Maternal Grandparents And Relatives

I would now like to speak about my maternal grandparents, who were my second set of parents.   My first memory is of being at my grandparents’ home, and probably dates around the summer of 1957.  And, it was my Uncle Wayne talking to me that I remembered.  I was still in a diaper at the time (my mother said that I wore diapers until I was at least 2 years old).  Of course, I was not speaking then (yes, I was an extremely late developer), but I still remember having some vague thoughts, and I understood the verbal question given to me in this memory, though no words seemed to form in my mind, just “picture impressions” .  I actually remember my uncle asking me if I had messed up in my diaper, while I walked/staggered up a path to the porch of my grandparents’ home. I spent many a weekend at my grandparents’ home over the years (and when I turned 15 I lived there for 3 straight months painting their home, and hanging out with local teenage girls).  My parents were very liberal in allowing me to spend as much time with my grandparents as they could tolerate.  The biggest issue in the early years was that my sister and I fought quite a bit, so Grandma would try to keep the peace where possible, and sometimes limit our time at their house accordingly, or just allow one of us at a time to stay.

Grandma was a fine seamstress, and she would make us pajamas every Christmas.  When my cousin Brian finally came of age 3 (he was 5 years younger than I), Grandma would make Brian and I pajamas of the same material.  I loved my cousin Brian, and found myself being rather protective of him, especially when playing outside with my grandmothers’ neighbors’ kids.  Brian seemed a little slow, and too gentle of spirit, and I somehow perceived that he might need my extra protection while engaging with the neighbor kids.  Even in adulthood, where he experiences life threatening alcoholism, I feel as though he could use a little extra help, but he has had no interest in my style of sobriety.  He nearly died of the complications of the delirium tremors while undergoing a colonoscopy in February of 2018, and quit drinking alcohol for a brief period, only to resume drinking at the same rate as before his near death experience.

Grandma had a record player in her living room.  It was the old style console type player, and she would occasionally play some of her music while we were there.  I think that her favorite musician was Johnny Ray, the world famous singer of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, who was Grandma’s beloved nephew and her sister Hazel’s number one son.  Grandma had a picture of Johnny in her living room, and I don’t think that there was anybody in the world that Grandma admired more.  And, Johnny is directly responsible for my life, as he saved my mother from drowning when mom was eleven years old.

Around 1980, just prior to Johnny’s death, we all went to a club in northwest Portland, called Darcelles, where Johnny performed (yes, Johnny was gay).  I do not remember too much about Johnny, or his performance, but his show was well attended, and I had to try to look through a ceiling support column in order to see him.  Grandma did not see Johnny much, because he had chosen to live in England after he became famous in the 1950’s.  But, Johnny made a point of visiting with Grandma whenever he came to town, and we have some nice photographs of his family visits.

My grandmother belonged to the Order Of the Eastern Star, Daughters Of the American Revolution, and was an active church goer, as well.  I remember when she was elected the Grand Matron, and of course Grandpa became the Grand Patron, and attending “installment” ceremonies and other events that she was required to attend.  She was so respected and loved (and my Grandpa, as well) that I was quite impressed, having never seen such love exchanged between non family members before.  She never proselytized, nor did my grandpa. My grandparents, and my mother and uncle, lived in Salem until around 1940, when they then moved up to Portland.  They were both descendants of the great pioneer movements of the 1800’s, with Grandma being a direct descendant of George Gay.  Gay participated in the Champoeg Meetings that created a provisional government in what would become the U.S. state of Oregon. George was one of the first settlers in the Willamette Valley near Salem.  He arrived in the Willamette Valley in1830, after a shipwreck on the northern California coast in 1829, and surviving a challenging journey north from the wreck. His name is on the obelisk monument at Champoeg Park.  Much of our family’s ancestral possessions are on display in museums on the premises of Champoeg Park, as well.

Grandma showed to me that she  had some serious identity issues.  She was ashamed of her Native American heritage, and recoiled whenever somebody hinted that she might have some ancestry there (she did, of course, as she was the granddaughter of George Gay and an Indian bride).  A side story to this is that in 1995, Sharon and I brought Grandma to our house to die, after she was discharged from the hospital for lymphoma.  While in an altered state, she found herself surrounded by Indians doing a ceremony around her.  She was quite upset about it, even though it showed to us a probable internal healing action by her true self. Grandpa had quite a challenging life, as far as his physical health went.  While in the military he contracted malaria, while accompanying the troops on an exercise in Cuba.  He is said to have developed sleeping sickness as a result, as well, and carried symptoms of this throughout his life.  He had vision problems as well, and he went through a period of his life when he was almost blind.  He contracted diabetes fairly late in life, and I remember him injecting insulin near mealtimes.  I also remember him describing in great detail the tests that were run for diabetes.  He would have to drink a quart of syrupy liquid, and then another a short time later, and have his blood sugar checked.  This would occur a couple more times.  The diagnosis as a result of these “distasteful” tests was that he had diabetes, and he would have to change his food choices in order to protect his health, in addition to injecting insulin into his body a couple times a day.  But, the damage had already begun, and Grandpa was starting to have some of the blood circulation problems typical of a diabetic.

