Of Death and Dying

[peter_mary]

I've been waiting for this for a long time. This morning, my Grandfather passed away after suffering for 5 years under the ravages against his dignity thanks to Parkinson's disease.

I take after my grandfather in lots of ways, but mostly I have much of him to take away...he was one of those characters that helped shape my life.

Five years ago, I happened to have some meetings in New Orleans, and afterward, I drove to Pensacola and spent the long weekend with my grandparents. At the time, I was struggling with my exodus from the church, and didn't really know how to explain it to them since they were never Mormons. They had been, however, Southern Baptists long ago, and they understood how hard it can be. I was explaining to them that I didn't really belong any more, and that frankly, the church didn't probably WANT me anymore. He looked at me and smiled, as we both sat on the floor of his home, and said, "Hadley-chap, anyone who was ever worth anything has been kicked out of something at least once." That's what gave me that last little bit of "oomph" to bail. Shortly afterward, he was infirmed.

But here's the thing for me. I lost my paternal grandfather 10 years ago, when I was a practicing Mormon. My Grandpa wasn't a Mormon, and not real churchy though certainly faithful, and I remember thinking that he was up in heaven watching down on us...and then that thought kind of wigged me out. Was he watching me in the bedroom with my wife? Did he watch me in the bathroom? Did he watch me when I over-reacted toward my kids? Did he watch me fritter my time away at work on Postmormon.org? :D And if HE did, did God, too? I felt watched, and ashamed ALL the time.

That's SO not healthy...

It's different this time. This time, I don't worry that I'm being watched. I smile, knowing that I am a "keeper of his soul," meaning that because of how he helped shape me, I am one of the many people who carry his "life" forward, in our own, even after he's passed. It's sort of sacred, but in a mundane, earthy sort of way. It's not magical, it's not mystical, it's just the way people who love and are loved by other people perpetuate the memory and the "spirit" of someone else.

So instead of my Grandfather watching over me...I guess I'm watching over him, ensuring that his memory lives on. And not just me, but everyone he ever touched. And because of who he was, I am in part who I am, which influences how my children are, and in a sense, he lives forever...just getting more and more dispersed as each generation moves on.

What I like about this is how peaceful it makes me feel. Often we hear from churchy folks how grateful they are for a knowledge of the Plan of Salvation, and how they just don't know how they'd manage through these times without it. I'm grateful I don't have to have "unseen faith" in my model...I can see it working right here in front of me, and it brings me peace.

I'll be on airplane Thursday, headed for Florida...I hope I don't get too far ahead in my Rough Stone Rolling book to forget to come back and update that thread!

And finally this...there's a reason why I share this with you all...it's because I know that this personal information lands in sacred space among you all, too, and that your thoughts and support will help me feel all the better as I sojourn back to my Grandfather's house.

Peace from me to each of you... :)

[elder_nomo]

.......
And finally this...there's a reason why I share this with you all...it's because I know that this personal information lands in sacred space among you all, too, and that your thoughts and support will help me feel all the better as I sojourn back to my Grandfather's house.

Peace from me to each of you... :)
Peter_Mary, it's very kind of you to share these personal thoughts, and wow, so beautifully expressed. I think you have just helped many people in ways that you may never know. Thank you.
You do have our thoughts and support.
Best wishes, safe journey, peace to you.

[Born Free]

P-M,

If the traits you exhibit on this site are indicative, even in small part, of how your Grandad lives on in you and your family, then he has left a great legacy.

Your wisdom, compassion, sense of humour and intelligence are always an inspiration to me.

My thoughts go with you to Florida.

Love,
Daryl

[hamar]

P_M thanks for sharing your feelings with me/us. I will be thinking of you as you fly to my coast. I appreciate your reflections at this sensitive time for you.

Harry

[silverfox]

I've been waiting for this for a long time. This morning, my Grandfather passed away after suffering for 5 years under the ravages against his dignity thanks to Parkinson's disease.

