“Youse Guys”
It can be scary if you pay any attention to how fast
times flies by. A couple of weeks ago
Michelle and I made the three-hour drive over to the Chippewa Falls area to
help her Aunt Gena celebrate her 80th birthday. On the way we talked about attending the 80th
birthdays of both of Michelle’s grandmothers years ago. One of those grandmothers was Gena’s mom, and
now it was Gena who was turning 80.
I batted .500 when it came to Michelle’s
grandmothers. One was not a fan of mine. It really wasn’t anything I said or did; it
was the church I attended that started me out on her bad side. Not long after we had started dating, she wrote
Michelle a long letter reminding her of their special relationship, and they
were close. All that built up to her
asking Michelle to please break up with me because I was Catholic. She was pretty harsh in her characterization
of Catholics, but it doesn’t serve any good to get more specific after all
these years. Besides, I had seen a
little of that in my own maternal grandmother.
My sister Sandy waited until two important things
happened with her relationship with Ron before she introduced him to our grandmother. First, they got engaged. I don’t think Sandy thought that put him beyond
criticism, but it kind of forced the issue.
The second prerequisite was that Ron had already agreed to join the Catholic
church. Those who knew him would agree
with me that it was impossible to not like Ron.
I believe that he could make friends with a swarm of angry bees.
Even so, I suspect that my very Irish, very Catholic grandmother
would have had major heartburn if Ron had decided rather to continue to belong
to his protestant faith. That was the way
it was two generations before me. So, I
knew that I would not be able to win Michelle’s grandmother over; I just tried
hard to not give her any additional ammunition.
Over the years I believe that she learned to tolerate me.
Michelle’s paternal grandmother was Catholic, so I
didn’t start in the same hole with her. But
more than that, I always felt that she was fond of me. I think it started with raspberries. She had a big patch of raspberry bushes
behind her garage. I never minded
grabbing a pail and picking those berries for her because she worked magic with
them. She either baked them into a pie,
or she made kringle with them. My mother
was a pie wizard herself, but she never baked a raspberry one as far as I know,
and she never baked a kringle. So, I did
not besmirch her memory when I remarked to Michelle’s grandmother that her
raspberry pie was the best ever, and her kringle was by far the best. She always remembered my birthday and had a
raspberry pie waiting for me. She lived
right next door to Michelle’s parents’ farmhouse, so she’d be waiting for us to
pull in driveway on the weekend. “Make
sure youse guys come over for some kringle when you get settled.”
That was one of her endearing quirks – the use of the term
‘youse guys’. For several years we lived
in Nevada when I was transferred there by my employer. Michelle’s grandmother would write letters,
and always make a reference to youse guys.
I always got a kick out of her writing just like she talked. It made her seem closer somehow.
Aunt Gena’s birthday celebration was great. But it got even better when she came up
behind us as we were finishing lunch. I
must admit that I did have my eye on a piece of the cake at the end of the
table. But then Aunt Gena leaned over
and asked quietly, almost whispering, “Hey, do youse guys want some raspberry kringle?”
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Diliara Garifullina on Unsplash
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