Grandma, Year Four…and Five
Shorts.
Funny.
Kitty-wampus.
Poor fart.
These were among many words and phrases you used beyond their technical definitions, yet your intentions were never in question.
No one who met you, even once, could escape your charm—you were unapologetically Flo.
You had a sweet and hopeful naivete. It was apparent when you thought cigarette companies would raise prices to help people quit smoking. And, when you were dismayed you couldn’t get a free supreme pizza and pay for a one topping pie. “But the coupon said buy one get one free!”
You were also honest, sometimes to a fault. If you ever got tech savvy, I could only imagine your mental battle if you would go to change a password that you didn’t forget, but your only option would be to click on “Forgot Password.”
Four months before your death, I was honored to be your transportation and plus-one for your 69 year high school reunion. We had a silent understanding that this was likely your last one, so I wanted to make it as fun and worry-free as possible for you.
The clear and warm September weather abated your concerns of getting rained on and comfortably getting in and out of my car. It made for a pleasant afternoon drive there and back, which, sadly, had become rare with your diminishing strength and mobility sapping your motivation.
After my usual blushing from you proudly introducing me to everyone, I was privileged to see your longest living peers regard you wonderfully similar to how your more frequently visiting friends and family did.
Despite any previous gaps in time prior to this reunion, there was a warm acceptance and familiarity with everyone. Though your cognitive decline was more obvious since your last interactions, no one reeled you in or corrected your inaccuracies—they were just happy to see you.
Seeing you flirt caught me a little off guard—I never saw you flirt before! A classmate conjured memories with just a few words, bringing you both to laughter and more reminiscence that filled the room specially reserved for this occasion.
For your meal, you ordered extra crispy fried chicken with fries without coleslaw. Once the waitress left, you said, “That means I’m gonna get extra fries!" as a result of asking for no coleslaw.
When your plate arrived and there was only a regular serving of fries, you were disappointed. You said, “I’m paying the same amount for less now!”
The fuller story was in your eyes.
They said this was the latest example of how the world has changed, and not for the better, especially when it came to going above and beyond for your fellow humans—something you did time and time again. Never for validation, you simply wanted to help and you could.
I noticed how easy it was for you to quickly let it go. I offered to ask our waitress for more fries, but you told me not to, when, at any point in the past, you would have spoken up—your usual vigor was gone, dissipated into resigned acceptance.
Famously, your refrigerator’s color was a mystery above waist level, plastered with pictures of all your friends and family. At that high school reunion, I took pictures you were giddy to wheelchair pose for; I could tell you were mentally rearranging your current display to accommodate what you were smiling for, which helped make up for your despondency from the meal.
Since your room’s refrigerator was too small and sat on the ground, your pictures were adorned on the wall most visible from all your resting spots.
You were the first person to consistently hear and see and love me, exactly for who I am. When I was born and growing up, you had more opportunities than anyone to show me your true love and acceptance, yet that’s not why I felt safest with you. Time was always quality with you because of you and your love, and had nothing to do with its quantity—I was just blessed there was a large quantity of time with you.
Your phone number was the first I memorized. Heck, I even dialed it correctly on my first attempt, doing my best to mimic how I saw my mom dialing your number. I wasn’t even in preschool and barely had a concept of numbers.
This last year marks another one without you, five in total. It took me many years to love myself from your early and frequent examples—not just with how you regarded me, but everyone you loved.
Since you died I made it a point to commemorate your life every year on your death’s anniversary. Last year, I did not do so.
It was only because I was buried under a mess of unexpected emotional agony.
I got really lonely, and regressed in my relationship with seeing and loving myself as you demonstrated for me all my life.
I didn’t fully realize it until after I found myself out of a codependent friendship with someone I fell for. When that became obvious to both of us—her before me—she first ghosted me, then promised a conversation that ultimately never happened, pulling all my traumatic triggers in the process.
During that friendship and the preceding months, I was not close to my best self. My loneliness made me compromise and blinded me from seeing how unhealthy I became.
In hindsight, I was needy for acceptance and validation. I thought I was well past that stage of my life with all the progress I’d made up to that point—the sheer shame was very disheartening, and, until recently, more than I could articulate.
Reflection has a way of seeing clearly, and that’s only if one chooses that kind of radical self-analysis. As often as possible, I will choose that, and especially if I lose sight of it.
I had to process more than I was initially aware of—the situation brought every level of every past pain and trauma to a brighter light and focus, which compounded it all and rendered me emotionally catatonic.
