Some notes from my trip:
Two weekends spent in Oiltown and the intervening work week spent in Agriville.
I took a shuttle from the best hotel in Oiltown. Conversation with the shuttle driver: Me: Did you grow up in Oiltown? Shuttle driver: yes, but I went to high school in Big City, then moved back. Me: Ah. I really like Oiltown, but I don't know if I'll ever come back. Him--giving me an incredulous look: You like Oiltown? Me--laughing: I think it's inevitable that people who grow up in Oiltown hate Oiltown, but yeah, I really do. Maybe because my grandparents lived here, I don't know.
Then a prop hop to Big City, then a redeye (delayed because of a hydraulic replacement), then a last-minute switch to a later commuter flight than the one I missed, where Mr. B. and Pseudonymous Kid met me and we drove back to Tinytown. Boy, are my arms tired.
I was the last family member to leave Oiltown. My jet-set cousin, who lives in Tokyo, had arranged for us all to stay in the best hotel, which is part of an international chain he belongs to. It was a lovely hotel, and I was very glad to stay there on the last weekend, because staying there reminded me of Grandma's house: tidy landscaping, the sine curve reflections of pool water on concrete, the sound of rippling water in a fake (but pretty) stream, clean, well-appointed rooms, unshowy amenities like comfortable beds, free bottled water, and a concrete patio with chairs and a small table for smoking and drinking coffee by the stream in the morning sunlight. An overall sense of small quiet luxuries. Staff who didn't try to be invisible, but instead smiled and nodded good morning as they went about their work. I sat with my aunt and cousin on the patio all evening on Saturday, after my dad and his wife and my sister had driven back to Agriville. We ordered a bottle of wine, a pizza, and a salad from room service, and ate them together off of communal plates, sharing the two forks. While my aunt prepared for bed, my cousin bummed a couple of cigarettes and declared himself "one of the great social smokers." We discussed his love life, his mother's increasing disability, my job search, who had been at the funeral. Sunday morning he treated my aunt and me to a champagne brunch: fresh-squeezed orange juice, lots of coffee, cold salmon. Then they left.
I had a few hours before my first flight, so I sat on a bench by the water and, finally, after a week of funeral arrangements and aunt-care (the Pastor, in an aside to me after the funeral: You did a great job taking care of the funeral. Me: Thank you. Pastor: How is it that all the arrangements fell to you? Me, after a pause: I don't know. It just often seems to happen that way), thought about my grandmother: what she taught me, what I will miss, what I've lost, what I will keep. I didn't say any of this at the funeral, because it it small and private--and Grandma's public accomplishments were many, so the eulogies focused on those.
But as much as her other virtues--public spirit, charity without condescension, the active construction of community institutions that have, and will continue, to grow beyond what she started--deserved mention and memory, the thing that mattered to me most, as a little girl, were her sense of order and domestic tranquility. Grandma was not a sweet old lady; she didn't bake or dote on us. When she was younger, she was a sharp dresser; she never left the house without "putting on her face," and she colored her hair until she was 80ish. She kept her disabled son with her all his life, and made arrangements for his happiness: he had the master bedroom, where he kept his huge collection of videotapes, model cars, and country music, and she built the pool originally when he was a child in the hopes that their having the pool would encourage other kids to come over and play with him. She was kind to him, but she could also be impatient and sharp at times. There was order and regularity to their home life. There were always Oreos (my uncle's favorite) in the mouse-shaped cookie jar (which I now have). The last time I ever went to her house, maybe four or five years ago, I looked in the cookie jar and yep--Oreos. There was always ice cream before bed. We were allowed to sleep in as late as we wanted, but when we rose, the breakfast table would be set with fresh orange juice and vitamins in the bowls of the spoons, and we would eat breakfast while watching the hummingbirds at the feeder outside the kitchen windows. We would spend the afternnoon, usually, in the pool, where grandpa would bring out quesadillas for lunch, which we would eat at the patio table, dripping through the chairs' plastic weave onto the astroturf patio. The dogs would wander in and out, and grandma would remind us to close the sliding glass door. Or I would sit and read in the clean, quiet living room, which had cast-iron gates at the entrance. They were tied shut with a piece of kelly green acrylic yarn to keep the dogs out. Now that couch, the sideboard where Grandpa kept Irish whiskey, the china cabinet where Grandma kept the good china and silver, are all downstairs in my living and dining room. In the evening, Grandpa would take the dogs out for a run, and we'd go with him, to the fields at the edge of town (now new housing developments), where the Great Dane, Dachsund, and a series of German Shepherds would chase rabbits, and where I memorized the smell of the earth in that part of the world--a cross between raw peanut shells, dust, and something else, probably farm chemicals, with faint breezes of eucalyptus and the sweet smell of alfalfa.
Grandma once told me I mortified my mother by saying, "I always love coming to Grandma's because it's so clean." It was--she always had housekeepers, several of whom were at the funeral, as well as the grandnephew of one of the housekeepers I best remember: her son and later grandnephew would play in the pool with us and, later, when the grandnephew's parents became addicted to drugs, Grandma reluctantly gave up her support for his mother, who had been a state track star and for whom Grandma had entertained hopes of a college scholarship and possible Olympic career, and turned instead to taking the grandnephew under her wing. He spent a lot of time at her house, and indeed went on to college and a lucrative career in Northern Big City. He somehow found out about the funeral--one of his aunts must have told him--and surprised us all by walking in towards the end of the service and sitting in back with his wife. Afterwards, I apologized for having started the funeral before he arrived, and he said, "no, I drove all the way from Big City, I was just glad to get there before it was over." He and my sister--who remembered him much better than I do--enjoyed getting caught up and swapping stories of their kids.
So Grandma's housekeepers, it must be said, were really responsible for the well-kept house; but Grandma, of course, was responsible for the overall sense of order and calm. The television was hardly ever on, and I never missed it. I remember her scolding me once for wanting to eat in front of the tv so I could watch the Olympics; from her I continue to hold the idea that meals are a time for sitting together and talking. My cousin said, and it's true, that we learned the art of conversation there. It always surprises me, at other people's houses, that families spend so much time watching television together. We do it too, sometimes, and it's one of my unhappinesses with my current domesticity. I want to achieve what Grandma did: a house that's calm, and peaceful, with space to sit and talk in the evening. It wasn't really a kids' house--she had some childrens' books in the yellow bedroom where we slept, and I certainly read those, but there weren't really toys or crafts or lots of kid-centered activities. Instead, the grownups went about their business--preparing meals, running errands, feeding dogs--and, for the most part, we were left free to find our own entertainment, reading or swimming; or hanging around talking to the grownups; or going along on errands. As we got older, of course, we'd help with the cooking, or wash dishes, or feed the dogs, or help my dad sweep the pool, or put the laundry away. There was never a sense of being assigned chores, but there was also never a sense of "just leave it for the maid"--Grandma would have been angry and appalled at that kind of attitude. Instead, it was a house where people were expected to clean up after themselves, and where doing so seemed as natural as breathing; where the decor didn't change in thirty years (except when she updated the kitchen wallpaper), but everything was durable enough and well-maintained enough and chosen so carefully that it never looked worn or outdated; where books were dusted; where the scent of the house, the second I walked through the unlocked door and announced my presence, never failed to make me feel immediately relaxed, happy, at home.
I have one of Grandma's old coats--camel-colored cashmere, with a white fur collar. When I came into posession of it, the ticket stub from when Grandma and Grandpa flew to my wedding was still in the pocket. For the first year I wore it, it still smelled of her and her closets. Even now, if I bury my face in the fur, it faintly retains the odor of home.