in the last post, I referenced how clearly adah remembers her last interaction with grandma bonnie.
it was the day that michael jackson died. i remember this because I was at the north portland library picking up a few books and I was amazed that about 15 minutes after his death, the librarians already had a display of books about him. librarians are magicians. but anyway, while i was there, i got a frantic call from bonnie, who was leaving for a quaker conference in virginia the next morning. In the great bonnie tradition, she had a million things to pack and do before she left, and she wondered if I could drop adah off to see a bean house they recently built. this was, for a couple reasons, a big inconvenience to me. i was at the library, adah was at home with anne preparing dinner for a lot of guests, and it was almost bedtime-- a time during which i am notoriously inflexible and committed, and sometimes need to be committed.
so grandma bonnie drove over to our house, ran into the kitchen, and proceeded to explain to bug where she was going and when they would get to see each again. they counted the tuesdays on their fingertips and bonnie told her that she loved her more than all the ice cream cones in the world, which almost made adah gasp. is that possible? yep.
so tuesday rolled around-- adah and bonnie’s special day together--and when adah asked about bonnie, we counted again on our fingers when she’d be coming back. but two days later, on thursday the 2nd, alex called with the horrible news: bonnie was riding a bike (to get in shape for a climate ride she was doing with alex and laura in September to raise money and awareness about global warming) and was killed by a truck on the virginia tech campus. irreversible. unfathomable. no more counting on the fingers. we had to tell bug that grandma bonnie was never coming back.
how children process grief is both mysterious and evident, but adah did seem to understand this: that when you love someone, sometimes they leave and never come back, and there seemed to be a direct correlation between this awareness and how she behaved a few mornings later when i tried to drop her off at a summer camp and leave her there, like by herself. she had been to this camp before, it was full of kids she was familiar with, and she would not let me go. with the support of a few other parent friends who assured me she’d stop crying a few minutes after i left, i tried to go. her wailing was so dramatic, though, that I hid in the parking lot for awhile to see if she would recover. after almost a full half hour, she was still screaming. her inability to cope was way beyond my comfort level, so I went back and got her. she has spent the last several weeks attached to my kneecaps, and has been following me everywhere, including to the toilet and to the shower which makes the days extreeeeeeemly long, and is making me nuts. she is terrified of me leaving.
am I reading too much into it? at first I thought it might be a combination of her being a little more attached since I’ve been home for the summer, and she recently stopped nursing, but there seemed to be a clear association between the news of bonnie’s death and her death grip on me. i’m talking regularly clawing on my clothes. it’s worrisome.
to anyone who’s reading ( which is who, by the way?), do you have any advice?
at a loss.
i haven’t been able to say much here lately. haven’t found the words to express how sullen we are, how heartbroken (insufficient word) we are that adah’s paternal grandma bonnie died on the second of july in a terrible bike accident, which you can read about HERE if you haven’t done so already. i can’t express how much we will miss her, and what an important part of our life she was.
bonnie tinker is the reason i am here in portland, my home. she was a mentor to me in my late teen years, was one of the first people who helped me get sober, and of course gave us the son who gave us our adah, which we will be forever grateful for. she was continuously a pivotal support for me as a queer teacher and a mother, and was an absolutely inspirational and crazy-making person at the same time. we love and loved her very much.
i mean seriously, how many kids are lucky enough to get a grandma like her? she was a forever rabble-rouser. she has an FBI record for her political work when she was young, and has been arrested several times in the past few years for protesting at military recruiting centers and standing in the streets for peace. her relationship with adah was far too short, and this will always make me ache. adah, cierra, and maya, her three granddaughters, were the lights of her life.
every tuesday bonnie brought bug home filthy and fulfilled, having taken her on some special adventure. ask adah what she’ll remember most about grandma bonnie and she’ll say, “all the beautiful flower fields she took me to,” and “how she ran into the kitchen to say goodbye to me before she died.” (more on that later.) other recent adventures with grandma bonnie included a trip to the ER, picnicking in an iris field, visiting with a wacky turtle whisperer, hiking in the gorge, throwing rocks in the river, playing at a water park, running around the rhododendron garden, raising chicks and building tunnels for them, digging for worms, deciding where to plant a favorite cherry blossom tree (which they never got to) and lots of caring for bonnie’s backyard animals and garden. i specifically cherished their days together because bonnie stood in stark contrast to adah’s other main childcare provider: my mom, who is wonderful and present and loves bug more than anything, but let’s just say that her and bonnie are polar opposites, and I loved the spectrum of care adah has been receiving.
last weekend was bonnie’s memorial, attended by many hundreds. there were lots of tears and many songs—a combination of deep sadness and utter joy and gratitude for her life and all that she contributed to her family and our world. her siblings and cousins and nieces and nephews were here, and it was genuinely life-giving to spend the weekend with them. a powerful weekend, indeed.