Every traditional job I’ve held became a distraction from myself. Too much emphasis was on my performance to avoid the full and flawed person in the mirror. Same for every relationship.
Since I’ve been my own boss, I can work as much as I want to, so I did, to unhealthy levels—I could not stand to be alone with myself or my thoughts.
In order to change this, I needed to intentionally change those and other patterns that were dormant until they snuck back from these situations.
My focus became slowly building myself back up to where I was so I could grow beyond that. Part of this was needing to better address my traumas by further educating myself.
I began by consuming various books and podcasts and videos. I also consulted a friend. She is someone who knows trauma well.
Since I needed a fresh approach, I asked her to meet me for coffee sometime. Some of her life experience mirrored mine, so I knew her advice in the space I was in would be helpful.
Five months prior, we reconnected after a couple decades of no contact. There was no animosity, it’s just how post-high school life can be.
Since being reacquainted, even though it was only surface level, we realized the comfort and safety with each from our teens was not only still intact, but greater as adults—all without needing to do anything to earn or prove it.
When we met for coffee, I knew I would be heard and understood, and I was hoping for some different ideas to consider as I was wounded and trying to heal; I also wanted to hear and advise her with anything she needed.
What we got was so much more: a pivotal day in hindsight.
Best friends is too reductive. More accurate is that, from that day and every day since, we have found a safety and acceptance with each other that’s deeper than anything we’ve experienced. Without having your early and frequent models, I wouldn’t recognize fact from fiction as an adult.
It’s also made my life more clear in reflection—for how different and better it is to be fully seen and accepted, contrasted to when I was obliviously over-projecting and over-hoping.
These galvanizing realizations have been informing how I live ever since. If there isn’t reciprocal respect, acceptance, empathy, curiosity, and meeting each other where we are, I don’t waste my time—even if it hurts. My standard is high, my time is precious, and life is too short.
Part of this process was rededicating myself to Christianity more than I ever have. I sought to have a deeper relationship with God and myself, and to pursue my long standing and developing questions and concerns. Without trying to, I saw Christianity for what it is and what it is not, and why it’s not for me.
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When I set out to write this annual tribute to you for January 11, 2023, I was only partially aware of my mental machinations.
I knew I wanted to highlight your love and acceptance because I had experienced quite the opposite. As 1/11/23 came and went, subsequent drafts and revisions told me I was still not ready and healed enough for completion to publication, plus some of the story I detailed was still ongoing.
It still is, but I cut it off to highlight what I did, so I could then have a fuller story in January, when I will begin a new streak of annual punctuality.
Working on this became my gauge and mile marker in the healing of all the hurt that was kept fresh from many reminders, long after things ended in real life.
This whole time, I had other things I wanted to publish, but anything before my annual tribute to you felt wrong. While also working on various book projects, I met myself halfway last summer and created a Currently page to write in a different manner, and to do what I have dearly missed: bringing something to a state of publication.
Publishing this means I am ready to share the level of pain I was in and what helped me get to where I am today: a much wiser person who is much healed and still healing while perpetually learning. Less than a handful of people knew how badly I was affected.
—To the still living: Please know you’re never alone and deserve total acceptance, and it is out there for you. Don’t ever be afraid or discouraged to reach out and ask for help. There’s nothing wrong with you for asking and/or needing to ask for help. We are wired to thrive in the company of each other, not in solitude. No matter what, your community is out there, ready to enjoy your company and to love and accept you exactly for who you are and want to be—no more, and no less.
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While I am grateful for where I am and where I’m heading and who is in my life, I must acknowledge life was always better with you. Since you died, it took me till now to fully realize this.
Three years ago I wrote that your death’s timing was great for your sake, before you were about to really suffer, and a year before Covid happened that would have increased your suffering and hastened your death, at least from your harmful worrying.
I thought wishing you were still here was to also selfishly wish for the aforementioned suffering.
That’s not what wanting you still here means. I was just trying to find gratitude where I could, and didn’t pay enough attention to how much I would love to hear your voice, and to see your big and bright smile upon my arrival to your house/apartment/room.
I miss those moments, so fucking much.
The love and acceptance you showed and modeled for me is alive and thriving with me and my community. It also reminds me of how easy it was to fully love and accept you.
During your childhood, you heard and saw many things no one should ever have to. Once you lost your mobility later in life, your high concern for your safety became more than it had been, growing as you regressed.
Knowing your history, it made sense why you felt safest when you took drastic measures to keep your door secure. When some people deemed you crazy for that and the bad dreams you were having, you were not seen and accepted for where you were at that point in your life.
