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Since last Thursday a week ago last Thursday, I have been trying to get a post written in response to Don Chaffer’s album, What You Don’t Know. I have thought and jotted and tried to remember things that I thought of in the middle of the night when I was too lazy to jot and nothing cohesive came of it. So, in an attempt to keep writing through the block, this is what I have so far.
My grandma, Ruth, died in February 2004. Andrew’s due date was the one-year anniversary of her death. She never got to know that I was pregnant. During my pregnancy, I pleaded with God to not let the baby (whose gender was unknown) be born on that day. People talked about the chance that the baby might be born then as a blessing, something that would complete their Lion King-esque circle. And maybe for them it would have, but the thought terrified me and I still don’t like that movie, so I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted everything to have its own place, a day of mourning should not be confused with a day of rejoicing. It felt wrong to try and mix the two and I was afraid that a child, especially if it was a girl, born on the anniversary of my Grandma’s death and carrying her name (we had already decided to name a girl Elisabeth Ruth) would never be able to escape from that shadow, that she would have to deal with our family’s grief every year. I don’t know if that is what would have happened or not, and it does not matter because I had a boy, born two weeks early. Born on a nice, safe, independent (at least in my mind) Sunday morning. And there was a day of rejoicing, and the anniversary of her death got lost in the shuffle of a new baby, the emergency rooms, failed breastfeeding, and acid reflux.
But this time of year, a couple of months after the anniversary of the date of her death passes, as baseball season really ramps up and the pink flowers bloom, and, this year, as Andrew throws a ball in the backyard and points to the pictures of his G.G. (that’s what Great-Grandma’s are called in this family), my grief returns. I don’t know if I grieve now because the memories and the life that I associate with her have nothing to do with cold winter days at nursing homes and ICU’s or if I grieve now because I know that now, spring, is when she began to feel alive again. When she shed the cares and weariness of a long, anxious winter and felt the youth return to her bones. When she was able to sit outside with the game on and feel the sun on her back and finally be warm enough. When family picnics and summer birthdays and at least a few baseball games seen in person broke up the monotony of her days. I don’t know what it is, but I feel her loss during this season more than any other time, even the holidays. And as I listen to Don’s album about grief and life, I think of her more every year.
I hope that this is not infringing on any copyrights (as that is not my intent), but I want to share with you the liner notes and lyrics to some of the songs on that album and, in the process, help work through my grief.
The liner notes read:
“My mother died exactly one year ago today of leukemia. About four months later my father was diagnosed with oral cancer. My wife, Lori, and I moved in with him a month after that to take care of him through his surgery, radiation and recovery. Tough year.
In September 2001, between these two family tragedies, some lunatics terrorized New York City, killing thousands of people. The news floated across the swamplands of my deep heart. It felt like everybody’s mother died that day.
These days, songs of tragedy seem particularly important. The grieved heart needs room to breathe, reel, and fall before rising again. We have found ways to meet most of our petty cravings (airplanes, broadband internet, drive-thru food), but nothing can replace time and space in the face of loss. Breathe deep and weep. That was one hell of a year.
John Henry was a steel driving man back in the days of railroads, before machines did the hard work of laying down tracks and blasting through mountains. One day, the captain introduced the crew to a thing called a steam drill. This machine, he told them, could beat any steel-driver at his own job. John Henry disagreed. He was sure he could beat it. One morning they tore into the side of a mountain- John Henry and the steam drill side by side. When the bell rang that evening, sun low on the horizon, the crew went in to the fresh tunnels to see what had happened. They measured it off. The man beat the machine by an inch, but at the end of his tunnel, John Henry lay dead on the ground, his hammer in his hand. He died swinging.
That’s pretty much what Lou Gehrig did too. His career as first baseman for the New York Yankees, under the shadow of the great Babe Ruth, ended on May 2, 1939 due to rapidly slowing muscle control, the cause of which he was unsure. A month and a half later, on his 36th birthday, Lou was diagnosed with a very rare disease which came later to be know by his own name - Lou Gehrig’s disease - and was told he had two years to live. Three weeks later, on July 4th, New York fans honored Gehrig at Yankee Stadium with Lou Gehrig Appreciation Day. Lou approached the microphone that after noon - audibly choked up by the display of affection from his team and the fans - and in his speech, referred to himself as “the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
This record is part John Henry, part Lou Gehrig. It’s for my mother, Elizabeth Louise Chaffer (1934-2001), and my father, Wayne Robert Chaffer (1936-still swinging).
Don Chaffer // Olathe, KS // July 27, 2002
What follows is a record full of songs that mean something more to me every time I hear them. Here are some lyrics and the thoughts I have about them.