I take after my grandfather in lots of ways, but mostly I have much of him to take away...he was one of those characters that helped shape my life.

Five years ago, I happened to have some meetings in New Orleans, and afterward, I drove to Pensacola and spent the long weekend with my grandparents. At the time, I was struggling with my exodus from the church, and didn't really know how to explain it to them since they were never Mormons. They had been, however, Southern Baptists long ago, and they understood how hard it can be. I was explaining to them that I didn't really belong any more, and that frankly, the church didn't probably WANT me anymore. He looked at me and smiled, as we both sat on the floor of his home, and said, "Hadley-chap, anyone who was ever worth anything has been kicked out of something at least once." That's what gave me that last little bit of "oomph" to bail. Shortly afterward, he was infirmed.

But here's the thing for me. I lost my paternal grandfather 10 years ago, when I was a practicing Mormon. My Grandpa wasn't a Mormon, and not real churchy though certainly faithful, and I remember thinking that he was up in heaven watching down on us...and then that thought kind of wigged me out. Was he watching me in the bedroom with my wife? Did he watch me in the bathroom? Did he watch me when I over-reacted toward my kids? Did he watch me fritter my time away at work on Postmormon.org? :D And if HE did, did God, too? I felt watched, and ashamed ALL the time.

That's SO not healthy...

It's different this time. This time, I don't worry that I'm being watched. I smile, knowing that I am a "keeper of his soul," meaning that because of how he helped shape me, I am one of the many people who carry his "life" forward, in our own, even after he's passed. It's sort of sacred, but in a mundane, earthy sort of way. It's not magical, it's not mystical, it's just the way people who love and are loved by other people perpetuate the memory and the "spirit" of someone else.

So instead of my Grandfather watching over me...I guess I'm watching over him, ensuring that his memory lives on. And not just me, but everyone he ever touched. And because of who he was, I am in part who I am, which influences how my children are, and in a sense, he lives forever...just getting more and more dispersed as each generation moves on.

What I like about this is how peaceful it makes me feel. Often we hear from churchy folks how grateful they are for a knowledge of the Plan of Salvation, and how they just don't know how they'd manage through these times without it. I'm grateful I don't have to have "unseen faith" in my model...I can see it working right here in front of me, and it brings me peace.

I'll be on airplane Thursday, headed for Florida...I hope I don't get too far ahead in my Rough Stone Rolling book to forget to come back and update that thread!

And finally this...there's a reason why I share this with you all...it's because I know that this personal information lands in sacred space among you all, too, and that your thoughts and support will help me feel all the better as I sojourn back to my Grandfather's house.

Peace from me to each of you... :)

Thank you, PM!!!! I have always struggled with the thought of those who have passed "watching" us. How ridiculous it seems now!

[flotsam]

Here's a little something I wrote about my grandmother, who seems to have played the same role in my life that your grandfather played in yours.


A lot of ideas and emotions go through people’s heads when their grandmothers die. Some ruminate over fond memories. Others regret the loss of an extraordinary cook.

All plan pre-emptive strikes on the inheritance.

I plead guilty to each of these charges. After all, Grandma Swenson’s “Day-old Macaroni and Cheese, lima bean, chili and tuna goulash, fortified with a dash of wheat bran” simply had no peer, and the legends of the “Bottle of Cayenne Pepper Stew” along with “The Night of the Living Peanut Butter Meat Loaf” are still told at family reunions. I hope Grandma’s eternal reward includes a cookbook and a few lessons with Julia Childs. But the day my grandmother died, what really got to me was that I was 2000 miles away and therefore unable to get a jump on my inheritance.

And what was the object of my vile plottings? It wasn’t her music collection; I’m not sure what I would have done with easy listening versions of Beatles songs, or a tape set entitled “Classical Music for People Who Hate Classical Music.” My sights were not even set on her exer-cycle or the Swedish billboard she stored in her basement. I was only after the files.

