My grandmother, Gee Gee, died yesterday from complications related to her Alzheimer’s disease, but instead of being sad (though there’s definitely some of that), I find myself overwhelmingly filled with love and a sense of understanding that makes me smile.

She was ready to go, there’s no doubt about it, but these feelings aren’t coming from a place of relief — for her or for those of us who imagined how she must’ve been suffering — no, they’re coming from the fact that in her death she is shining a huge, contrasting light on all the life that’s here before us.

At the most basic level this “life” is the family that exists because of her — my mother, my sisters, my aunt, my uncle, my cousins and nieces and nephews — all beautiful beyond words and all quite the legacy. However, the “life” I’m specifically referring to is this whole thing — the moment we’re living in now and sharing with everything — the “life” that, through the gift of her death, shines brightly waiting only to be celebrated and lived with love. Grateful for this, my smile continues to get bigger, and if I was my 91 year old grandmother, that’s the only way I’d want it to be.

If you want something, know who to ask..

It’s funny, but when I think of my grandmother, it’s difficult for me to think of her outside the shadow of my grandfather. They always seemed like the unlikeliest of pairs — like Laurel and Hardy or the Odd Couple. I guess that’s what made her so interesting to me, how she navigated their relationship with such patience and humor, and how at the oddest times she’d step out from under my grandfather’s large personality and steal the show.

As kids — and even as adults — if there was something we wanted from my grandparents, we knew exactly who to go to. My grandfather tended to be a stickler about things, but my grandmother — for whatever reason, maybe because she liked being contrary to my grandfather — would give us whatever we asked for. This worked out especially well, when, at an early age, I fell in love with my grandfather’s hawaiiana/tiki oddities. Whether it was in a box or tucked away in some corner, it made little difference, invariably if you asked my grandfather for it, he would say no. But, if you asked loud enough or if my grandmother was in the same room, then, well, you could be pretty sure you’d be going home with your object of desire. “He won’t even know it’s gone”, she’d say, as she handed it to you on your way out the door.

Sausage talk

To say my grandmother had some strong opinions about things, would be an understatement. Where they came from, God only knows, but more often than not, these opinions (in my opinion), would be downright ridiculous. Sometimes I would just laugh and roll my eyes, while other times my liberal Berkeley leanings would compel me to respond. I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, but if I could get her to that place where she’d had enough, then what’d come next would make it all worthwhile. Push her to that point where in her mind the conversation was over and you’d invariably hear, “Oh please, you’re talking like a sausage”.

Now, I’m not a linguist, but I have a fairly good understanding of the dynamics of language, and how you combine words is pretty important. For example, the following combination of words (expressions, if you will) — I love you; the tea is good; the hippo is fat; shut your mouth — regardless of how often you’ve heard them, or even if you haven’t, will always make sense. My grandmother, who was not a dadaist, somehow managed to come up with an expression, that while making absolutely no sense at all (unless, of course, you’re a dadaist, and even then, I’m not so sure), paradoxically — almost poetically — makes all the sense in the world.

Is that Griffith Park I taste?

It’s hard to say, but I think it’s an established fact that my grandmother was an excellent cook. Somewhat of a foodie myself (yeah, I said it) and knowing several chefs, I’ve learned it’s extremely beneficial to have an open mind where ingredients are concerned, as great things can often come from unexpected sources. My grandmother understood this and could be counted on to turn out some pretty interesting dishes.

When my sister M and I were very young, our grandfather taught us how to catch crawdads with just bacon tied to a string. For whatever reason, this method of fishing sparked our imaginations, and whenever we got near a lake or a stream (size and location weren’t an issue), we’d scour it for crawdads. Fortunately for us, my grandparents lived near Griffith Park in Los Angeles, and through Griffith Park ran a little stream and in that little stream were — you guessed it — crawdads (I’m not exactly sure why).

Catching these little creatures was a lot of fun, but what we really looked forward to was how my grandmother cooked them. What her recipe was precisely, I don’t really know, but I’m sure it began and ended with butter. Now, there are a lot of great chefs in the world and you can bow down before as many Rachael Ray’s, Emeril Lagasse’s or Wolfgang Puck’s on the Food Network as you like, but I’d like to see them make a tasty crustacean dish with the city-licious flavor of Griffith Park.

Behind door number one…

The truth is, we’re all so much more than our bodies. This thing that we flop around in is temporary; it’s going to get old, it’s going to get wrinkles, its breasts are going to sag, its neural pathways are going to become damaged and stop firing, it’ll suffer from erectile dysfunction; it’s going to get ugly, it’s going to poop on itself and, yeah, in the end, it’s going to die. But who we are — who we truly are — is beyond all that.

So, yeah, my grandmother’s body shut down and died, but to think she isn’t here anymore would be a lack of understanding. Just like I never doubted she was still in her home after we’d visit and say our goodbyes, I have no doubt she is with us now. Of course, my grandmother would probably say I’m talking like a sausage, but, hey, if the shoe fits…

I love you Gee Gee. Thanks for switching the light on.

