The 1st of the 12: Pioneer Days

Early Thursday morning before Pioneer Days weekend, my grandmother passed away. I had seen her only a month before, having not seen her in six years, knowing in my heart it was going to be the last time I saw her. What kind of granddaughter doesn’t see her grandma in six years? The kind that lives too far away. The hardest part about moving from New York to Minnesota were those hundreds of miles between family and blood. Years and years of holiday traditions, gatherings, and unity were, gone. There’s no use lamenting something lost so long ago, but my grandmother’s death was a sour reminder of that loss. Having seen her last month had reignited a familiarity with my roots, with my identity, that I had not been in touch with for a very long time. Now that she is gone, I feel like everything that was part of that identity is now left behind with pictures, inherited jewelry, and material mementos that keep that legacy alive. I am painfully, pitifully, and hopelessly sentimental, and I depend greatly on the idea that a loved one lives on in the things they leave behind, the things that remind us of who they were and who we are because of them. Inheriting a grandparent’s belongings, ones in which you remember associating with them as a child, is a most important part of healing from the grief. Due to circumstances, and to how I was feeling at the moment of making the decision, I did not go to the funeral. It turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. I woke up Saturday morning to grey, cold clouds and the promise of rain. I had no desire to spend a day in St. Francis trying to enjoy small town festivities and having to be observant enough to write about them. But I said to myself, “You made a commitment. Staying at home will do you no good.” So I left my hair “as is”, threw on some make-up as to keep myself from not looking too homely, and headed out. Driving in on Bridge Street, seeing people already perched on the curb for the parade that was yet to be for another two hours, I was feeling a great deal sorry for myself. “This is not what I want to be doing right now…” But then I drove past the coffee shop and to my great relief saw two familiar, friendly, loving faces sitting behind a banana-split stand trying to sell ice cream in the cold, damp air. My friends Nyki and Sara waved and smiled as I passed, and I was feeling most blessed that I would have some gentle company to relieve my grief. After getting a hot cup of chai from the coffee shop, Nyki and I had wandered across the street to bare witness to the firing of the Civil War cannon. Men donned in time period clothing were readying the weapon while Nyki was explaining to me how the blast is so loud that it sets off car alarms. This, I thought, was pretty exciting. I readied my camera to video setting so I could have some interesting footage to share with my readers. The soldiers had to practice, though, and with each practice (thinking it was the real thing) I was pushing “record” on and off. Finally, when the real deal was in play, I shot the whole event as beautifully as I could’ve hoped. Cannon loaded. Zoom in. Soldiers in place. Zoom out. Capture Nyki’s frightened face with her fingers in her ears. Soldier calls the fire. My hands are steady. BOOM! The camera shook. Smoke filled the park and whirled around the gazebo. I swung my lens around behind me to catch a woman running to her car which was whirring with its alarm. Push the button to stop the recording, and…. recording begins. Wait a minute… Fury with myself and in great disappointment, I realize that I hadn’t caught a single bit of the action. Perfect. But then again, writing about it is sort of the point anyway, right? So, it sort of was perfect. The fates on occasion know what they’re doing apparently. Not always. But sometimes. The cannon was the highlight of my day. Strange as it may be, it was. Watching the Civil War soldiers in the backdrop of the grand gazebo in this tiny little river town made me feel like I had my own little Stars Hallow, and I was rather grateful for it. Afterwards, the rain started in. The wind was cold. My friends were being kind and inviting, but anxiety was jumping in my skin, and I needed to get away. I needed to make a grocer run eventually in the day to get the things I needed for the barbeque later on, so I used that as an excuse to leave. So I ran to the store. Picked up my box of brownies to make, and a half dozen eggs, and tried to make my way back into town. The parade was beginning soon. I was clearly an idiot for giving up my parking spot to go to the store. But alas! I found myself at the end of a street where the parade was intersecting, so I sat in the middle of the road, in my warm, toasty car, and took pictures through my windshield. After awhile I started to feel a little ashamed myself for being so ridiculous. These pictures were not going to cut it. So I scoured, and low and behold I found a spot to park. Like I said, on occasion the fates know what they’re doing. I walked in the rain. ‘Took closer snap-shots of the parade. And then called it a day. This was enough, I thought. I came. I saw. I felt the love from friends, and that was all I needed to feel like I was part of a place that I could call home. Pulling into the driveway of my house I felt a sense of relief to be home but also felt a twisting churn in my guts knowing I was now going to have to get ready to go back out again to my friend’s annual barbeque. I had had enough company for one day. I wanted to crawl into a hole and be done with the day. I was feeling rather pathetic for it. I was also pep-talking myself into, “You’ll feel better when you get there…you don’t want to miss out…you need to be with friends…”. So I showered, did my hair up properly, baked the brownies, and headed out again. Surprises were to be had when I got there. Many. The most interesting being that one of our old co-workers had brought her boyfriend, who turned out to be an old high school friend of mine that I hadn’t seen in twelve years. The first thing he remembered about me was, “You were the girl from New York!”. I was surprised he remembered that. It was fun to see him again. The rest of the night was full of good times, of course, traditional craziness and the what-nots. The tent party was just as it always is, a full crowd of drunks, mullets, cowboys, townies, middle-aged women who think they’re twenty, and many, many, many white people who have very little rhythm. And us. That might sound like an offensive dig, but truth be told these are the people that make going to the tent party the most interesting. I honestly have a heart felt affection for them. I enjoyed myself profusely and was extremely satisfied that I had pulled myself together to go through with it. It was definitely worth it. Thank you Drunk Cowboy that I had to yell at and push away and herd you back into your pen. Thank you mullet guys for giving me awesome pictures. Thank you, Middle-Aged-Woman with glittery face-paint all over your face, you were most excellent to witness. And thank you, thank you, thank you white folk who can’t dance but dance anyway. My hat goes off to anyone who is willing to boogie down. The night ended late. Because our planned sober cab had accidentally answered her phone and then fell asleep without hanging it up, we didn’t have a ride back to my friend’s house. So we had to walk. Fortunatly, though, a sober friend of a friend had stopped by my friend’s house, and she came to pick all of us up. I crawled into my own bed at 3am. I woke up Sunday morning to yet another day of grey, cold clouds and the promise of rain. But I was okay with it. Now it was time to grieve properly. Now it was time to say good-bye to my grandmother. I did what I always do when I grieve a loss. I wrote a letter, reminiscing about what and who she was in my life, and telling her sorry for things I couldn’t say sorry for in person, and telling her things that I will miss, like hearing her voice over the phone on Christmas, or like getting cards with stickers on the envelopes, or… I then ceremoniously sent it to her. “Sent” it to her. How I “send” my letters is private. But the overall gesture helps to close the door a little. And that was the close of my first place on my list of twelve.