They also know your history and should have known better, and did not reciprocate what you modeled for them. Their callous lack of empathy and curiosity made you feel worse for having rational concerns with everything that was haunting you. The grudge I hold for them is not one that will easily lift.
You always joked about being a chicken, but you weren’t a coward. You showed extraordinary strength and bravery multiple times in your life, none more than after Grandpa died. Though you missed him very much, you forged ahead and lived as best you could without the love of your life you had from age 19.
From February 6, 1997 till January 11, 2019, you shared so many stories about him, and so many times. I never tired of them. I simply wished to meet someone who could share that kind of love with me.
Thank you for your total and complete love and acceptance—it was time well spent. I hate that I lost track of what I deserve, and I am so grateful to have the memories with you that will always remind me to never settle.
I miss you and wish you were still here, Grandma Flo—with everything I am.
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As per my tradition of offering a full perspective of her as the years go compared to when she died, below is the eulogy I wrote and spoke at my grandma’s funeral.
For Grandma
My name is Craig Elbe, Florence’s first grandchild. Oftentimes I’ve called myself her fifth child as that’s how she made me feel. She simply was another mother. Her sixth and youngest grandchild, Connor, can say the same thing. Even if there were twenty of us grandchildren, I’m confident her motherly love wouldn’t be diluted.
My first memories with my grandma, I’m told, involved me being very spoiled. I was simply too young to recall the bumming around I did with my grandma and whoever else was with us. There were many trips to many stores and restaurants, with a lot of time and love and money spent on me. Though those memories are not vivid for me, the genuine love she had for me was instilled and never left me.
Being filled with so much love before my conscious memory took hold removed any impetus to do anything crazy when I struggled with my confidence as I got older. My grandma set the tone for how to love your friends and family. She loved and cared for us all so much to the point of us all having an agreement to not tell her of any bad news until the situation improved enough to tell her. The toll bad news would take on her was too much to fathom putting her through it by seeking the solace her love and support provided without fail.
Very early in her life, my grandma found herself to be the peacemaker. Seeing both sides to situations informed her deep sense of empathy. She felt everything so much more than most people. For example, any time she’d read a card or note from one of us, she would tear up on the second or third sentence that expressed love and gratitude to her.
Whether it was just her and me or a room of people, I always found it entertaining how she’d run through the progression of her kids and grandkids before she’d land on the person whose attention she sought.
My grandma was the epitome of a people person. She seemed to find a way to the hearts of many people she interacted with. Her spunky personality and sense of humor was adored by all, from social gatherings to anyone who cared for her at any type of medical facility she was admitted to. Her smile and laugh could brighten any small or vast space, and I could always count on her warmth when life was cold to me.
She had many clichés as punchlines for jokes or to blow off some steam, and it was quite entertaining how she’d say them all like it was the very first time.
My grandma strived to see the good in everyone she met and saw. It wasn’t always easy for her but the effort was there despite evidence some people didn’t deserve her good heart.
Telephone conversations with grandma were always a joy. Most of the time, just saying goodbye was another conversation itself!
Walking into her home was a guessing game of what she was cooking or baking or canning. To this day I’ve not been able to find anything that was as good as her tomato juice or pickles. Anything else lacked the simple but essential ingredient of grandma’s love. What the perfect placebo!
Her refrigerator and walls were covered in pictures of the family, and she always had film in her camera for more moments to capture. What couldn’t fit on the fridge or walls found homes in the various photo albums she accumulated over the years.
While my sister and I were in school, grandma would bring us home when our parents weren’t able to. I’m sure she feared the worst for us walking home, especially once I got to high school and my sister was still in middle school. But, she didn’t want us to be home alone either. She was always my reliable ride to work and home when needed, and was always curious who I saw that day that she knew!
I started playing drums when I was a junior in high school, January of 2000 to be precise. Most days after school I had lots of pent up ambition or anger, so I went downstairs to play my drums. After a few months of practice, I was able to play along to some songs. When I’d begin a playing session, I consistently used the song “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue to warm up.
One day, after playing for a while, I came upstairs for a break. My grandma asked me about that song with the piano part in the beginning. I had no idea she was even paying attention! After some thought I remembered it was the first song, “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. Right then and there, she told me she wanted me to play that song on my drums at her funeral! I couldn’t believe she made such a request, but I agreed to it then. It was the first time I felt like I was performing for someone. From that day forward, I always had a special bit of nerves while playing that song, even when she wasn’t there. Grandma being my first audience member seemed very appropriate. She was our family’s biggest cheerleader.
