My grandma died last Sunday night. Her obituary can be found here. I no longer have any grandparents. Grandma Berkshire was a strong woman. She grew up in the Great Depression, but she liked to point out that she grew up on a farm, so while they were poor, they had plenty to eat. She was born in Kokomo, IN, but grew up in Flora, a place I’ve never been, but one I’ve passed by a few times on my way to West Lafayette. She lived for years just down the road in Logansport, IN, where she raised 4 children, including my mom. I’ve written about her once before, so this post is likely to have some repeats.

She loved dirty jokes and beating the tar out of anyone she played at Scrabble. I only ever beat her once. She was a great partner at bid euchre, and a great grandmother altogether. When she lived in Connersville, I used to ride the bus to their house after school and watch the afternoon Disney cartoons in the kitchen. I’d sneak E.L. Fudge cookies from the cookie jar. At least I thought I did, Grandma was on to me, but pretended not to hear. It was rough at the wake. There were displays of Grandma throughout life, the book of her life with Grandpa which they received at their 50th wedding anniversary; and a book of her poems. She wrote poems for the family for the big events in our lives; I received one for my high school graduation. When I came to that page, I finally let myself cry. Grandma had so much love for all of us.

She always asked Grandpa to fix her half a drink, and when she’d feed me, she’d always try to get me to eat more, insisting “there’s only a dab left.” She saved everything. The bags bread came in, the wire twists that kept them shut, infinite plastic containers, political paraphernalia from years gone, everything. And I was terrified of coming anywhere near The Lamp.

In typical Grandma fashion, she planned her funeral ahead of time, down to the last details. Readings, songs, who she wanted to do what, even the type of flower she wanted, ivory roses, were laid out for us. My mom and Camy read the eulogy, and did a great job. They ended with a poem that Grandma had written for her own funeral, which tore the floodgates open anew. After the funeral Mass, we learned that my cousin Chris, who was singing along with my cousin Jess, said “Shit, I have to sing now?” right after the eulogy, and into the microphone. He was worried that everyone heard it. I don’t think anyone did, but if Grandma had, she’d've been, in her words, “tickled.”

There is no way to say enough about her, but it is easier to point out the excellent family that surrounds me as a testament to her love and abilities. I miss you, Grandma.

My mother’s dog Iris was killed by a coyote today in the fall rains. I remember when we got her, eleven or twelve years ago, not long after my parent’s divorce. We drove quite a distance to find the dachshund puppies and I picked the lone black & tan one from the litter. I kept her in my coat on the way home and she whimpered and yelped for hours on end. I said I was going to keep her with me through the night, but her yiping was such that I passed her off to mom that same night, and she was hers from then on. I told mom that’s how I knew that I wasn’t ready to have a child.

She had seven nipples. I called her Iris Underfoot because she was always around my feet, and I accidentally stepped on her a few times when she was a puppy sitting right behind me as I washed dishes. She grew extra bowl-legged because of this. She was a princess of a dog, and my mom would never punish her for getting into the trash or chewing through just about anything. When we had to start caging her, mom bought the largest cage for a little miniature dachshund. If ever my mom and I went to hug each other she’d grow indignant and bark and bark until we stopped. She was indignant about a lot of different things, a gallon of fuss and bother in a pint of dog. She would run and run and run and patrol the acres of yard we had and it was hilarious to watch her tear across the yard after something or someone.

She used to front on the horses in the field next door and one day Beau the horse decided to mess with her, he galloped toward her, Iris was frozen in fear, slowed and stopped in front of her and then just nudged her with his nose. She yiped and skedaddled. I’m pretty sure she never acted uppity to the horses ever again, instead choosing to regularly corner [and get sprayed by] a skunk under the deck. She wouldn’t eat, drink or poop if mom wasn’t around.

Her full name was The Lady County Blue Iris Jean McAfee MacDougal Onassis von Barnard Jean Harvey III, Esq. Berghein-Leer; and though I gave her a lot of shit, I’ll miss her.

My grandma is one tough cookie. She grew up during The Great Depression, sent a husband off to World War II, raised 4 kids and beat lung cancer. When I was little she was always a bit more frightening to me than my grandpa and I still don’t know exactly why, she was only ever really mad at me once, when I carelessly tore a chunk out of a tree while mowing her yard.

I’d often be over at my grandparent’s house during the summer, especially once I was old enough to be allowed to ride my bike the two miles to their place. Lunch was always around 11:15 and dinner around 4 or so. Grandma wasn’t too big on baking or cooking like Donna Reed, but the food was always good and there was always enough to fill up on. I used to put Bugles on each finger and eat them off one by one, or snack on Tater Skins. Sometimes when my cousins were visiting we’d be able to convince her to get a box of pizza rolls for us to share.

