Mi-ma’s health became poor due to many years of smoking. The doctor asked her to stop but she never did. She would hide it, smoke in her bathroom. We all knew but never said a word. She found herself getting worse, with a persistent cough and frail veins. With deteriorated eyesight, reading became difficult.

I remember opening the large door to her room. Inside was cold and uninviting. Mi-ma was lying in a Hospice bed, surrounded by those who loved her. I was told earlier that it wouldn’t be much longer.

I cautiously walked to the bed and reached for her hand. She watched me with her warm eyes and squeezed my hand as best she could. I told her everything was going to be ok and that I loved her. Mi-ma smiled and nodded her head. She could no longer speak, but I saw the struggle and desire to do so – the desperation on her face to have one more talk. I kissed her cheek and left the room in tears.

It was always a treat to go visit Mi-ma in the Heights. Being in that house soothed my soul. It was calm - a slower pace. As grandmothers go, she was ideal. She spoiled me and was caring. She loved me. 
 
As children, my brother Michael and I would spend the night over there, usually in the summer. While watching TV in the evening, we would eat vanilla ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate. It was a special occasion to watch either The Sound of Music or The Wizard of Oz with her. 

Once a year, a network station would air these movies. It seems we were at Mi-ma’s house every time these came on. I loved the song “Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music. I was absorbed by the music and the words. I knew that Christopher Plummer didn't actually sing in the movie but I didn't care. It was beautiful. How I wanted to be one of the Von Trapp kids. But don’t get me wrong, I had darn good childhood. 

At Mi-ma’s, we would usually drink milk or refrigerated tap water. The water was cold and fresh. I remember seeing the sparse minerals settled at the bottom of the pitcher. On occasion, as a treat, she would have Coca-Cola for supper. That cold, crisp taste from a bottle was hard to beat. 

Mi-ma was a good cook. When adding ingredients, she would often do so from memory. I would watch her, trying to learn. As I asked her questions, she was patient and kind to answer. I wanted to cook like Mi-ma. I would ask how much of this and how much of that? She would earnestly say, “Just a pinch” or “a dash" or maybe “a smidgen.” 

Holidays were special at Mi-ma’s. Her cooking made the house smell wonderful. On Thanksgiving and Christmas, she would have baked chicken, not turkey. As an occasional treat, she would make a caramel pie, with hand whipped meringue that would nearly reach the ceiling. 

She was making tater salad one afternoon. It seems we all have different opinions about tater salad - in particular, mustard or mayo. As I watched, she took her time adding and mixing everything together. I asked her if she preferred mustard on mayo in her tater salad. She used both. She said it takes both to make it taste right. You can focus too much on the mustard or too much on the mayo. The two ingredients should work together. 

A year or so later, I was talking with Mi-ma about problems in my marriage; complaining for the most part. She looked at me dead-eyed and said, "Tater Salad. It takes both mustard and mayo to make it right. Don’t focus too much on the mustard or too much on the mayo. The two should work together." I suppose marriage is a lot like tater salad.

I’m so bored. After playing outside all day, I sit in my room. Nothing to do now for this 11 year old. Moments ago, I finished my supper – Mom made pork chops with mash potatoes. I suppose I can doodle until bedtime. As I reach for my pencil box I hear, “Get your shoes on!” That could mean one thing – we’re going out! I throw on my Converse, untied, and run into the living room. 

We’re going to Bay Area Park. On the way out, I pet my cat Jake then pile into the car. We’re on our way. As we start the long drive down Red Bluff Road, I listen to the tires hit the uneven slats in the concrete. 

We reach the park and slowly drive down to the water. The park touches the banks of Armand Bayou. Once stopped, I quickly get out of the car. I run toward the boardwalk that rests over the bayou. Before entering, I look back to my parents who are standing by the car. They both wave me on. With exhilaration and a smile, I run across the old wood planks until I reach the end. 

The railing is covered with the names of those before me; those who crossed this very path. While standing firm, I lean against the rail and look out over the still, muddy water. There is a light breeze with birds flying about. I look to the shore, watching the gentle sway of the trees. And I hear music. Maybe it’s the sound of nature or angels above. I’m not sure. But the music moves me and I feel at peace. 

After many years, I am back in college. As with most students, I am stressed. There are deadlines to meet and grades to make. Life is different now. With the importance of school and family, my focus has changed. I have responsibility. Many times, I fail to meet expectations and just go through the motions – it wears on me.

Along the way, I lost my innocence. 

I close my eyes and go back. Back to the old, splintered boardwalk. I’m a kid again. I feel quiet and peaceful. And the music plays.

