MLMcW

Patrick saw my tattoo today and he cried. I didn't mean for that to happen, he was just telling a story about when I was little and how you know, all those times when he'd put me on his shoulders and pretend to throw me down the super steep stairs? How that was hilarious and how it wasn't as bad as something else he was describing. And I was like, yeah, I haven't needed therapy at all for my intense fear of falling off of high things, or high people, as the case may be, and thanks too for all the times you were all, Laurie Anne, why don't you go play in the traffic? Huh?

And we were all getting like we get when we're together, sitting on a balcony by the ocean, stories we all know by heart tumbling crazily one over the other, things we've heard and memorized over decades feeling new again or at least invigorated in the validation we only get from each others' faces, each others' turns of phrase, each others' encouragement to please, please talk about that some more before we lose it, so we don't ever lose it.

At the heart of these stories, most of them anyway, are these two people who are gone but still the most influential, people who make me want to believe in a heaven, because even beyond the pipe dream that I'll ever see them again (sorry, believers) I'd like to think of them hanging out watching us and laughing, except I wouldn't want them to be pissed off that they couldn't be there too (because truth be told they got kind of bored with each other. It must be stated.) So if heaven doesn't give you some kind of pass from that, maybe no, maybe I don't want that at all. My grandparents were probably the only heroes I'll ever have.

We'd been down at Harold's for a few hours, listening to the band and drinking too many beers and dodging the crazy rain, and I had the first day of vacation impulsivity to walk over to Patrick and stick my shoulder in his face like the incredibly rude, boundary-less person I can be, and say, "Look. There she is."

Apropos of not-this-topic but definitely of us, one of my earliest memories is going back in his room and laying on his bed when he was at work, scanning the walls he covered with black and neon velvet mushroom and Led Zeppelin posters (you know the one with the Stairway lyrics? And the Hobbity illustration that didn't include Hobbits?) and Cap Center ticket stubs, a dresser full of change and things with feathers that I couldn't identify, before I knew what any of it meant. He had an album-sized foldout sleeve of Fleetwood Mac's Rumours tacked to the wall by his bed, and I can remember reading along to the lyrics from Second Hand News, which is probably why I sought that record out years later and might have a little to do with why it's in my top 25.

Anyway. Today. He can't see well, but then again I can't either, and we're not even that old. He's not quite 50, and I'm younger than he is by 11 years but I've been close to blind since 5th grade so we're about even. He pulled my beach cover-up back a little and I heard him spell out the letters and mentally fill in what they stood for and then his voice cracked and I died, and he said, "That's Grandma." And he kissed me, flat out hugged me and kissed me like the men in this family don't EVER do, you have no idea. And that's when I lost it. I started crying and he started crying and bless him he didn't even try to hide it. He just looked out over the balcony to the wooden bridge to the beach.

"I was thinking about her so much on the way down here. She stood right there. She'd just stand right there and watch everything."

She was watching for us, is what she was doing, and he and I knew it at the same time. She stood there smoking an endless cigarette that thank God never caught the dunes on fire and watched for little kids whose feet were burning on the sand and big kids she could yell at and bigger kids she could still yell at, and especially by the ocean she was in her glory with all of this and we knew it. And he couldn't keep going for the crying and I tried to stop but I couldn't and my mother who is always two seconds away from crying was watching and this was not helping.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that," I said. "I just wanted to show you, especially you, all of a sudden."

"No, it's good. It's fine. That's good."

"She always has my back, see? I like that."

"It's good. No. This is good."

She stood right there, for years, wherever she needed to to watch us. She's standing wherever she is so happy that all 20 of us are here together, but angry that she's not here because she loved the beach so much, which is a huge part of the reason why we all do. She's standing there happy for Patrick and me, especially, because he was her baby and then I was the first of the next, but angry, yes, that she can't feel and talk, if by some stretch of the imagination she can see and hear. She was imperfectly real. She had no interest in not being here. She wasn't that gracious.

*******************************************

When I got this tattoo I had a few things in mind. One was my dog, who I miss so much and whose funny face I wouldn't mind carrying with me forever. But when I got it last week all I could think about were my grandmother's claddagh ring and her initials, her name. (I interpret the claddagh much more as a cultural symbol, and not specifically a wedding/engagement ring, just to be clear.)

I took some shit from various quarters over the years for allegedly being her favorite. I was the oldest grandchild, the first girl she had to contend with after four sons (Patrick, my father's youngest brother, was 11 when I was born, and so became much like my brother too.) My parents were young and I needed years of medical care so things were not easy for them and their parents really did step in to help (as competent as my parents were, in every way, just to be clear, and not to equate youth with the opposite of it. It's just hard to have a kid anyway. Add in other challenges - actually no, please don't. And if help is there, so be it.) My mom worked so my grandmother, a homemaker since the late 40s, took care of me, every day. I went everywhere with her. She or my grandfather or both picked me up from school every day. We lived together after my grandfather died and I was still in college and commuting, before I moved to Ohio. We were in each others' faces all the time. I learned everything I didn't learn from my parents from her, which was a lot.

We were best friends. She was my favorite person. I truly believe she loved me unconditionally. I stole her cigarettes for months when I decided that was a strong life choice and she pretended not to notice. She also taught me to to read. If those two things don't bond me to you, nothing will. 

The iconic "Mom" tattoo exists for a reason, even though it's made to look like a caricature and a joke. It means what it means, which is, in many cases, our heart, the person who cared for us best and first. You don't have to be a mom - or a grandmother, in this case - to get that. You just have to have had a stellar one, or more, which I did, because the universe knew, I'm sure, that this kind of soul would need it. I'm not sure how this concept gets lost but it's stupid when it does.

Marie Louise McGrath White, along with my own mother, took care of me the best. No design can do her justice and our physical selves mean very little in the overall scheme of things, but I'm into symbols and apparently the drilling of them into my skin with ink, which inherently means much less about me than a lot of people think. I admit that I like having her initials on my shoulder, though. It felt like the right thing to do. I'm still pretty sure it was.

 

Comments

[grace]

I was hoping you'd tell the story behind that tat. I think it's perfect. I haven't yet gotten a memorial tat--I have a few in mind, but the ones I have aren't memorials. It is, to my mind, the most fitting thing you can do to keep someone you loved with you, literally, all the time.

[sassymonkey]

NO FAIR making me teary at work.

[Suebob]

Oh crimeny. Crying. That is a beautiful post. I wish you were reading it at community keynote.

[Sarah, Goon Squad Sarah]

How do you make a post about getting a tattoo touching?

Your writing continues to amaze me.

[Laurie]

You are four of my favorite people in this blog world or otherwise and your feedback means so much to me, so thanks.

I'm really reaching here, actually. It's been awhile and it's not easy, but I swore I was going to do it because Blogher was like this odd, amazing gift to me this year (in large part because of you) and I really felt like it ought to come to something.

I'll write about something dumb sometime soon, like the Rock of Love Bus show, I promise.

(And Sarah, it's another freakish talent, like the link thing. ;))

xo, big time, four times over.

[Mom101]

Oh Laurie. Oh oh oh.

[Secret Admirer]

That is a very moving story. Personally, I am someone who believes there is a Heaven, and I also believe your grandmother is watching you ( my personal beliefs).

[Maria Niles]

This is just gorgeous, heart breakingly beautiful writing. Keep showing us your heart, darling. I'm blessed everytime I meet MLMcW through your eyes.

And reading this post is possibly the closest I've every come to thinking a tatoo is not an inexplicably insane life choice ;)

[Becky]

I get it.

[schmutzie]

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