I had personally helped build those files: newspaper clipping by newspaper clipping, article by article until my grandmother and I had succeeded in creating a steel-clad bastion of information nothing short of spectacular – or monstrous, depending on which side of the handtruck you’re working. A quick mental tour through my grandmother’s house reveals the magnitude of our venture. In the television room we have three full-sized filing cabinets, in the dining room, six. The master bedroom sports another five, and the spare bedroom two. That’s sixteen cabinets that come immediately to mind. We are not counting the other nests of information breeding throughout the house: the three issues of the Provo Daily Herald that lie on the folding table next to the recliner, the bulging accordion files of articles awaiting transport, the Reader’s Digests stacked next to the toilet, or the countless desks, tables and bookshelves that house still more fodder for the omnivorous brain of my grandmother.

I was about 14 when I first started into my grandmother’s service. If you had looked up the word gangly in Webster’s Dictionary that year you would have found my name listed along with “see also: geek, halitosis, body odor.” There wasn’t much going for me at the time. A kid stuck in the suburbs with no decent social references. For Pete’s sake, I wore black all the time. But for some reason, I could exist without offending too many gods inside my grandmother’s house. Perhaps it was because the house was as confused as I was: a square, brick tank of a place with a cement porch. The windows were old and wavy, giving the world outside a myopic, slightly seasick look. The décor suggested that the blind lived here: a motley of steel and wooden desks, stalagmitish floor lamps, desperately 70s sofas, and just about anything else the Salvation Army would be happy to slap a 90 percent off sticker on.

This is the environment where my grandmother practiced a slash and burn style of reading. When piece of newsprint caught Grandma’s eye her pen leapt up, almost of its own accord, and scribbled a subject above the headline of the article. The word would be something like: politics-Utah, books to read, hygiene - oral. Then the scissors would fly up and with the finesse of a first-grade teacher, she would carve the article out and send it fluttering into a box. This was where I came in. It was my job to alphabetize the articles in the accordion file and then start the delicate process of stuffing each article away in its appropriate folder somewhere inside the sheet metal bowels of the filing cabinets. Grandma actually paid me to do this. She loved her files that much. The problem was, between Grandma’s reading habits and my filing methods, we were lucky to get anywhere.

Sitting atop a stool whose corrugations bit through my jeans into my rump, I read almost as much as she did. Starting in the A section, I was able to file with little regret the articles with subjects like aneurisms, atlases, and Abraham Lincoln, but then the word acne would catch my eye. Of the many genetic inheritances I received, a chronic case of pimples was one of the most prominent at the time. I was inhabited by what my caustic dermatologist (come to think of it, could a dermatologist even survive his job without being caustic?) called “a smattering,” as his scalpel and syringe went to work. It was as if grandma was thinking of me when she saw that article. Who else among her progeny could have taken such an interest in it? In any case, I read it.

I read probably one in every seven articles – especially when I got to the B and S cabinets, where the “body” files and others were located. There were always some pictures of interest to a hormone with legs, though sadly, all clipped from health magazines. Of course, I was very cautious about my reading. Whenever Grandma came through I became a busy little bee, flitting from file to file. But when she was gone, I somehow got stopped on files I had never seen before: true crime, strippers, letter to Pope.

My heart was not so hard that I did not start to feel a little guilty for stealing this time and money from my grandmother. From time to time I would try to make up for my wrongdoings by filing as quickly as I could, passing over many an arresting article in the process (conspiracies, nuclear holocaust, Tammy Fay Baker – a swimsuit model, I hoped). But inevitably the siren of information drew me in and I went back to my evil ways.

One day, Grandma caught me. I didn’t even hear her coming. But there she was, standing in the doorway watching me. I looked up, stricken with guilt, wondering if I was going to lose my job. I couldn’t find much to say. “Whatcha reading?” she asked. I showed it to her: an article on suicide. She glanced over it. Then we talked for the next half hour about suicide – something every healthy teenager thinks about from time to time. She gave the article back to me. “Have at it,” she said.