After grandpa died and my parents divorced I found myself stuck with the job of being the man of two houses. I would walk through the cemetary past my grandfather’s grave to get to her house. I resented this at first, I was in middle school, starting high school and there were plenty of other things I would have rather done than clean gutters and mow the yard and trim trees at two different houses. I got over this as my grandma got older and I grew older and into the realization at just how much I was needed. Relatively, I wasn’t needed very much, but it was enough to speak to me. When I went off to college the little chores would pile up until I came home on a break and I’d hear from my grandma how my mom was too busy to bother often and from my mom how my grandma needed help so often. [And I'll get in trouble from both of them if they read this].

Grandma is nearly impossible to beat at scrabble and euchre [although she makes an excellent partner at the latter]. She also kicked crossword ass when she still did them. A couple of years ago she moved out from the house in Connersville and moved to Noblesville in a sort of retirement community/assisted living sort of place, her emphysema and poor eyesight make it hard for her to do much. I don’t see her as often as I used to, and I don’t even call as often as I used to. I sometimes wonder if she still gets joy from her life and family or if she is just waiting.

Many people say that my Uncle Corbin is the spit and image of his dad, my grandpa. For the most part that is bang-on. He’s loud and stubborn and disciplined and dedicated and committed to his family. He is a firm believer that if you are going to do something, you should do it the right way [usually his way] and to the best of your ability. [A trait most of my family exhibits] When my parents divorced, Corbin decided to be a father figure for me when I needed one. For my 16th birthday he got his hands on some Notre Dame football tickets, and I got to see Lou Holtz’s last home game at the stadium, and visit ND for the first time.

Later, when I started going to school there, I’d see him just about whenever he came to campus, for a couple’s retreat with his wife, my Aunt Mary. Life at ND was particularly hard for me for a variety of reasons and I once had a long talk with Corbin about the difficulties I was having with my roommate and women and his advice and willingness to share his own tough times were immensely helpful, although I might not have realized it at the time.

Corbin is a pretty die-hard party-line Republican. He refuses to buy Grey Goose vodka because the French don’t support the US, won’t buy Coors beer because they support GLBT stuff and other things I can’t quite wrap my head around.

Corbin gave me my first cigar, at my Cousin Luke’s wedding. When we go to Canada, he usually has two or three for me as well. Corbin is a very good fisherman. It is hard to beat him when it comes to catching walleye. He also knows how to cook. His steaks and ribs and baked fish are outstanding. We always bicker and get pissed off at each other at least once on a trip to Canada, mainly because we’re so much alike personality-wise and because I’m driving the boat. We also get into fights when we are euchre partners, but again, that is the case for everyone in my family. After we’ve had time to cool down, it is like nothing happened. But over and above all, his generosity is unstinting and unending and I’m glad he’s my uncle because my life would be much less colorful and educational without him.

One of the first memories I have of my Dad is crawling underneath the “tent” he made with his leg. I was small enough and he was big enough that being under a bent leg was considered a tent. This was most likely at our house on Franklin Street. My dad was a big man. 6′3″ and over 200 pounds when I was growing up. It was easy to sit on his shoulders to put a basketball through the hoop, and from him I learned that the hoop is big enough to fit two balls through side-by-side. Other things I learned from my father include how to jig for crappie and bait a nightcrawler. For the most part I feel like I was a great disappointment to him. We had different interests, and while I didn’t realize it as a child, I don’t think we connected as people very well. He encouraged me to play baseball and basketball, but I spent my time in left field chasing butterflies and any brief court time I had, tripping over my own feet. That’s not to say we didn’t enjoy some of the same things, fishing and classic cars are both things I have a great interest in to this day. I even helped him and one of his buddies restore a 1970 GTO. Since my dad was a mechanic, he understood all about engine guts and I mainly ran the sandblaster and was gopher.

When my mom filed for divorce I saw a side of my father that I’d either never seen before, or had been oblivious to. One visit with him resulted in a long drive around the country, for hours, as he yelled about all kinds of different things, and another incident so scared me that I jumped out of the same GTO we’d restored because I was afraid of being beaten once we got to his place. After that incident, most of my contact with him ceased. It has been something around ten years now since I’ve spoken with him. I think I still want his approval, although I don’t seek it. The love and trust that I had for him as a child is so tangled and complicated by hindsight and the new sides that I saw that it is easier to maintain my current space than attempt to establish civil and diplomatic relations.

I don’t spend much time thinking about him, but when I do, I mainly wonder about the lessons I missed during my teenage years, and how I might be a different man [bad or good?] today as a result of them.