For Grandpa

Sunday, August 24, 2008

My wonderful, kind, and heroic Grandpa, Stephen John Richards, passed away the Sunday before last. He was a beautiful man and left his grandchildren with many lovely memories. Below is merely a few of them, as told by by my brother Stevie, his name sake, and me.

Cyndi:
It's funny, the things one remembers. For me, it's the sheets on the bed I occupied whenever we were lucky enough to be visiting our Grandpa and Grandma in Florida. It always seemed to be summertime on those occasions, the weather hot and humid enough that sheets were sufficient for night time cover. These were white and covered with pill-balls, but bedecked by a repeating pattern of grinning tabby cats wearing red high top sneakers, laces in neatly looped bows. It seemed lighter at night than I was used to, warmer as well, and I sometimes found it hard to fall asleep. Instead I would count the tabby cats, thinking of Grandpa telling me how Aunt Kass would draw cats riding horses. These sheets had been hers once, when she was young enough to live at home. I found it oddly thrilling sleeping in her white four poster bed.

On those sweltering summer days, we spent many happy hours at the pool next door, diving for rings, exploring the bottom of the pool through foggy goggled eyes. On one occasion, I had a pressing need to go to the bathroom, so Grandpa walked me back over to his house early, assuring me my brothers and Dad would be close behind.

The smells were different in Grandpa's house, as was the texture of the carpet in the room my brothers and I shared. My feet were more sensitive after coming from the pool and it reminded me vaguely of stepping on yarny little worms. I hung my bathing suit and goggles on the white bed post, hearing a faint tapping on the carpet as the dripping water saturated a spot on the carpet below. After changing back into the customary shorts and tank top I wandered out into kitchen where Grandma stood at the stove, stirring a pot pf Beanie Weenies, to which she added extra hot dogs. Grandpa, in a striped shirt, Bermuda shorts, and striped tube socks pulled up to his calves, sat at the table reading the paper. He looked up and smiled as I came in, removing his glasses, reaching for the can of Hi-C still chilly from the fridge, and pouring some into the sparkling yellow cup for me.

"Did you get all the water out of those ear pans Cinderbug?" He asked. I shook my head "no" and heard the water slosh.

"Well make sure you sleep on that side tonight, and it will come out while you sleep." It had, of course, in a warm trickle onto one of the red sneakers of the cat on the pillow case, a larger version of his clones that adorned my sheets. The same pillow which, every time I arrived for a visit, inevitably held a Barbie or new stuffed animal for me.

"Do you have any paper?" I asked him, wiping the Hi-C from my lip. "I want to draw you a picture." Grandma crossed the beige and brown linoleum and pushed a yellow pad and pen over to me.

"Here you go," she said, "What are you going to draw?"

"I'll show you," I said setting to work. I gripped the pen, scratching along the paper, until a crooked pig emerged. On his head I drew two attenuated little antennae with bulbous ends.

"Ooh, what are those? Those don't look like any pigs I've ever seen," Grandpa said, humoring me.

"They're Pigaliens!" I announced, proud as punch.

"My! Pigaliens! Have you ever seen a Pigalien Marge?" He asked.

Grandma glanced at the wide array of ceramic pigs adorning her kitchen window sill. "Nope, no pigaliens there." She remarked.

"Grandpaa!" I droned, dramatically, " they're not real!"

"Well how do you know?" He asked, his face the picture of innocence. I shrugged. I guess I didn't.

"You better sign and date this." Grandpa remarked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well when you are a famous artist someday, this will be worth lots of money." He explained.

"But I'm not going to be a famous artist. I'm going to be a teacher." I replied.

"Maybe so," Grandma agreed. "But you better sign and date it, just in case." I did so with great importance, carefully lettering Cindy Lynn Richards in my labored child's script, then handed it over to Grandma, who placed it on the fridge, securing it with a pig magnet. She returned to the stove to stir lunch as the front door opened and closed, announcing my brothers and dad returning from the pool. They shuffled wetly to our shared room to change. Grandpa rose and walked to the cabinet, returning with a can of macaroons. He glanced at Grandma, her back was to us, and slid a macaroon across the table. He winked at me and popped one in his mouth, then quietly returned the tin to the cupboard.

