Because it really is personal…

Much of my time in Canyon (that’s the town where my grandparents live[d]) was spent cleaning. See, about 2 years ago my Grandmother, a sweet natured and very social person, had her fill of Grandad and his solitary and parsimonious ways (except where boots and hats were concerned, it troubled him not to drop $500 for a hat). Grandmother left Grandad, moving into the Assisted Living facility-2 of them actually, the first being all the way across town, at least a 5 minute drive, and then to the one nearer their house, actually just right across the road and down 2 blocks. Grandad refused to consider moving in with her. He hated being told when to do what and how, and believed such places were little more than prisons for old people.

So, he lived in the house, joined her for breakfast and dinner at the AL place (she postulated to me that the main reason he ate with her was because he considered it a free meal, and he loved free stuff). Since he was about 80% blind and 90% deaf, she was relieved by the move to the nearer facility. It caused her no small amount of stress knowing that he was driving across town and possibly risking the lives of anyone going through the intersection. The fact is, he was in more need of assisted living than she was, but she was tired of looking after him (a thankless task), and he refused to move.

So, after dealing with the particulars of his passing (another story for later), I cleaned the house. He’d been there 2 years, and harbored a deep mistrust of cleaning ladies, convinced they were going to steal his things. This is not a “paranoid Old Person” quality- his brother said he’d been like that since he was 5. Imagine 2 years of dust and cobwebs, of old-man-with-lousy-aim, schmutz on the toilet seat, and dessicated french fries in the freezer. Oh goodness, the milk jugs. over 100 milk jugs in the garage, and detergent jugs (only a few, when he realized he was putting fabric softener in the detergent cup and forgetting the detergent altogether…he did switch to powdered soap, finally). Who knows, he might need those jugs for water some day. Anything that might could have been the least bit useful, he saved. I am thankful he saved all the paper grocery sacks, they will be good for wrapping dishes. It took 3 days of solid work to clean that house, but clean it is, and was ready for kinfolk coming for the funeral.

Ideas for future posts:
Walter’s War Story- Walter was Grandad’s baby brother, who died last October. We found a whole series of letters and photographs from Walter, telling of his experiences in China, Burma, and India as a memer of the 21st Photo Reconnaissance Squadron during WW2- they worked with The Flying Tigers. It’s a fascinating account, told in Walter’s own breezy, cheerful style.

Walter’s Cancer Story- I’m going to have to think about this one. It’s…I don’t know…Inspiring, I think. Walter died of bladder cancer. He refused treatment, saying it would only prolong his already long life, and he’d rather go out being able to enjoy the flavor of a good pot roast, than have his sense of taste warped by chemicals. It may be a while on that one, because i’m still working on it, and all.

Grandmother gave me her old handwritten cookbook. Grandmother is a STELLAR cook…I mean, Really, Really good. She has a degree in Home Ec from Texas Tech (not the normal thing for a woman in 1935), and she kept a journal of hand written recipes, with notes about technique and substitutions. And I GOT IT! WOOT! So, I will probably start posting occasional Grandmother’s Recipes over at Rootie’s Kitchen. I’ll let you know.

Grandad had his own way of showing affection. I’ll write about that sometime. He was not really the huggy type, and would grimace and stick his tongue out when I’d give him a squeeze. He liked it though.