we spent monday picking blueberries with alex and laura, and hunkered down for the heat wave at my mom’s, who is one of the three people in oregon with air conditioning. we hit a record high of 108. after sleeping here for the night, with actual blankets on (don’t hate me), i drove the mile home in the morning to feed and water the chickens, and when i got there, 2 out of 3 of them were dead. friends, i can’t really take much more loss, thankyouverymuch, but i did what had to be done which was a.) freak out in the driveway, b.) borrow a shovel from the neighbors since ours was nowhere to be found and i wasn’t going to be burying chickens with a hand trowel, and c.) phone a dad-friend. alex and laura came over and provided me a with hug and a hole. i contemplated lying to bug because i didn’t think she could take more loss either, but it was recommended to me by a few of my people that i tell the kid the truth. I did and actually felt a little better. adah is so frickin awesome and resilient and caring. first she showed off her subtraction skills: “so if two are dead, and we have three, that makes one left over,” she thought to herself out loud, and then proceeded to discuss what their gravestone might look like. it included a picture, and a small fence around where we buried them so no one will tread on junie or maeve. she was also part of the decision about what to do with eleanor, our one remaining chicken. all chickens want and need a flock, and bug could clearly empathize with that, so we brought eleanor over to alex and laura’s to join their chicken family so she wouldn’t be a sad and lonely bird.
adah is hopeful to get a few chicks in the spring, which will clearly be a way to honor and remember her recent time with bonnie, who we will be keeping here with us as much as we can.
bonnie tinker is the reason i am here in portland, my home. she was a mentor to me in my late teen years, was one of the first people who helped me get sober, and of course gave us the son who gave us our adah, which we will be forever grateful for. she was continuously a pivotal support for me as a queer teacher and a mother, and was an absolutely inspirational and crazy-making person at the same time. we love and loved her very much.
i mean seriously, how many kids are lucky enough to get a grandma like her? she was a forever rabble-rouser. she has an FBI record for her political work when she was young, and has been arrested several times in the past few years for protesting at military recruiting centers and standing in the streets for peace. her relationship with adah was far too short, and this will always make me ache. adah, cierra, and maya, her three granddaughters, were the lights of her life.
every tuesday bonnie brought bug home filthy and fulfilled, having taken her on some special adventure. ask adah what she’ll remember most about grandma bonnie and she’ll say, “all the beautiful flower fields she took me to,” and “how she ran into the kitchen to say goodbye to me before she died.” (more on that later.) other recent adventures with grandma bonnie included a trip to the ER, picnicking in an iris field, visiting with a wacky turtle whisperer, hiking in the gorge, throwing rocks in the river, playing at a water park, running around the rhododendron garden, raising chicks and building tunnels for them, digging for worms, deciding where to plant a favorite cherry blossom tree (which they never got to) and lots of caring for bonnie’s backyard animals and garden. i specifically cherished their days together because bonnie stood in stark contrast to adah’s other main childcare provider: my mom, who is wonderful and present and loves bug more than anything, but let’s just say that her and bonnie are polar opposites, and I loved the spectrum of care adah has been receiving.
last weekend was bonnie’s memorial, attended by many hundreds. there were lots of tears and many songs—a combination of deep sadness and utter joy and gratitude for her life and all that she contributed to her family and our world. her siblings and cousins and nieces and nephews were here, and it was genuinely life-giving to spend the weekend with them. a powerful weekend, indeed.
we spent monday picking blueberries with alex and laura, and hunkered down for the heat wave at my mom’s, who is one of the three people in oregon with air conditioning. we hit a record high of 108. after sleeping here for the night, with actual blankets on (don’t hate me), i drove the mile home in the morning to feed and water the chickens, and when i got there, 2 out of 3 of them were dead. friends, i can’t really take much more loss, thankyouverymuch, but i did what had to be done which was a.) freak out in the driveway, b.) borrow a shovel from the neighbors since ours was nowhere to be found and i wasn’t going to be burying chickens with a hand trowel, and c.) phone a dad-friend. alex and laura came over and provided me a with hug and a hole. i contemplated lying to bug because i didn’t think she could take more loss either, but it was recommended to me by a few of my people that i tell the kid the truth. I did and actually felt a little better. adah is so frickin awesome and resilient and caring. first she showed off her subtraction skills: “so if two are dead, and we have three, that makes one left over,” she thought to herself out loud, and then proceeded to discuss what their gravestone might look like. it included a picture, and a small fence around where we buried them so no one will tread on junie or maeve. she was also part of the decision about what to do with eleanor, our one remaining chicken. all chickens want and need a flock, and bug could clearly empathize with that, so we brought eleanor over to alex and laura’s to join their chicken family so she wouldn’t be a sad and lonely bird.
adah is hopeful to get a few chicks in the spring, which will clearly be a way to honor and remember her recent time with bonnie, who we will be keeping here with us as much as we can.
sshhhh...
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster and faster then the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
- W.S. Merwin
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster and faster then the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
- W.S. Merwin
if you listen closely you can hear my boobs talking
bug officially said goodbye to the magical elixir of breastmilk a couple weeks ago-- three years and a few months after her birth. it was a slow and gentle process, and members of my extended family and random strangers at fred meyer don't have to be appalled anymore at the site of a nursing toddler. and, to their relief, she won't be nursing when she goes to college-- my deflecting response to the interrogations of "are you ever going to stop nursing her?" geez. let the kid have her milk, dammit.
but here's some funny:tonight, when i went upstairs to cuddle with her for a few minutes, she said, "i think i hear your boobs talking and they said they had a little more milk left in them." i didn't tell her how every few days i check to see if milk is still in there, you know, when i'm in the shower or something, because at this end of this long, loving relationship there is sort of a catastrophic "there's no turning back!" kind of realization, and there is some left that i'm holding onto a little. but i did my emotional roller coasting about this loss in months prior, in times i thought she was weaning but wasn't, and i now feel totally ready to move on.
i just said, "nope. none left." fortunately the moment was fleeting, and now we just have this bittersweet phew.
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