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miminibetty
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Name: Bethany
Birthday: 12/27/1984
Gender: Female
Interests: photography, piano, reading, singing, movies, you, more movies, lots of movies, fat free milk, puca shells, poverty, Invisible Children, you, travelling, war, prayer, day-dreaming, journalism, thinking, being brave, making a difference, napping, you, friends, coffee, cuddles, pictures, you, sleeping on my livingroom floor and figuring out how to make "life-long friendships" really last my whole life-time...
Expertise: sticking my foot in my mouth, drinking lots of coffee, forgetting what's important, loving you, freaking out over everything, hugs, stressing, ulcers, thinking...
Occupation: Student
Industry: Media
Message: message me
AIM:  miminibetty
Member Since:
12/14/2005
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| my grandpa, in his bed in Puyallup died yesterday at 10:30. I wonder why the time is important.
Aunt Krystal said 12:50 three weeks ago when she called. And dad called yesterday and said 10:30 as if it matters...because all time does for me is make me feel guilty for living at the exact moment someone i loved no longer could. I was ringing people up at the register at work at 10:30. And three weeks ago, at 12:50 I was looking at an apartment with Kiersten. An apartment that I officially move into at 10 to 11 on Saturday. In actuality, from 10 to 11 on Saturday I will be in Wenatchee at Grandpa Jess's funeral. I will read his biography into a microphone, and will read over the program in my seat, especially the poem printed in the front cover. And when the time has come, my eyes will open with tears, and i will truly realize that he is gone and his house won't wait for him to come back, and his girls will sing without him and he will not play the guitar in the corner, or pick tomatoes from his garden again. And i will not laugh with him, drink coffee with him, spy on the neighbors with him or comb his hair for him, because he is gone.
And i seem to have run out of grandpas.
as of 10:30 yesterday morning.
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| apparently grandpa...you were a big deal.
i always knew. 
they're lowering the flags in Alaska for you today. Just thought you'd want to know.
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| sung into glory?On Saturday, right before work, my Aunt Krys called and said at 12.50, with everyone singing hymns in his room, my Grandpa Bernie was "sung into glory". I don't know what that's supposed to mean, really, but it sounded good at the time.
When I was three or maybe four, I got a lace white wedding dress from Santa. I didn't know at the time it was only a discounted prom dress. But I loved that dress. I loved it. And on my birthday, 2 days later, after cupcakes and chocolate chip ice-cream, in the living room, under the christmas tree, i decided to marry my grandpa in my new dress. So I walked from the front window to the fireplace, and even on his knees he was much taller than me. And i married my grandpa, who played baseball in Greenland during the war. And I kissed him on the lips, and felt beautiful.
For Christmas in the big house that my grandpa built, at the beginning of Alaska, all 30 cousins, and aunts and uncles were all together, twice a year. And when it was time, all of the granddaughters ran downstairs to a basement full of large garbage bags covering our treasures. Unsure of what was inside, I carefully untaped everything and uncovered my gift. My grandpa had built with his then, strong and sturdy hands, a baby cradle, a full sized cradle. And my grandma had crocheted baby blankets. A wooden home for my dolls. 10 girls, at Christmas, with their own, new doll cradles that their grandpa had made.
In third grade i visited my grandpa and grandma at their sunny villa in Surprise, Arizona, and in the swimming pool, wondering how a kid from Alaska, in the middle of winter, could be so lucky, i raced my grandpa back and forth underwater, from on end to the next. And then we held our breath and sunk to the bottom and pretended to play cards. And then, I started at one end, and he started at the other, and we swam to each other underwater, and met somewhere in the middle, and fish kissed, and giggled. And then we ran out of air and had to come up.
His bass voice always boomed in the pew at church, and scared me sometimes, but always made me feel safe. And I always felt special when i got to sit next to him in the church he helped build.
And I imagine him still building a life in Alaska for his family, and driving the AlCan over and over again. And when I told him I was going to do it, it was not big deal. "Just make sure you always have plenty of gas" he said.
And at his place in Redding, California, he drew portraits of the residents at breakfast. He was always doing something with his hands, even when they were spotted with age.