Suddenly it dawned on me that I hadn’t been hired only to compile information; I had been enrolled in Grandma’s University: student body, one. After that, I was a faster filer. No longer ridden by guilt, I found that I picked out interesting articles more discriminately (dating, adultery, mortuaries) and filed the dull ones quickly. Lunchtime with Grandma was a pleasure – in spite of the meal. I always had a million ideas to talk to her about from that day’s reading, and she was always willing to chew on them with me.

However, the files weren’t only for me. Though she loved her labyrinth of half-digested information, Grandma practiced a true renunciation of worldly goods. If someone mentioned an interest in a subject Grandma had covered in her cabinets, they were sure to get an appropriate manila folder the next time he or she saw her. Grandma always said she wanted them back, but as curator of her collection, I know that returns were rare. Oh well, all the more reason to collect some more.

I was living in Toronto when Grandma died, simply too far away and too busy to cast in my two bits. So my mom and her sisters thinned the files down little by little, finding what they wanted to keep, removing cabinets as they emptied. Doubtless the cabinets spent a few weeks in the back of the thrift store before being carted off to the dump. They were like Hindu wives, dying with their spouse.

But a few years later as my grandfather moved out of the house into my parent’s house, I finally got my whack at the files. At first, I thought I could cart off the lot, and like a hero in a 19th century novel, continue the collection in memory of my elders. But I realized that even the most pleasant of memories weren’t worth the weight they literally carried with them. I fell into the vanity the preacher mourned,
“in which my successor, my reader
discounts my lifework
in a snobbish indifference …
and my books, my record
fade and crack in the sun” (Ecclesiastes 179).

The apartment my wife and I lived in simply wasn’t big enough, partially because I had started my own fledgling library, and space was already starting to diminish. When I walked away from Grandma’s house for the last time, I carried a box containing a collection of hilarious pamphlets published in the 1960s by the Mormon Church, some family letters, a file intriguingly entitled “Stupid People,” and a treasury of mortuary brochures Grandma herself had authored. The rest, presumably, is currently producing methane gas in the Provo City Municipal Landfill.

A few months after the last cabinets had vanished, George Washington University gathered a collection of May Swenson’s letters and files. My grandfather (one of her brothers) got hundreds of dollars for his collection. I felt kind of bad that the university was not aware of the legendary files of May’s sister-in-law. I think, in terms of work and dedication, they ranked with some of the great neurotic works of art this world has produced such as “The Throne of the Seventh Host of the Seraphim,” an alter and throne built by an inner city janitor out of bits of foil and candy wrappers. And certainly, the files could have been made into an experimental novel to make James Joyce drool simply by reading every article in order, or in reverse order, or randomly. Whatever.

George Washington University could have had all this, except that it probably didn’t have the room for the files either.

But all was not lost. Those files, and their cranky curator, were the best education a gangly teenager ever got paid for.

[peter_mary]

Such beautiful expressions, all of you!

And flotsam...thank you SO much for sharing your memories of your Grandma...I drank it up!

[free thinker]

P-M,

If the traits you exhibit on this site are indicative, even in small part, of how your Grandad lives on in you and your family, then he has left a great legacy.

Your wisdom, compassion, sense of humour and intelligence are always an inspiration to me.

My thoughts go with you to Florida.

I can't put this any better than Daryl so I am just going to second this thought.

ft

Oh, and PS. Flotsam the story was superb. I was sitting on the floor of your Grandmas house, looking out those opaque windows, trying to make sure she didn't catch me ogling the pretty lady on the cover of Look magazine. I was there man.

ft

[peter_mary]

One good deed deserves another...I'm not the writer that flotsam is, but it's meaningful to me to post this...

I actually wrote this two years ago, the last time I saw my Grandfather, but I just finished it today.