…
The Luckiest Man On The Face Of The Earth
You were the best supporting actor
The unforeseen factor
You were the guy who yanked the chains behind the stage
If you had talked a little faster
Maybe dressed in alabaster
You’d have been the hero of the age
CHORUS
Well here’s your day in the sun, Lou
We see it now that you’re done, you
Are the luckiest man on the face of the earth
The luckiest man on the face of the earth
You always played the second fiddle
You were the guy just right of middle
You were the man who drove the car while others slept
If you had flashed a little fancy
Maybe been a little dancy
You’d have been the jewel that they all kept
BRIDGE
You were consistently alive,
You were the king of the line drive,
There was always something about you, Lou
And in the face of that disease
When the muscles start to squeeze
The life right out of you
When most men shudder at the dread
Here’s this thing you said
‘Bout being the luckiest man on the face of the earth
…
For those of you that don’t know, Lou Gehrig played in every game for 13 years, a record that stood until 1995. The tenacity and work-ethic that drives an athlete, or any individual, to show up for work everyday for 13 years without calling in sick or taking a day off due to injury is astonishing. Gehrig had an understanding of the things that were important in life and he knew just how lucky he was to be able to enjoy the gifts that were given to him, despite any setbacks.
My grandparents had this same quality. They were married in 1943, when my grandpa was home on leave from the army. He returned to Europe to finish his tour and my grandma moved to different army bases around the country as his assignments changed. After the war, they settled in Mt Vernon and then Auburn and raised their three children. There was never enough money, but the kids did not know that until much later. The kids also didn’t know when my grandpa’s muscles started failing him. They thought it was normal that their dad pitched underhand. Al and Ruth kept his muscular dystrophy a secret until it forced him to quit his job at Boeing in the late 1960s. For the rest of my grandpa’s life (he died in 1994), my grandma was his primary caregiver. And with help from the rest of the family, she kept him at home with her until his very last days, when she spent the nights at the nursing home with him so that they wouldn’t be apart.
I am not so naive to think that there were no problems in their relationship, that there were not harsh words, or arguments, or bitterness that crept in with the bedsores and increasing number of machines it took to keep my grandpa mobile after both of his legs were amputated at the knee. But I never saw any of that. When I was around (which was everyday for a number of years as they were my daycare), my grandparents made it clear to me that they considered themselves lucky. They had each other, they had family close by, they had 5 granddaughters to brighten their days. And they had baseball.
Don’t laugh. That is why baseball is so important to me. Because many of my life lessons were taught by my grandparents in the form of stories about baseball. Consistency was Lou Gehrig, grace was Joe DiMaggio, civic responsibility was Dan Wilson and Jamie Moyer, humor was Yogi Berra, perseverance was the Red Sox and the Cubs. My grandma loved the Yankees, until the Mariners came to Seattle, and she split most of her lessons between those two teams. My grandpa couldn’t play catch with us, but he could draw pictures of baseball games for us to color, or tell us stories when we played cards.
After my grandpa died, we all wondered what would happen to Grandma. Would she be able to continue without her partner of 50 years? Would she know what to do with herself? She did. And when she was diagnosed with cancer in 1996, she came to live with us and my education continued. By then, I had become a fan in my own right (as the conflict between games and He-Man cartoons was resolved) and Grandma and I spent hours watching baseball and telling stories. This time moved our relationship from one of adult/child to a friendship.
…
If I Wanted To
If I wanted to forget you
it’d a been easy
If I wanted to lose you
it’d a been quick
Hell, I lost myself
for four years
And I might have slipped away
but I fell sick
It ain’t just you then
who was in danger
of disappearing
underneath the waves
it was everyone and
everything I ever loved
slipping out of knowing
into unmarked graves
CHORUS
If I wanted to
If I wanted to
If I wanted to, I tell myself
I could have. Is it true?
Did I want to?
It started as a vow
in some old tree house
you swore you’d never be your
fathers when you aged
But you’re all sitting at this bar
wondering who you are
And you’re becoming those at whom you
once were so enraged
And a prison bar don’t have to be
too strong you know
It’s how many there are side by side
that keep you in the cell
The camera dollies out
from where your lying in your bunk
But the camera’s
in the prison yard as well
CHORUS
If you wanted to…
They can tell you that
you won’t amount to nothin’, boy
Or that’s what we expect
from nasty girls like you
They act like everything is figured out
but what’ll they do when
that tragedy comes falling on them too
CHORUS
If they wanted to…
…
It was this time with my grandma, during my senior year of high school, that helped me start to understand what a unique family I have. I spent a lot of time during junior high and early high school trying to be something that I wasn’t. I was embarrassed about the good relationship that I had with my parents and my extended family and I tried to sabotage it through my sarcasm and rebellion. It started as a vow/ in some old tree house/ you swore you’d never be/ your fathers when you aged/ But you’re all sitting at this bar/ wondering who you are/ And you’re becoming those at whom/ you once were so enraged
I started to realize then that I wanted to be like my grandma, like my mom, that I wanted to continue the traditions and values that had been passed through that family. That I did not have to be angry with them, or embarrassed by them, but I could enjoy them and be proud of them and know them as adults. I have not done this perfectly, and I regret all the times I chose to do something else instead of going to visit my grandma, but I did get some of it.
