Eleventh Confession

Today, I was going to write about the Philippines and short-term missions trips.  That was before I saw the picture of my Gram.

 My Gram is, for all her personality quirks, a wonderful woman.  Her obsession with creamy peanut butter, colby-jack cheese, and navel oranges will no doubt feed several in-family jokes.  (This pun brought to you courtesy of Righty Dounz.)  She loves her singing stuffed bear - a fireman bear, with Lee Greenwood singing "Proud to Be an American."  She still has the high school band photo of me with huge glasses, sans hair, and plagued by terrible acne in her wallet.  She will talk for any length of time about her various medical ailments - and if the area is visible in mixed company and the opportunity arises, will show it to you without provocation. 

The chiefest of her quirks, though, is that Gram never smiles for photographs.  NEVER.  She could be holding a cooing infant (in fact, in a few pictures, she is), but her expression comes straight from Grant Wood's "American Gothic."  I have seen her enjoying herself at a party, talking animatedly while playing cards.  Someone brings out a camera, and suddenly her face hardens until the lens is pointed away from her.

This picture, though, catches Gram off guard.  Apparently, the retirement home at which Gram (and Pap, bless him) reside brought in festivities for the residents.  Face painting, live music, concession stand food, and a generally "folksy" atmosphere brought a kind of "country fair" into the home.  During the festivities, Gram apparently left her room with her walker and sat on a couch, listening to the musician perform.

A word about the musician: I don't understand him.  He has a Steelers sticker on his forehead; this, of course, is par for Ryan's surreal life.  In addition, he plays the accordion.  This, in and of itself is offensive, as the only good accordion is the one in the Titanic.  To add a degree of the unnatural to this foul abomination, this particular musician attached a synthesizer to his accordion.  A synthesizer.  To an accordion.  The mind reels.

But so, apparently, did Gram.  Because during one of his songs, Gram left her walker behind and danced with Sam.  Sam is one of the kitchen staff at the home.  Sam looks nothing like Pap, by the way.  Just sayin'.  And yet, there they are, Sam and Gram, dancing to synthesized accordion music, played by a man with a football helmet stuck to his broad forehead.  And Gram is smiling.

Sometimes I think that my surreal life is rooted in the accumulated quirks of my lineage, genetic and non. Sometimes I think that maybe, some day, I will be in a home, and I will dance to some golden oldie.  (Cake, anyone?  Or maybe some Green Day for seniors?)  Maybe forehead stickers will be fashionable, even. Perhaps the accordion will even become palatable.  *shudder*  I don't know.

All I know is, Gram is smiling in this picture.  And that makes it special to me.  God bless you, Gram.