I stealthily palmed the macaroon and took small bites every time Grandma's back was turned, finishing after several moments. I felt something deeply significant had transpired. Twenty years later, I still do.

The sum total of these experiences, after all is said and done, cannot be adequately measured by the passing of time, nor in beginnings or ends. Instead, they are counted in ripples and in folds, in the aligning of like hearts with shared tendency, in continuance of traditions, in the persistence of memories.

The other day, I sat at my kitchen table making a water color with Matty.

"Remember to sign and date it," I said when we finished.

"Why do you always say that?" He asked in his innocent way. He was right of course, I always did.

"Because some day, when you are a famous artist, this will be worth lots of money."

"But I'm not going the be a famous artist." He insisted.

"You never know." I replied. "You better sign it just in case." He did, of course, with great importance.

Stevie:
The other day I asked Mom to get me a grapefruit at the grocery store, not having had one for many years. I was surprised to see how muscle memory took over. I cut the large fruit in half , and with a spoon stumbled along the edges until the grapefruit was loose. I took the first bite and instantly i was transported back to Grandma and Grandpas kitchen. I could smell coffee, I could see Grandpa with his big glasses on reading the newspaper. I had looked up from my memory and realized that i was finished with the grapefruit. I began to clean up....what was i doing? I forgot the most important part, i took a glass from the cupboard and like grandpa squeezed the juice into the glass careful to remove the seeds. i took a long drink from it and it just made the memory all the more complete. Its true though, the quaint memories that your brain chooses to remember over others. I remember the blow up snake in the fruit tree in the back yard, i remember a bag of neon space men the size of army men, tucked into the tv one visit. I remember playing to vigorously with a sword laden toy once, and the sword went into someones drink. above all though i remember swimming. the tight floaties restricting my movement, grandpa slicing through the water using his hand to squirt water at us all, telling us it was a water skeeter. and then at the end of the days swimming activities, grandpa would help me out of the pool, he'd towel off my back and then wrap the towel around me. He'd stand next to me with his towel wrapped the same, and then he'd bend at his knees and press the towel along his shorts the water would wring out, he showed me how to do it and there wed stand side by side knees bent bouncing up and down on our feet getting the water out of our shorts. i remember how good the Hungry Howies pizza tasted, and how i've never found pizza that tasted anything like it. taking rides in the big car to see the eagles high in the mossy trees. i was so young but those memories are the ones i remember the clearest. I know regret serves no purpose, but i do have regrets, i regret not getting to know my grandfather . I want him to know, that if i do anything in this life, i want to be the man he was, the magic in his smile , the cute nick names he would use, the zest for life he had. I never got to tell him how much these things meant to me how precious it all was.

We love you Grandpa. You will be missed.

Exercise Alternatives

Monday, August 18, 2008

I hate running. With a passion. HATE it. Some (crazy) people have told me that one can become addicted to running, that all of the sudden one day you get a rush of endorphins and from then on you must run in order to get your "fix." Obviously I never kept with it long enough to to experience this miraculous event. My endorphins seem to favor doughnuts and chips. I mention running and they run screaming to the nearest synapse where they can cower in fear and refuse to come out until I buy them a make up doughnut. With extra sprinkles of course. I myself find the sprinkles fairly immature, but something about them pleases the dorphies.

I was taking stock the other night as I sat dumping the rubble and dust from a bag of barbecue chips down my gullet. I came to a not so startling long overdue realization. I hate exercise. In all its forms. I have not found one single activity that I can do and enjoy consistently. Allow me to illustrate for you all of the forms of exercise I have attempted to be consistent with over the years

Calf raises -Age 12-My dad has the world's most perfect calves. None of his children were fortunate enough to inherit these. Instead, my leg is roughly chicken leg shaped. Rounded at the thigh, boney and ridiculous at the calf. As I bemoaned this fact to my dad at the age of 12, he suggested that I try to build up my calves via calf raises. I started doing as many as I could after being dropped off at middle school by the bus every morning. No noticeable difference, other than strange looks and whispers from my fellow junior highers. In fact, my calves lost weight, making them even more scrawny than before. Fail.


