealous of the kids who got to share my grandpa in this way. I could easily picture him talking with those kids, helping them safely cross the street, and of course smiling. He could brighten up the room when he chose, and I miss those smiles so much now.
One of the most significant smiles I ever got from this man was in the hospital. He had been in and out of hospital and hospice care for the last couple of years. He seemed very much a shell of his former self for a long while, dealing with health problems can do that to even the strongest man. He was dwindling away and the doctor had given us his last measures of time. So we congregated as a family, and Spencer and I were some of the last to arrive that day. I remember clearly being so afraid of walking up to the bed and looking at him, but not seeing the grandpa I knew and loved. I didn't want that last memory to be tainted that way. But I did it. I went over, took his hand, and was given the most incredible blessing. It was that precious smile he was known for. The George Straight singing smile. The goofy dancing smile. The talking Spanish, singing in church, crossing guard smile. In fact, it was so beautiful my aunt asked, "What do you see?" thinking it was some kind of vision beyond the veil. But he just continued to smile and said quietly, "London and Spencer." I am sobbing, thinking about it right now. Still such a powerful memory, and at Christmas time even more poignant.
I miss seeing him propped up on the bed watching a basketball game. I miss sneaking into his clothes drawer for the chocolate bars always hidden in there. I miss helping him work in the yard, or put the "New Part" of the house together. I miss the country songs and him singing by the piano--"I Stand All Amazed", "I Know that My Redeemer Lives", and "I Heard Him Come." I miss playing in his bathroom closet and the smell of the yellow soap and old polyester. I miss the shuffle of his feet on the green shag carpet. I miss his big, black dress shoes and grey suit. I miss his faded shirt, holey jeans, and baseball cap. I miss his hook-shot.
He was a great man, stalwart and faithful. He loved working in the temple, and loved his family. He taught me important lessons about hard work and dedication. He may not have been perfect, but he was perfect for us.
My earliest memories of this great man are a little stiff around the edges. I don't remember being particularly fond of him when I was very young. He was there on weekends, but always working on some home project or tucked away in his bedroom watching the Jazz game. He was a dedicated worker, always. Mostly I remember him being absent, working for "The Company," traveling--much like my own father in those early days.
Orson H. Gygi Co. was a wonder to behold in action, up close and personal. The restaurant supply company owned by the Gygi clan was in bright, shiny working order. On occasion I was allowed to visit with my dad, but because it was clear up in Salt Lake the occasions were rare. I remember the smell of the place. Smells much the same today, even though the building is new. It smells spicy--like a mixture of industrial metal mixers and hundreds of cookie sheets combined with crates and barrels of every spice any cook would ever desire. It also reminds me of Jelly Beans, mostly because Uncle Perry (my grandpa's brother) would feed me handfuls every time I would visit. At the company I would ride around in the big truck with my dad making deliveries, slide down the box shoot with the plates and napkins, and sometimes get lucky with free scones from Friar Tucks. But I don't really remember much of seeing my grandfather work there. I know he was there, doing much the same thing my own father did. He was the invisible worker. While his sisters ran the company up front, he was behind the scenes I think, helping make everything come together. I would maybe catch a glimpse of him here and there, but the man never stopped moving.
No, my memories of Grandpa Gygi come later, when he grew a little softer and slower with retirement and old age. I can clearly see him laying out on the grass or sidewalk, propped up on one elbow picking out rocks or weeds from the grass and flower beds--one little pick at a time, with his bare hands. I remember the way he used to walk into the room, turn on some George Straight, and dance with his hardly bending knees while he sang along to every lyric. I can still see him sitting at the head of our traditional Saturday lunch table, often frowning about the noise or the lack of Dr. Pepper. Best of all, I see him after my swim practice, sitting in the hot tub at the Rec Center. He just finished practicing his infamous hook-shots (showing those young men a thing or two) and I would always bend down to say hello to him and the other wrinkly men sitting there, relaxing in the steam. He would always smile up at me and introduce me to the others, his granddaughter on the swim team. I always wanted him to be proud, and I think he was, though he would never say it outright. It was just there in his eyes.
