Jason's grandmother died Thursday night. I liked Oma. She was a practical, hardworking woman with a biting wit, a woman who spent every Sunday morning with her children, sitting at her kitchen table, drinking coffee and frequently flogging everyone else at euchre, hearts, or hand and foot. In the front room of her tiny house, the longest wall is filled with pictures of her children, Jerry, Debbie, Sharon, and Rick, of their children, and in the last 15 years, her great-grandchildren. Oma was married to Papaw for 58 years. I can't help wondering what it was like for him to wake up Friday morning without her.
When we visited at Christmas, the boys ran around Oma's house sneaking candy from her candy bowl, begging for still more candy and for potato chips from Papaw's stash, and crawling into any willing adult lap at the card table. Oma seemed tired, and I knew she was in some pain, but she was well enough to make seven-layer cookies for Christmas dessert, and she seemed mostly herself. It seems unreal that a couple weeks later, her heart stopped working.
Jason left for the funeral this morning. The boys and are staying home so I can be at work on Monday and so that the boys don't make mischief for Sharon in general and at the funeral specifically (I can just see Jack yelling the lyrics to "Jingle Bells" at the top of his lungs in the middle of the eulogy or eating the roses from the memorial wreath -- thanks, Benjie). I hate not to be there -- the Bachs are certainly in my thoughts today. So, here's to Oma, and to everyone who loved her. God's speed.
The boys and I spent most of today huddled up in the house, avoiding the cold. Jack seemed especially subdued after Jason explained where he was going and why, and both boys were on their best behavior until dinner. Henry went on strike from Thai food, and Jack followed suit. (I believe Jack's exact words were "This smells like throw-up.") Then, while I was doing the dishes, Jack pushed Henry into a pile of stacking blocks and bloodied his nose. Henry cried, Jack cried more, and I cleaned the blood off of Henry, the carpet, and the walls. Henry's okay, and Jack is contrite.
I'll spend the rest of the evening recharging my batteries -- learning to use my new sewing machine and listening to the Tegan and Sara album I just downloaded. Then tomorrow, the boys will wake me up at the crack of dawn, I'll pop a couple of whole-wheat waffles in the toaster and we'll do it all again. I love that.