WHEN CUPS RUN OVER

by Peter_Mary

Charles Brown hobbled into my grandparent’s home leaning on a new cane, complete with an ergonomic handgrip. It had been a year since he had seen Grandfather, both of them having spent more time in and out of hospitals and bed in the past twelve months than they had their entire life. There wasn’t time for socializing, what with all the doctorizing that had to be taken care of. But today, Charles felt pretty good, and while he and Donna were out driving around on a glorious spring Sunday, he announced he’d like to go pay a visit to John Miller. It was my privilege to be there when they arrived.

Though he’d been known as Old John for as long as I could remember, at this point in his life, he really was old. He greeted Charles while seated in his recently acquired wheelchair with a loving and a longing that I sensed was stronger than I had the capacity at this point in my life to appreciate. Easing his sore old frame into the chair in Grandfather’s living room, Charles smiled knowingly at the old friend in front of him. Among the years and adventures that these two men had shared as friends, they had also flown as pilots in World War II, members of a fraternity that has all but expired.

“Do you want to be closer?” my mother asked, wheeling Grandfather over so that he was knee to knee with Charles. A couple of old war-birds, grounded after all these years, perched together once for a few minutes of, well, mostly just being together again.

“I got one of those, too,” noted Charles, with a nod to Grandfather’s chair. At least that’s what we assumed he meant. He may have been telling Grandfather, “I’ve got one of those old bodies, too, the kind that ran pretty well for so many years, but that seems to be requiring an awful lot of service these days.” Whatever he meant, what seemed to be known between them both was a degree of understanding for the trials and pain, the indignities and struggle of bringing these old war-birds into the hangar for the last time. As much as we try to appreciate all that Grandfather was enduring, the simple truth is that we can’t. But Charles did.

It was quite an experience, sitting there and watching this reunion and wondering what it all meant to them. But I know what it meant to me, and to Daniel, who at 17 years old was three generations removed from the memories that flooded the space we shared with those two old men. Old men who are much smaller in physical stature than they have been since they were boys, but whose history fills the room like a pair of old giants.

Sitting in the presence of Grandfather has always, and I mean always, been a learning experience, and this was no different. Grandfather was a teacher, not by trade, but by virtue of his love of knowledge. His formal education came from the Navy, where he learned to fly and to understand the machines as well or better than the engineers who designed them. But his love of learning and teaching extended to everything around him, and I learned a lot. Some of it is odd, some of it eccentric, but all of it useful.

For instance, I learned that if you put your tools where they belong, you know where they are when you need them. I wish my children would learn that, but apparently I’ve not been the teacher that Grandfather was. I learned that when you climb out of the shower, you should dry your feet because the rug in Florida will stay damp for days and mildew if you don’t. In Idaho, that’s not really a problem, but when I walk on the bathroom floor in my socks while getting dressed, I’m always glad the floor is dry. And I learned to watch for people on the highway whose cars are beat-up. It might mean that they are careless drivers, and you don’t want to be anywhere near them when they behave carelessly again. Pass them and get some distance between you. It was from him that I learned how to stand on my head. And not least, I learned that when you are about to jump off a boat in Florida, it’s always prudent to throw someone in first to test for sharks. Grandchildren, I learned, make excellent shark testers.

One of the lessons I failed to learn as well as I should have was Grandfather’s love for the well-maintained household. Nobody could putter around the house keeping everything ship-shape like he could. A strange piece of mental detritus that floats in my brain to this day involves a few hours spent with Grandfather in the old stone house in Kansas City, where I tagged along behind him toting a screwdriver or some other tool of the maintenance trade, and helped him tighten screws, touch up paint, replace a bulb, fix a scratch, and whatever else we did that afternoon. I frankly don’t remember what we fixed, only that we were fixing stuff, and Grandfather was teaching me how to do it. These days, the chores associated with maintaining a house fall primarily to me, and though there is no love in my heart for the jobs themselves, I always experience the same sense of general satisfaction after a job completed that I felt that afternoon thirty years ago when I was rewarded with a Popsicle and a trip around the house looking for fossils in the great limestone blocks of Grandfather’s home. I hardly pick up a hammer, or pop the hood of a car, that I don’t also think of him.