One of the most meaningful times that I had with my grandma was shortly after The Teaching Incident
And a prison bar don’t have to be/ too strong you know/ It’s how many there are side by side/ that keep you in the cell
After I left that job, I built my cell in my mind and I was afraid to leave the house, I was afraid to be home alone, I was afraid all the time. I spent many of those days over at my Grandma’s apartment. We watched Ken Burns’ Baseball videos and talked, or didn’t talk, as needed. She kept those days that I was going to be there free of other plans and most of them were quiet and uneventful.
However, one day, there was a fire alarm in her building and we had to go outside. This would not have been such a big deal, but she lived in senior citizen housing and many of the people had trouble getting out. As I was one of the few younger people there, I had to give people an arm down the stairs and help maneuver walkers and wheelchairs. I started to panic toward the end and Grandma assured me that we would get to go back inside soon. We did, but of course all her neighbors wanted to come by and discuss all the excitement. She was stuck in a hard place. She knew that I was quickly approaching meltdown, but her friends kept popping in to check on her. I was sitting on her couch and she was sitting in her recliner (as always), and as she watched me get more and more worked up she got up and came over to the couch to sit beside me. This may not seem like a big deal, but she was severely affected by arthritis and sitting on the low couch was very difficult for her. She sat down beside me without a word and held my hand while we received the rest of the visitors. This gesture, more than anything she could have said, showed me that she understood more than I gave her credit for. That maybe I wasn’t the only person who felt afraid in social situations. That maybe I wasn’t the only person who had trouble controlling their anxious thoughts. We never talked specifically about her struggles with anxiety, but I learned more about them as I watched her and from talking to my mom after Grandma’s death. And another level of our relationship was formed.
…
Up Before The Sun
Up before the sun
Of all the things I could’ve chosen
This is not the one
Neither sad nor fun
To be chewing on my fingernails
Up before the sun
Angry with the Word
Of all the ways I could’ve listened
This is what I heard
Neither fish nor bird
To be on the earth and wrestling
Angry with the word
Trusting in Your heart
All the things that could’ve killed me
Or torn me apart
Neither end not start
To be somewhere in the middle of it
Trusting in your heart
…
The Quiet Wonder
I’d shake your hand
If I had one to extend but it was
Blown off in the war
The war that ended just a minute ago
When I came in the front door
When I left town
‘Bout a hundred years ago I didn’t
Think I’d lose my way
The kind of losing where you wonder at the end
If you even know your name
CHORUS
I remember the days
When we sang
Sang the tunes of the night
With the quiet wonder of
Being so near
I understood
That the nature of your smile was always
Etched within the frame
Of the way that you insisted that you be
And I thought it was a game
Now you’re gone
And I’m looking at the ground where you
Held us all aloft
And the burdens that you carried like a mule
On your back, tender and soft
BRIDGE
All the crazy caravans
The trails of dust and memories
Rising like the feathers of a bird
Spread the wings, the family
Of bleary eyes and hungry for
The promise which will save us in a Word
…
Our family has lost some of its stability since she has been gone. Without our hub it is easy to go in different directions and forget to call or write or make time. We all miss her terribly. I can see it when we are all together. The silence that falls over the group. The way we tend to start conversations with, “do you remember….”. The glances at pictures and the wiping of eyes. No one deals with grief well.
We know that she is in Heaven, that she is without pain and that we will see her again. But, for me at least, that knowledge doesn’t fill the hole that is left.
So I watch baseball and smell flowers and sit in the sun and think about how much she would have loved to know Andrew, how she would have loved to see local boy Willie Bloomquist get more playing time, how she would have relished this spurt of hot weather. And I miss her. I don’t know how to not be sad. I lack the faith to trust that this happened for a reason. I still think that she should have been here. I probably always will.
…
Leave Me Alone
Turn out the lights
Close the door
I’ll not be taking visitors anymore
Shut off the power
Take down the sign
And let the machine answer the line
CHORUS
Leave me alone
Not because I’m angry
Just because I need to hear myself breathe
And be alive
And wonder why she’s gone
Since I was a boy
Always her voice
Was ringing in the air around our home
How still the air
Winter is here
But missing is her warm familiar tone
CHORUS
Leave me alone
I just need a moment
To myself to quiet down to quiet down and grieve
And be alive
And miss her being so nearby she’s gone