I do not remember much of Grandpa’s work career, other than he was a security guard at Safeway for a period of time.  Grandpa was not the big communicator, but when he did speak, he usually spoke very lovingly, gently, and encouragingly, towards all of the grandchildren.  I really grew to love my grandpa’s style over the years, and I deeply respected him.  He had his quirks, like all of us do.  He had quite a habit of being a smoker, especially later in life.   His shirts and his favorite chair were decorated with burn holes from the cinders that dropped from his burning cigarettes, which seemed to happen quite regularly.  He was usually napping at the time when it happened, so the cinders would burn nice sized holes in his chair before he would become aware of the situation.  My father would razz him about it, accusing him of attempting to prematurely cremate himself.

My grandpa was a proud Mason, and would eventually introduce me into the movement after I became sober in 1987.  Grandpa’s health was poor once he was into his seventies.  One time, he was hospitalized, and died on the operating table during a surgical procedure.  Grandpa told me that the “Hand Of The Lord” was just being extended to him, and he was reaching back to it, with a newfound incredible peace of mind, and all of his body pain dissolved, when he was jerked back into his body on the operating table.  He was SO DISAPPOINTED to have to come back into this world.  When we got together to visit with each other, we would give each other hope because of each of our unique spiritual experiences, his of the “greeting with the Lord” and me with my opening to the spiritual energies of the universe subsequent to my recovery from drug addiction and alcoholism. When grandpa’s health continued to deteriorate, he wanted me to “give him a pill” so that he could leave this world, as he had no fear of death, knowing that peace and perfection and love awaited him.  It broke my heart when our family could not support his dying days in his own home.  Late in 1989 the family placed him in a disgusting nursing home, as my grandmother was not strong enough to help him with his wheelchair existence, which came in the end days.  My parents and aunt and uncle did not have the time or money to provide home support, so he languished in the nursing home.  It is because of my distress and heartbreak around these issues that my wife Sharon and I stepped up and provided care for my grandmother at the end of her life in 1995, until her final placement at the Hopewell House her final week of life.  My father also directly benefited from my desire to help deteriorating and dying family members, and I was able to help my father finish his life in his own home. Chapter Fourteen-My Life This is the part of the journey that I don’t feel too comfortable writing about, which is the foundational information about my childhood.  Putting to words the perceptions and experiences around being a youth, from the current perspective of a nearly 63 year old man, is difficult.  My intention is not to resort to “revisionist history” when it comes to presenting the memories and experiences of my childhood.   And, I will only resort to editorials where I perceive that it might enhance or develop the story in a way that could not be done so otherwise.

I have read in the medical reports that I was fed formula from the earliest of ages, as Mom did not nurse me.  My mother started back to work two weeks after my birth, because of the need of my father to pay off debts.  I became a by-product of many baby-sitter relationships, as well as loving family connections.  I was a fussy, crying baby, and caused much distress within our household.  A story about my early childhood was shared with me from a US postal clerk, who sought me out when I started working at the USPS in 1975.  He had been an acquaintance of my father since my father started working at the postal service.  Apparently, when my father was much younger and working two jobs , both for the Oregonian, and for the USPS, he only had limited time for sleep. Because I was a “crying baby” that kept him awake at nights, mom and dad would bundle me up into blankets and leave me in the garage, in the car, at night, until he left at 3:00am for his first job of the day. He first delivered newspapers for the Oregonian, then he would go to his regular day job at the US Postal Service.  When asked, my mother and father both confirmed that this actually happened, though they could see no harm could have been done to me through this isolation.. The intersection of family history and my birth in November of 1955  created some interesting, and, at times, amazing stories for me.  My Uncle Worth died in February of 1955, nine months in advance of my own birth. His photo is included here, along with his wonderful wife, Aunt Effie.  Aunt Effie also died before I had any awareness, when I was less than a year old. My grandparents , as well as my mother and her brother, my uncle Wayne,. all dearly loved their Uncle Worth and Aunt Effie.

When I was 4 years old, my grandfather showed me this chair. I immediately recognized it, and claimed it as my own. I “remembered fashioning every piece by my own hands, and assembling it together myself”. The actual complete process that was undertaken for making the chair formed as a continuous internal video for me.  How could I have possibly have that memory as a 4-year-old? Of course my mother guffawed, and stated that it was a store-bought chair that my grandfather had owned outright since he was young. I “knew better” and to this day, the memory of the chair, and its actual presence in our home, both haunts, and comforts me.  It is now known that Uncle Worth was the original owner of the chair, that he was the maker of the chair, and that he passed it down to Grandpa, who then gave it to me.  To this day, I still cling to this chair, and I refuse to even consider giving it away.

I still sit down in the chair on occasion, and I feel a mysterious, beautiful peace and completion when I sit in the chair. Looking at my history, I have chosen to remain seated in Life’s Mystery.