Somewhat more odd, whenever I step up to the railing of a bridge, I am overcome with the need to spit in the water below. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but I cannot step across a bridge without thinking of him—and I step across a lot of bridges.

One of the interesting ironies in the life of my Grandfather was his training as a warrior, coupled with his deep and abiding appreciation for all things living. When in his presence, I couldn’t help but smile as I recalled the countless hours spent feeding animals around his house. There were the squirrels at the old stone house that came when he whistled, and for whom he purchased peanuts enough to keep a 33 gallon garbage can full of squirrel food. There were the birds, including the crows that seldom found friends in the Midwestern farm communities that he grew up in, but who always found table scraps at Grandfather’s feeders. I remember stopping at the day-old bread store in Pensacola where he purchased an entire garbage bag of bread for the bird feeders, something he did with such frequency that the store employees knew him by name. There were the scruffy and awkward bayou ducks that would fly in from all up and down Bayou Texar every time he whistled, and who were always rewarded with handfuls of cracked corn, also procured for their private dining pleasure. Those ducks wore out their welcome when they messed up his driveway, however. There were even bass that lived under the boathouse who would come when called for a handout from Old John.

It’s not a difficult thing to love the wild creatures with whom we share this planet, but few people could interact with them like Grandfather. He knew them, and respected them, and they returned that respect. I grew to respect them, too, and carry on that tradition, though with considerably less feeding. My children admire the mouse in the garage rather than try to kill it. They are excited at the sight of a snake, or a bat, and a big, interesting bug is always studied and admired instead of squashed. The deer that frequent our yard and browse my pine trees are welcome, though the neighbor’s dogs that jump in my pond are not. Just like my Grandfather, I have considered procuring a pellet gun for the express purpose of discouraging the dogs, but I almost never catch them in the act. The wild things are welcome, though, and with each act of depredation they commit to my yard, I utter the mantra I learned at the feet of Grandfather: “They’re just trying to get along in this world.” I have no intention of denying the creatures that right.

Some animals remind me outright of Grandfather, because I know of his special appreciation for them. For instance, I can never see a pelican or a porpoise without riding the memory rocket back to his house in Florida. When we would visit my Grandparents in Pensacola, one of the highlights of the trip was a porpoise spotting, or the sight of a pelican, resulting in the traditional recitation of the Pelican poem:

A wonderful bird is the pelican
His beak can hold more than his belly can
And I don’t know how the hell ‘e can

Trust me…when you’re 10 years old and you get to recite that poem without getting in trouble with your parents, that’s going to feel good!

The other thing he always said when a pelican was spotted or a fish released was, “Go make babies!” He was the first one to really introduce me to the world of conservation, teaching me about the demise of the brown pelican, and the importance of keeping them around. Having babies was critical to their survival, and 30 years later, I’m pleased to note that the pelicans paid attention to Old John. They are once again abundant in the air, on the piers, and gliding across the waves of the Gulf of Mexico. I will always wonder how they would have made it had Grandfather elected to retire in San Diego instead.

Many are the things my Grandfather said that stick in my mind like glue.

Belly up to the bar, boys, and name yer poison!