Beef jerky can filled with rocks (no, I'm not kidding) - Age 12 - After my brilliant plan to enlarge my calves didn't work, I then decided that perhaps I could make everything more proportional by slimming my thighs. Having no access to a home gym or any of the handy exercise tapes at the time, I hatched a what I thought to be a visionary plan to create weights by filling a beef jerky can with rocks from our alley. I would then sit on the end of my bed, toes pointed ceilingward, and balance the can of rocks on my ankles while straightening my legs. Well, I think I have addressed the topic of my coordination thoroughly enough that any of you reading can guess how this went. Bruised foot, rocks on floor, shapeless thighs remained.

Step up platform - Age 14 -
Overly ambitious and allowance money to burn, I purchased a large turquoise rectangular chunk of Styrofoam that Walmart had branded the "Step it Up," along with its accompanying tape, complete with over caffeinated spandex clad bouncy instructor. During the first workout I managed to trip on said Step it Up, loose my balance, and fall on top of my guinea pig cage. Bruises, shame, pissed off guinea pig, but alas, no increase in fitness level.

Tai Bo - Age 21 - This one I actually kept at for a solid month on the STBN diet. If you don't know what that is, go Google. Then I went on a trip and remembered what naught food looked like. Consequently, it looked significantly more appealing than Billy Blanks encased in spandex. If I'm EVER looking at something wrapped that tight, it better be a sausage. Bratwurst, preferably. Or Cheddarwurst *drools. Yes, well, anyway. They didn't work.

Gym membership #1 w/ personal trainer and eating program - Age 22 -Total Fitness - My first experience with a personal trainer. He made me bench press things. He drew up an eating plan for me. It repeated the same three meals every day. "You don't mind repetitive meals do you? I know I don't" he said, neck veins bulging. I kicked him in the shin and ran away.

Pilates series- Age 23 - Literally, I ordered it, and ten minutes later was eating my "I better get all my snacking in before the DVDs arrive and I have to get serious" bag of Cheetos, when decided I didn't really need to be that flexible. And Mari Windsor did have a slightly crazed look about her. And the chick in the demonstration had a funky toe. Probably pilates wasn't for me, I decided licking the away the orange Cheeto dust. DVDs arrive, find a home on the shelf, gather dust.

Gym membership #2 w/o personal trainer/w/Tanning Pass and Special K diet - Age 23 - Okay, so the pilates didn't work out. When the flier arrived for a $9.95 gym membership I waddled in and signed up, this time refusing the person trainer. No offense Brock. I did however sign up for the tanning pass, thinking that perhaps bronzing my lard would somehow motivate me to actually lose some. Simultaneously I decided I would give the Special K diet a try. You know, the one where you eat nothing but cardboard flakes for breakfast and lunch and by dinner time you crap out a box? Anyhoo - long story short - tanning proved to redden rather than bronze the fat, making it extraordinarily difficult to sit on any exercise machine. Instead I consoled myself by wolfing a tub of Godiva Raspberry chocolate truffle ice cream. Needless to say, I didn't go back. And also forgot to cancel the membership. In fact, I think I'm still being charged for it.

Power 90 - Age 24 - This was by far the most successful. And low and behold I actually stuck with it 90 days and lost 30 some odd pounds. But then I remembered food. And I like food. And I ate food. And got fat. Tony Horton and his fitness minions still live in my DVD case next to the pilates DVDs. I'm waiting for he and Mari Windsor to breed a super-race from my media cabinet any time now.

Gym membership #3 - Age 27 - This would be the ill fated on campus gym where I currently work. Where all the dudes go to grunt and sweat over their lunch break. The gym membership I am still paying for. At the gym I have not been to since Marchish. Somehow wandering downstairs for a super duper triple chocolate chunk cookie has been so much more satisfying.

And yet, somehow, I have managed to lose weight since the beginning of the year and am back in my Power 90 clothes. *Shrugs.

This settles it. I will not run again. Unless someone is chasing me with a gun. Or a knife. Or better yet, a gun and a knife. Moreover, no running for Cyndi unless she is being chased with several really big guns and really big knives.



-Cyndi