The alarm clock goes off playing a new song by Bon Jovi -"You Give Love a Bad Name". My parents left for work and I’m struggling to get out of bed. As with any typical high school senior in 1986, I would rather sleep the day away. I need a hot shower to wake up. 

In the bathroom, I adjust the water to my liking. Before jumping in, I stare into the mirror. Thoughts of life, death and breakfast fill my head. Slowly, my face fades with the steam. 

Once clean and dressed for success, I find myself in the kitchen having breakfast – microwave popcorn and a coke. As usual, I’m running late. I finish the corn, drink half the coke and fly out of the house, letting the screen door slam. I jog down the street to Mike’s house. He’s waiting for me in his ’69 Mustang. 

Once at school, I sift through the kids roaming the halls. We’re like ants in an ant farm. Moments before the bell, I reach my locker. I grab my books and my unfinished report on Babe Ruth. Note to self: Finish report on the Babe. Before walking into class, I see her. Sarah is down the hall, talking to her friends. She is beautiful. And I am a wreck. 

I first saw Sarah in summer band. I was playing trumpet and she was hitting the snare. She was cute, tan, and goofy. Her smile rocked my world and I was infatuated. On occasion, we would smile at each other and quietly flirt. I knew she was too good for me but I hoped for a chance. One chance to woo her. For her to fall for me. 

As I walk into class, I give one last glance and she smiles. My heart leaps from my chest and I decide at that moment… today is the day! I will proclaim my love and conquer my fear. I decide to confront Sarah during lunch. 

I finish my pizza and fries. In my mind, I replay the upcoming encounter again and again. My friends encourage me to stand up and seize the day! I walk to her table and clear my throat. Sarah turns to me as the cafeteria falls silent. I look into her warm, dark eyes and ask, "Will you go out with me?” She smiles with that impish smile and says, “Umm… I don’t think so.” 

I stand there. Dead inside. I feel like John Cusack with a busted boom box. Laughter fills the air as I slowly walk away - down the long, dim hall to the restroom. Once inside, I repeatedly slam my head into the wall. While grabbing the sink I stare into the mirror. I
ask myself why? How will I be able to face Sarah, my friends or anyone else again? 

It’s been 27 years since that day of reckoning. Did I ever get over that surreal experience? Yes… well maybe. That terrific moment was one of many that made me who I am today. My life has had its ups and downs. And boy was that a downer. 

Looking back, I realize the importance of that day. Although a day of rejection and shame, it proved to be much more. It was the day I threw caution to the wind and went for it! Win or lose, I think what mattered most was the effort. The decision to go for it. 

Later that fateful day, I finished my report on Babe Ruth. While adding quotes to the piece, I ran across something he said which made me smile. 

“Never let the fear of striking out get in your way.”

The halls of Hofheinz Pavilion are crowded. As graduation ends, friends and family slowly funnel toward the exits. My daughter Caitlin is now a high school graduate. Outside, the sun starts to bake. The air becomes still as my Mom and I wait for her.

My late grandmother would have enjoyed the ceremony. It would have been a treat to see these three ladies together.  Caitlin never knew my grandmother.

As a child, I often went to my grandmother’s house in the Heights. On the way, I remember crossing the Pierce Elevated and the floating motion it made of my
Mom’s ’66 Oldsmobile. Mi-ma, as I called her, was always home. She lived in a house on Rose Street. The large, brick house was built before the war and aged well. Mi-ma always had bread out for the birds. Inside, she was cooking, or watching soap operas, or reading. She was a reader like my Mom.

Supper was always polite. We would have meaningful discussions with the TV off - no distractions. I don’t believe I ever heard her cuss or fuss. She was a lady after all.

Mi-ma was a short woman, but intimidating. While walking through the house, she would wear her house coat with a yard stick perfectly balanced inside her pocket. It would tower over her. Being an occasional troublemaker, I knew what that yard stick was
for.

During many summers, we snapped beans in the living room. We’d pull the fresh green beans from a large stainless mixing bowl, snap the ends off and toss them into a paper bag. I would sit with Mi-ma for hours, quietly, listening to the bean as it snapped, to the pop as it hit the bag. It’s funny, I don’t care for green beans, never have.  But I sure enjoyed snappin’ them.

Mi-ma eventually moved out of that house in the Heights. Her new place was close to my college and I would occasionally see her after class. We would sit and talk; Mi-ma in her chair and me on the couch. The conversations were both warm and deliberate. We never talked about politics or religion. I figure we had better things to talk about.
 
After graduation, we have a dinner celebration for Caitlin at Cheddar’s. While waiting for our food, we laugh and talk about her journey through school. As I watch Caitlin, I reflect on snappin’ beans with my grandmother. I see Mi-ma in my daughter’s sweet smile, her kind words, and her warm eyes. She is a lady after all…