I owe it all to good clean livin’ and Mogan-David wine

I shot an arrow in the air, it came to earth I know not where

Hello, Hadley-chap

The last time I visited him when his health was still good, he told me something I will never forget, something I’ve said to others in my life who have shared a similar journey the past few years. I had been in New Orleans for a meeting, and drove to Pensacola to spend the weekend with my Grandparents in their home on Windermere. We sat together visiting in their little sitting room amid the Small Frey and the organ, and I alluded to bits of the spiritual journey that I had undertaken as of late, and the realization that I no longer belonged, in the eyes of my fellow church members, to the faith into which I had been baptized. Sitting on the floor, like he often did with us as children, he said with a smile on his face, “Hadley chap, anyone who ever was anything has been kicked out of something at least once.” Whether he intended it to be wise or witty, only he knows, but it struck me as profound and I have clung to that idea all the years since, forging within me the courage I needed to face the changes that were coming with dignity and peace.

Reflecting now on those two old war-birds in Grandfather’s living room, I realize that in the end, even life “kicks you out.” Sooner or later, we all get escorted to the door, the great and the small alike. Those who set aside this mortal clay surrounded by people who love them and remember them are leaving it better than they found it, and sitting now reflecting on my Grandfather, I am awash in a sea of memories, of love and the lessons I learned from a man whose life has been well lived.

It occurs to me that when we come to this planet, we have in our hearts two cups. One is empty, and is meant to hold the memories we will, if we are lucky, acquire on the journey. The other is full, and holds our future, all the things that life has in store for us that have yet to be discovered. As we age, the memory cup slowly fills as life’s experiences pass inexorably from one cup to the other, and I realize at the meridian of my life that my cups are each about half full. Grandfather’s memory cup is now full to overflowing, unable to contain the richness of his existence, while his future cup has hit the bottom. All dry.

There are countless emotions that stir the heart at times like these, but for me, right now, I choose to sit and drink from the cup that overflows, and be nourished by the memories I share with him. They have shaped me, and will serve to refine me the rest of my days. I intend to live as he has lived, with courage, with strength, and with wonder, and when my memory cup is all that remains, I hope that it runs over as does his, filling the time and space that exists between me and those who have drunk deeply from both cups of my life.

And I hope that my grandson tells his son all about those memories on his way home.

Belly up to the bar, Old John…this one’s on me.

John William Miller
February 20, 1918 – January 3, 2006

[puff]

I've been waiting for this for a long time. This morning, my Grandfather passed away after suffering for 5 years under the ravages against his dignity thanks to Parkinson's disease.

I take after my grandfather in lots of ways, but mostly I have much of him to take away...he was one of those characters that helped shape my life.

Five years ago, I happened to have some meetings in New Orleans, and afterward, I drove to Pensacola and spent the long weekend with my grandparents. At the time, I was struggling with my exodus from the church, and didn't really know how to explain it to them since they were never Mormons. They had been, however, Southern Baptists long ago, and they understood how hard it can be. I was explaining to them that I didn't really belong any more, and that frankly, the church didn't probably WANT me anymore. He looked at me and smiled, as we both sat on the floor of his home, and said, "Hadley-chap, anyone who was ever worth anything has been kicked out of something at least once." That's what gave me that last little bit of "oomph" to bail. Shortly afterward, he was infirmed.

But here's the thing for me. I lost my paternal grandfather 10 years ago, when I was a practicing Mormon. My Grandpa wasn't a Mormon, and not real churchy though certainly faithful, and I remember thinking that he was up in heaven watching down on us...and then that thought kind of wigged me out. Was he watching me in the bedroom with my wife? Did he watch me in the bathroom? Did he watch me when I over-reacted toward my kids? Did he watch me fritter my time away at work on Postmormon.org? :D And if HE did, did God, too? I felt watched, and ashamed ALL the time.

That's SO not healthy...

It's different this time. This time, I don't worry that I'm being watched. I smile, knowing that I am a "keeper of his soul," meaning that because of how he helped shape me, I am one of the many people who carry his "life" forward, in our own, even after he's passed. It's sort of sacred, but in a mundane, earthy sort of way. It's not magical, it's not mystical, it's just the way people who love and are loved by other people perpetuate the memory and the "spirit" of someone else.

