Dear Lyla,
In my last letter I introduced you to my childhood friend Granny Bailey. While Granny was special to our family there were many others at the nursing home that we looked forward to visiting on a regular basis. Bumpa struck up friendships with many of the residents that lived at the facility opposite the shore of the lake on which we lived. What a beautiful view at that nursing home; one could watch the soothing roll of the lake all day long if so inclined. Bumpa soon realized that although, the panorama was spectacular, many of its inhabitants lived incredibly solitary lives. Too many souls had no family to speak of and unfortunately even more had absentee family members. It is a sad reality little one that the aged in our culture are often overlooked or discarded; a judgment that somehow they had outlived their usefulness and had nothing more to offer. Bumpa would categorically deny such a fallacious conclusion, he would argue that the stories they have to tell are a rich bounty deserving of our respect and admiration. Many who knew Bumpa and Grandma Jo would characterize him as dynamic and assertive and Grandma as nurturing and stable; these assessments are both correct. However, your Grandma is a tiger little one and your Bumpa was all mush on the inside. Together Bumpa and Grandma knew that once introduced to these sage and interesting individuals it was an impossibility to forget their existence; to ignore the need for human interaction would be the unkindest cut of all. That winter Bumpa and Grandma began a holiday tradition that lasted until after I had left for college. Beginning in November Grandma would rally the troops to make dozens upon dozens of cut out sugar cookies; when December arrived an assembly line at the kitchen table was established to decorate the cookies. It was a sight to see; the family covered in frosting of bright Christmas colors and sprinkles everywhere! A week before Christmas all of the cookies had been adorned and it was time to make old fashioned fudge; Patti and I frequently fought over who got to lick the spoon. On December 23rd, as there was no school, Grandma, Patti and I would begin to assemble individual goodie packages; it took all day long. Grandma always made it a fun experience; there would be hot cocoa, Christmas music and lots of laughs. Bumpa, normally an imposing and larger than life character, became almost childlike; he was more likely to steal cookies and fudge than Patti and me. Those Christmases when it snowed lightly during these preparations were my favorite, it was almost like a blessing from heaven; an acknowledgment of our holiday offerings. On Christmas Eve day we would sleep in and lounge in our PJs as long as possible; it would be a long night. That evening we would get dressed up in our holiday best and head to church. To me candlelight services are always special and magical; but when I was younger singing the last strains of “Silent Night” meant that our Christmas Eve had just begun. Having loaded up the goodies prior to church meant we would only have to go back to the house to pick up one item before heading out on our appointment rounds; the dog. Our dog Mutley played prominently in our plans for holiday merriment. Dressed in a red and green sweater, resplendent with tinkling bells, Mutley would lead our family through the front doors of the nursing home; this is when our Christmas Eve really began! We went from room to room giving each resident a pack full of goodies; Grandma even made sure there were special sugar free treats for those with diabetes and a huge plate of holiday cheer for the staff. I loved this part of our Christmas tradition; how fabulous to have that many surrogate grandparents. Endless hugs and kisses were offered as gifts in kind. Sometimes a resident would break out in song, so what else were we to do but join in! These were magical nights for our family, how blessed we were to be so loved and welcomed on one of the most special eves of the year. As we made our way through the facility to head home Bumpa and I would stop one last time to see Granny Bailey. As I got older I understood the pain of what it meant to have no family left to care for or about our elderly friends and I was in a melancholy state by the time I reached Granny’s room. Granny immediately sensed I was in distress and so I shared my grief with her; she smiled, patted my hand and said “Dear, you are their family.” She was right little one; when you give of yourself to others the love you share will find its way back, in spades.
Letters To Lyla 