For some reason I think my cousin Mattison understood him best. Mati was a gangly, whispy little thing as a girl, and she would latch on to him like none of us other grand kids ever did--except maybe Kelsey. At Disneyland she was firmly attached to his hand. At Thanksgiving point, same thing. Those are the two times I remember it most clearly, but I am sure it happened every time we all got together. He would point, and direct, and lecture. She would stand attentively at his side while the rest of us just rolled our eyes. He would also talk to her about Spanish a lot, a language connection I never shared because I chose to take French. She would laugh and tease and smile right back. For some reason that always touched my heart, and would pull a smile at the corner of my mouth. Her tender, little hand in his.
My grandfather was also a beloved crossing guard for Geneva Elementary. I only got to see him in his bight orange gear a handful of times. However the cones and sign were a staple in the back of his car. They called him "Mr. Smiley." The students always gave him little notes and yellow smiley-face stickers, and even made him a giant poster when he left the post. Admittedly I was always a little jealous of the kids who got to share my grandpa in this way. I could easily picture him talking with those kids, helping them safely cross the street, and of course smiling. He could brighten up the room when he chose, and I miss those smiles so much now.
One of the most significant smiles I ever got from this man was in the hospital. He had been in and out of hospital and hospice care for the last couple of years. He seemed very much a shell of his former self for a long while, dealing with health problems can do that to even the strongest man. He was dwindling away and the doctor had given us his last measures of time. So we congregated as a family, and Spencer and I were some of the last to arrive that day. I remember clearly being so afraid of walking up to the bed and looking at him, but not seeing the grandpa I knew and loved. I didn't want that last memory to be tainted that way. But I did it. I went over, took his hand, and was given the most incredible blessing. It was that precious smile he was known for. The George Straight singing smile. The goofy dancing smile. The talking Spanish, singing in church, crossing guard smile. In fact, it was so beautiful my aunt asked, "What do you see?" thinking it was some kind of vision beyond the veil. But he just continued to smile and said quietly, "London and Spencer." I am sobbing, thinking about it right now. Still such a powerful memory, and at Christmas time even more poignant.
I miss seeing him propped up on the bed watching a basketball game. I miss sneaking into his clothes drawer for the chocolate bars always hidden in there. I miss helping him work in the yard, or put the "New Part" of the house together. I miss the country songs and him singing by the piano--"I Stand All Amazed", "I Know that My Redeemer Lives", and "I Heard Him Come." I miss playing in his bathroom closet and the smell of the yellow soap and old polyester. I miss the shuffle of his feet on the green shag carpet. I miss his big, black dress shoes and grey suit. I miss his faded shirt, holey jeans, and baseball cap. I miss his hook-shot.
He was a great man, stalwart and faithful. He loved working in the temple, and loved his family. He taught me important lessons about hard work and dedication. He may not have been perfect, but he was perfect for us.
So It Begins...
Lately I cannot seem to get the fear of forgetting out of my head. I suppose it is because of a few recent events in my life. A one year old quickly growing up, a four year old comprehending more and more of what life is about, and the sudden and unexpected passing of a neighborhood friend (perhaps a little older than my own father, but by all accounts still full of life). It is all coming about so quickly, I can hardly keep up. My heart clenches and stills at the thought of losing it all so quickly, with nothing to cling to. I have also spent the last few nights cuddling a sick baby and just plain remembering. Some of the memories are important to me--precious and irreplaceable. The significance of these memories holds weight, and holds me together when nights get dark and long and desperate. They deserve a hallowed space. So this is it, at least for now. A reservoir of memory so that nothing gets lost or forgotten or seeps between the cracks. One day I hope to print a physical copy of this collection, but for now the cyber realm will suffice.
So, without further ado, and in no particular order, I present my memories--
So, without further ado, and in no particular order, I present my memories--
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