So instead of my Grandfather watching over me...I guess I'm watching over him, ensuring that his memory lives on. And not just me, but everyone he ever touched. And because of who he was, I am in part who I am, which influences how my children are, and in a sense, he lives forever...just getting more and more dispersed as each generation moves on.

What I like about this is how peaceful it makes me feel. Often we hear from churchy folks how grateful they are for a knowledge of the Plan of Salvation, and how they just don't know how they'd manage through these times without it. I'm grateful I don't have to have "unseen faith" in my model...I can see it working right here in front of me, and it brings me peace.

I'll be on airplane Thursday, headed for Florida...I hope I don't get too far ahead in my Rough Stone Rolling book to forget to come back and update that thread!

And finally this...there's a reason why I share this with you all...it's because I know that this personal information lands in sacred space among you all, too, and that your thoughts and support will help me feel all the better as I sojourn back to my Grandfather's house.

Peace from me to each of you... :)i think you have gained the title , High priest of post mo , i can only think that moism has lost a truly great asset , thanx for your research and well written threads

[dogzilla]

How did I miss this yesterday?

P_M, my heart goes out to you and your family at this time. I lost my grandmother a couple years ago, and I can relate to everything that's been posted here. What has given me the most peace has been the same thing you've already touched on: knowing that there are parts of my gramma that I carry forward into this world, in myself. She was the gardener, the cook, the seamstress, the canner, the jellymaker in our family. Somehow, I never took up any of those things (except the gardening) very seriously until she died. Now it seems I am channeling her and still hear her voice in my head from time to time, encouraging me to carry on her legacy.

Anyway, check your e-mail before you leave town; I'm sending you my cell phone number etc. In case you manage to find your way to this end of the panhandle... I'll be here!

{{{{{{{{{{Peter_Mary}}}}}}}}}

(That's a big hug.)

[helemon]

I've been waiting for this for a long time. This morning, my Grandfather passed away after suffering for 5 years under the ravages against his dignity thanks to Parkinson's disease.


As always, thanks for sharing your thoughts with the group. I am always amazed at variety of mental disorders humans can contract. I read an article a while back about a head worn display that could help people with Parkinson's walk with a more natural gate by presenting them with squares on the floor that appeared at a distance and speed of a normal pace. This external cue helped the mind of the person with Parkinson's overcome the neural indecision that thwarted normal movement. I saw a TV show recently with Michael J. Fox, who also suffers from Parkinsons. Throughout the entire scene his character was holding a sizeable package to his chest. I suspect this was to help him control the tremors by giving his motor cortex something to focus on. I don't know why this made me think of the myriad activities the church pushes members to perform which can prevent spiritual movement and progress.

I lost my paternal grandmother when I was barely a month old. I lost all three of the rest of my grandparents during my highschool years. My maternal grandfather suffered from Lou Gerig's disease. While I would not desire to contract any mental illness in my senior years, the swiftness with which that disease worked seems merciful in a way compared to the cruel prolonged torture that can accompany diseases like Parkinsons and Alzheimers.

While my family visited my grandparents on holidays I never really got to know them on a personal level. I envy you that you were blessed with such a long and close relationship with your grandfather.

At the funerals of my grandparents I do not recall feeling a great deal of sadness or loss. I think this is due in part to my indoctrination by the Mormon church with the belief that we should not be sad at funerals because as LDS we know that we will be together forever! Aren't we so lucky! Maybe this is why BKP feels that there is no need to memorialize the dead at funerals and insteads feels they should be co-opted for missionary purposes. :Puking

I am glad you have found a way to preserve and keep alive the memory and life of your grandfather and to find peace and solice in his passing.

[free thinker]

John William Miller
February 20, 1918 – January 3, 2006


He lived through the greater part of the 20th century. Man the changes he saw.

Because of men and women like him we are free. He laid his life on the line for us. He risked his tommorrows, so that we could enjoy our todays.


Thanks for the great story. I loved it.

ft