I recently returned from a weeklong vacation at my folk’s home in Indio with a very good friend of mine, where I relaxed on a couch across from a cathedral sized plastic Christmas tree, surrounded by my lovely, loud family, pushed a mile and a half every day under clear blue 65° skies and satisfied my next years quota of mercury by ingesting more fish than the entire cast of A Very Orca Christmas™ at Sea World™. It was by all accounts a great trip. For what it’s worth, here are some of my observations:

Homeland security: one embrace at a time

I’m not sure about the word quaint to describe the Palm Springs Airport, but when was the last time you got a hug from an airport employee who was happy to see you again. Let’s just say, if it was a Starbucks you wouldn’t have to order your venti half caff/decaf soymilk macchiato with a lemon twist and a touch of honey, they’d anticipate your arrival and have it waiting for you.

You are what you read

People are funny. Always being the last one off an airplane gives me a unique perspective into human nature. This time, as I was waiting to deplane, a well-dressed middle-aged woman passed me by with a brand-new hardcover book she’d found on one of the seats. She was trying to get the attention of the elderly woman in front of her whom she thought had left it behind by mistake. When the elderly woman said the book wasn’t hers, the middle-aged woman looked confused about what she should do. Appearing to be a fortunate find, my friend and I suggested she keep it as a sort of gift from the airplane gods. But instead of smiling and nodding in agreement — you know, in the spirit of the holiday — she held it slightly away, looked down at it over her nose and simply scoffed, as if it was the last book in the world she’d want to be caught reading. Instantly, my friend and I burst into laughter, we didn’t know the book, but judging by its cover (which clearly you shouldn’t do), it didn’t appear to be overtly pedestrian. It wasn’t like it was The Da Vinci Code or anything. Still, you gotta wonder, what does that book you’re reading right now say about you?

You are the exit you take

When you’re leaving the Palm Springs Airport you can take either the “Palm Springs” exit or the “to other resort cities” exit. There are no other choices. You’re either living large and heading to Palm Springs or you’re slumming it and going to one of those “other resort cities”. Don’t judge us, but we, of course, headed to the latter.

How to shop like an Englishman

When the front page story of the local paper is the grand opening of a Fresh N’ Easy store, you know you’re in an exciting town. Don’t get me wrong, I understand this particular franchise represents a new way of buying your food (according to the article, this is the way it’s done in England), but I think more than anything it legitimizes staying at home, relaxing on the couch and maybe even going for a float in the pool.

???

Despite 482 days a year of sunshine, there are no laws requiring solar panels on houses, supermarkets, mini malls or circus tents. Is it only me or does this strike anybody else as a little odd and perhaps even, oh, I don’t know… stupid. Don’t even get me started on lawns.

Magic hour on the red planet

No matter how desolate and uninviting the surrounding Mars-like landscape looks during the day, at sunset in the shadow of the snowcapped San Jacinitos mountains, you can almost understand what made people originally decide to settle in the desert. Assuming they came in the wintertime.

Adult supervision

My mother’s lunacy will forever make me laugh. The scene is this: we’re watching Knocked Up, the latest film by Judd Apatow, which while sweet and poignant, is also delightfully vulgar. Not a film my mom would like or get. That said, she’s seen it.

Now, here’s why you gotta love my mom; instead of leaving the room to go to bed (it’s late and my parents tend to retire early these days), she gathers her knitting stuff together, sits down in front of the TV and begins to tell us (mostly my sisters, because they’re mothers and I’m somewhat of a lost cause) how depraved we are for liking such a film.

Of course, we’re not going to take such critique lying down; a). because there’s a tradition of debate to be upheld with my mom, b). she will continue to inject commentary over an already turned down sound system that has been carefully calibrated so as not to wake up the children with our depravity and vulgar sense of humor, and c). she clearly doesn’t understand the genius that is Judd Apatow and must — even if it means delaying our pleasure for it — be made to see the light.

However, before we could even address this oh so crucial last point with an enthusiastic championing of the hit The 40 Year Old Virgin (because this is the obvious place to start), my mom says, “Oh, the grandkids and I watched that. We ordered it from On-Demand”.

What came next can only be described as a very brief yet very pregnant moment of shock, followed by a synchronized, “What!?” from my two sisters, who were clearly dumbfounded by our mother’s interesting sense of judgment. Laughing hysterically, my mom explained she turned it off when she realized what it was and the kids hardly saw anything.

But I had to ask her what was it about the title The 40 Year Old Virgin and the rating Unrated that suggested, wholesome kid friendly entertainment? Let’s go kids, hurry up and grab some Orval Redenbacher’s, that movie about the 40-year-old virgin is on.

By this time we were all rolling and my mom could barely catch her breath, but still you gotta wonder when it all clicked for her? I’m guessing somewhere around the description of the Baja donkey show, but I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what sort of questions the kids start asking.

The right exit

As far as families go, I only truly know this one, but every moment I spend with them feels like a gift. I’m thankful to no end that we’re able to get together as often as we do… even if it happens to be in one of those “other resort cities”.

Mele Kalikimaka me ka Hau’oli!