Some thoughts on Grandma

As I am reading Paul Shepard's book, I'm realizing that this class might be taking a somewhat different direction. Or at least, I am finding some closure in my grandmother's passing. I am letting go of the technicalities about the possible negative affects Grandma's actions had on wildlife and I am reminding myself of her love of wildlife and nature. The compassion she had was so special to her, she often kept it in a place for only her to know about. After I get this closure I have been seeking, it will be easier to look at these other aspects. But for now, I am focusing on a love of wildlife and how people choose to express that. For my grandmother, her amazing surroundings and her birds meant the world to her. Being able to share this beauty with others meant even more.

When Dad and I arrived in Homer after Grandma's passing, we were greeted by my Grandma's Alaska family, some of the most wonderful people I have ever met. We were also greeted by professional photographers, whom, yes even one day after my grandmother's death, still insisted on getting more money making shots of the eagles. Before my grandmother's passing, these photographers used their presence alone to invite themselves into my grandmother's life. They knew her kind heart would allow them into her front yard, one of the only places in the world that they could be so close to the eagles. Their pictures ended up in National Geographic, nature documentaries, nature photography books, calendars, and set as huge framed prints, sold to people who could afford them. Their images afforded them warm, cozy, plush, houses, something my Grandmother never knew. Many of these photographers never took the time to take pictures of my Grandmother. Maybe she wasn't cover material for National Geographic? My Grandmother lived in a trailer, that although she loved, to many, would not be considered a home. Grandma made it her home, as snow would drift in through gaps in her door, she turned up the space heater a little higher. She hung pictures on the walls, saved letters to read, and invited anyone in who would like to exchange a story.

As some photographers in particular left a sour taste in my mouth, there were a handful of wonderful photographers who I adored and who I am so grateful for being a presence in my grandmother's life. Carey Anderson being one of them, Carey and his family spent so much time with my grandmother, and genuinely cared for her, understanding that Jean came before the eagles. If you know what I mean.

Carey estimates that 80% of all eagle photos you see were taken in my grandmother's yard. My grandmother's kindness and warm heart was the open door to make a living for many photographers, a better living than I or anyone in my life will ever know. Grandma never asked a penny from them and I am sure refused many a lunch offer.

When we first arrived to Grandma's house, only days after her passing, photographers who barely knew her or didn't know her at all were invading her front yard getting shots of the eagles. When she was around, Grandma would invite them in, on her own terms, but in her physical absence, these photographers were able to maneuver her gnomes, her birdhouses, and her Alaska State Flag in order to get the shots they had always wanted. These were the most heartless actions I have witnessed in my life. Here, her small family - my Dad and I, and loved ones were in the process of acknowledging her life, humming her favorite German folk tunes, remembering her jokes, and holding on to sentimental objects and words, while these photographers snapped away with cameras that I have never seen the likes of before.

They would use their larger and than life and duller than dull photographer talk and say, "Wow Chels, wasn't it just great what your grandmother was doing for the eagles, this is just amazing stuff isn't it?" If they had said this to me now, after I had time to process the ridiculousness of the entire situation, I would have said, "Wow, Mr. Photographer, isn't great how my grandmother lived her life to the fullest, how she had a quiet kindness that had a profound effect on people and wildlife? Isn't it great how she had such a strong character and had the stubborness that we all hope to have as we age?" There's just something about an an adorable, strong-willed 85 year old lady. Who wears a bright red wig and "Elton John" sunglasses, as she called them. "Isn't it great how she called me once a week to check in and lecture me on defensive driving, relationships, and not working too much. And to discuss with her grandaughter, cute boys, critters, and her blog. Isn't it great that she learned how to use email?" "Isn't it great how she hand wrote a letter back to every single child who ever wrote to her?" And there were many.

In Alphonso Lingis's, The Imperative, he discusses death as turning people into strangers. He states, "...He becomes a stranger. He dies in a dying that is not his own. He is but a force that endures the time it takes to die and the pain, until his force is broken in gasps and sobs."

My grandmother died in her tiny home, her favorite spot. Her home had a giant window with a view of the ocean, mountains, sea otters, and her favorite eagles, Betsy, Lloyd, and Mabel. Two of her closest friends held her hand and sang her songs. I called to tell her I loved her, and she made sounds to let me know that she knew I loved her. They said I was the last person she spoke to. She took off her wig, which was unheard of, she never wanted anyone to see her without it or her red lipstick. Now, my grandmother was just that, my grandmother. A loving, sincere, cute old lady, whom I loved very much, who was about to greet death and to stop suffering and extend herself into the unknown. She was definitely not a stranger. She was Grandma.

As time passes, her death has made her even less of a stranger. I am unraveling conversations I've had with her, remembering the times we shared, I am remembering so much about her. I have made peace with thoughts that I held about her relationship with wildlife. I am remembering the cute old lady who just wanted to feed some birds. My grandma.