During the summer of 2000, I put myself in a situation where I had nowhere to go. Grandma was nearing the end of her 60s but without hesitation took me. Well, she may have hesitated a little because of my behavior at the time, but it wasn’t apparent. Grandpa had passed away just over four years ago at the time, so it was just her and me. Our only argument was about the length of my hair. She was upset I wanted to grow my hair really long, when all I wanted to do was look cool playing drums with long hair. It took me some years to realize this, but my grandma was just trying to protect me from the judgmental world.
The two months I lived with her finally started to break my rebellious nature. I learned what respect was, and that how I was treating my parents was very wrong. We were close before then, but her taking me in forged a special bond. Today, I’m proud to be the man I am. Those two months with grandma were the beginning stages of me realizing what it was to be a man of principle and character, and she was the only one able to truly reach me during my rebellious teen years.
At that time, she was receiving supplements and other household items from a mail order company called Melaleuca. Also at the time, I became a huge fan of the band Metallica. I had some tapes of some of their concerts and would play them while living with grandma. I never expected her to like the music so I only played the tapes with her permission. Out of the blue, one day she asked me if I was going to watch any Melaleuca. I was so confused for a couple seconds till I realized she wanted to watch Metallica with me! I had no idea she was even remotely interested in such music, and I doubt she really was. She was just being supportive of what I enjoyed and didn’t want to hinder my enjoyment.
The grace and class of how she carried herself was something to behold. Sure, she’d have her sad or weak moments that she’d confide in her close confidants, but she did the best she could with what she had and knew at the time.
Her frugality and tenacity was on display during one time I was visiting with her. It was in her last months of living alone. She noticed her telephone bill went up by about 8 dollars, so she called them up to have them reinstate the previous sale she had before the price hike. By the time I arrived to spend time with her that day, she proudly told me she succeeded in getting the sale price back. She said, and I loosely quote, “It took me till the third person till I got what I wanted, but it’s going to save me about $100 a year!”
While grandpa was living, he and my grandma did the “casino tour” of Wisconsin the short time he was retired before he got sick and passed away. We always knew when they hit the Royal Flush when they would show up at our house with some extra money for my parents, and we knew they were on their way to our other aunts and uncles to give them their share.
Their generosity was apparent, and she continued the trend after grandpa died. I became her casino partner some years later, and she always shared with me what she won but wouldn’t let me share what I won. All she’d let me do was pay for our lunch or dinner.
When I’d be out and about with grandma to bring her to some appointments or at the casino, people would often remark about how nice of a grandson I was to be with grandma. That annoyed me a lot. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with grandma and it wasn’t obligatory. I just wish I spent more time with her.
My grandma was very selfless and never made anything about herself. All she wanted in return was to be grateful and not take her for granted.
Recently, before she passed away, I went to her old house, then her old apartment. I parked for just a minute in each place. I wanted to soak up, one last time while she was still alive, all the recollections of days gone by of all the fun we had. While the memories were very present for me, sadly, those places just lacked the magic once present when my grandma called those places home.
This day is a combination of sadness and happiness for me. We all knew this day was coming, and I’m very grateful we were given a lot of notice, so to speak. The last time I saw her was while she was still pretty good and remembered the good times we shared together. I offered my last love and gratitude. The last time I looked at her face she had the loving smile and grace we’ve all been privy to.
For today’s service, I wanted to do something special for my grandma. Besides the anecdotes I’ve shared, I chose this outfit instead of the customary black colors for a funeral. These are the colors of the house she called home for over 50 years, and was the place she took me in during that summer of 2000. This is my tribute to that time in our lives where we became closer and for what she taught me with love and by example. This jacket is also the last, or one of the last, suit jackets she purchased for my grandpa before he passed away. She gave it to me many years ago and I’ve never worn it till today, and won’t ever again.
As the years have gone on, I’ve not felt right about bringing my drums and playing “Home Sweet Home.” Instead, I’d like recite the lyrics of the song most applicable to her:
“I’m on my way, I’m on my way, home sweet home. Tonight, tonight I’m on my way. Just set me free, home sweet home.”
Grandma, now that you’re home with your parents, sisters, grandpa and the rest of your deceased friends and family, I want to tell you it was an honor being your grandson. The way you introduced me to people with pride, even in your last days while you struggled for air, meant the world to me then and always will. Thank you for everything, and until next time, I love you.