I wish I could be with everyone grandpa, to say goodbye, but I'll say it in my own way, and I will visit you, just like I visited the grandma i never knew, and write letters and sing you songs. It's what I do.
And I will always be your Bethlyhem.
Love, me
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| every once and a while at work, someone will comment on my necklace.
it's loaded down with charms from all over the world. When i first met
the chapel band that would be my family for a year, i had to bring an
object that represented my life. i simply wore the necklace i've worn
every day for years. I'm pretty sure i could explain my life by whats
hanging around my neck.
ahem.
i sleep with the necklace around my
neck because its who i am. the cross, is the beginning. It is where
i've come from. And today, I don't know if its where i'm going, but it
is still a part of me. I start there. it's simple and complicated, and
simple. a cross. i think you can figure out the rest.
Then there is
Africa. It is the biggest charm on my necklace because it is the
biggest in my heart. Never far from my m ind. 6 years in a place is
meaningful, no matter how sheltered those 6 years were. And Africa hold
my pain, and my joy and my angst in so many ways. I tis the place i
wish i could take those that I love. its where my meaning comes from
and is something i have struggled to communicate. There are a handful
of people, who when I say, " want to hold a dying baby in my arms"
don't look at me as though I am crazy. they have been to Africa. They
have done the same, and they ache for it too...every once in a long
while. They know watching someone die of AIDS holds meaning that is
hard to find anywhere else. And so I wear Africa for my joy and sorry.
Joy for the things that have been born out of sorrow. And deep sorrow
for the things that can not touch joy.
The third charm is a tiny
fleur de lis that i found in a market in new Orleans. The market was
down the street from the superdome, that now, bears not trace of the
bodies left behind there. The fleur is an old symbol of the lily,
brought from France to be a part of the culture. the French Quarter.
the history of a crazy, modge-podge city. And for me, like anything
that blooms, or grows, like a seed into a tree, or a lily, it
represents a hope for a city that housed me amidst the rubble of wind
and floods. And I walked through a noisy market, my last day in New
Orleans, only because i first walked through the 9th ward, where houses
became tombs and peoples lives, pictures, food, wedding dresses, rotted
and molded inside wet and soggy foundations. But I had to see the
sorrow, before i could understand the joy and resilience of a city that
the nation seems to forget. And I wear the lily on my chain so that I
don't forget.
And finally - a medallion from the sisters in
Kolkata, India is the last charm that hangs as a reminder around my
neck. It was in a home for the dying in India where I found that
silence was golden, where race and religion was erased, and where i
observed faith that was louder in action than words.
There are
also rings and bracelets i wear. Decorations that hold significance.
Masai bead, tanzanite from the country in my heart and today, a silver
bracelet that says "this too shall pass." I have hope, today, that this
is true. | | |
| A Waltz for my Grandfatherlearning to count
one two three
one two three
and watching the fish swim at the bottom of the well.
i don't remember it;
only pictures.
but i do remember the field behind the big house
and the noise of the crickets
Wenatchee in summer.
i remember more stores from her bitter lips than seeing it on your face
or in your eyes.
but what can a five year old really see?
i'm sure it was bad. i believe what i hear.
but i want you to know
as i learn to count
one two three
one two three
the things that matter
to me.
i always wanted to play my best for you.
what i whispered in your ear at Christmas was true
and i saw how you loved your wife
and how you lost her.
time slipped through your fingers and left you with regret.
but count with me.
one two three
one two three.
you have loved me
made me smile
and laughed at the horrible gas station coffee that you always over thank me for.
you made anyone with half a wit feel loved in that place
that smells of plastic and disinfectant.
and you flirt with reckless abandon.
its ok.
i'm counting the steps.
one two three
one two three
of our waltz grandpa.
because you always heard me.
one two three.
i hear them plan your service.
one two three.
i watch you sleep.
one two three
i would read you the psalms again
and i will ache to hear you sing in six part harmony with your girls.
i will hear "beautiful dreamer" in my sleep
and i will always play my best for you.
one two three
one two three.
and i will count the steps for you.
we are almost there.
and our waltz, full of redemption
and honesty
is beautiful.
one two three
one two three
one two three. | | |
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