imperfect

I’m in 12th grade English and the teacher comes up with another ho-hum assignment.

“Write about your grandparents,” she demands.

Not so easy. My grandmother died when I was six, and my grandfather went from VA Hospital to nursing home in short order, dying five quick years later. What do I write about? Funny thing is, the one thing I know for sure is that my grandparents loved each other.

How do I know that so certainly, considering how little I knew them?

Physically, they were a mismatch. Boo-Pa was six foot two, as straight and solid as a tree, with a large, angular face and thick straight dark blonde hair that was snow white by the time I was 5.

Nanny was petite, as delicate as a tiny bird, with small wise light blue eyes that crinkled when she smiled, a small, heart-shaped mouth that was always curved upward, and tiny feet and hands.

He was gruff and quiet, with a large presence.

She was dainty and sweet with a kindness that enveloped all who came near.

My other grandmother, Marmu, proclaimed to me years later that Nanny had been a true saint.

“Not saintly, not just a nice person or any of that,” Marmu explained earnestly. “But an honest-to-God saint.”

How does a saint live with a sinner. How does a sinner live with a saint?

I saw their marriage in stark relief when I was five years old, early Christmas morning.

They were staying with us and sleeping in my brother’s bedroom. Despite my mother’s protestations, I tiptoed in their room to wake them up. I wanted to play. BooPa was snoring. They were curled up in each other’s arms. I giggled, then jumped on their bed.

They woke with a start, Nanny with a smile on her tiny face, BooPa with a snarl as he jumped out of bed.

He was naked! I’d never seen a naked man, and I was absolutely fascinated.

“Phil,” my grandmother admonished. Just that one word, spoken softly but with an edge to it, got him moving faster than I thought a big man should. He jumped into his boxer shorts and turned to look at her abashedly.

“I didn’t know she’d wake us up!” he said, ignoring me, wanting only approval from his wife.

She gave him a kiss and told him to get dressed, then allowed me to snuggle in the bed with her.

Lucky BooPa, I thought briefly. But how does Nanny live with such a creature?

Now, looking back, I see it as an age-old question between men and women.

The beauty.

The beast.

The sweet.

The sour.

The soft.

The hard.

And it all churns, somehow, into love.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything to write for my English class. After all, I never really got to know my grandparents.

“We don’t love qualities, we love persons; sometimes by reason of their defects as well as of their qualities.” – Jacques Maritain

I’m not thrilled with shrimp.

I supposed they taste alright, but before cooked, they look like naked aliens. Or like the waste product of a whale.

So when my son-in-law announced “I’m making shrimp stew for dinner,” my stomach did a little ‘oh shit,’ dance, but my mind leapt in joy and my lips blurted out, “Wow! That sounds delicious!”

Whatever he prepared, I would have responded as enthusiastically and happily for three reasons:

#1 He cooked so daughter Nadine and I, the special guest for the weekend, could sit around the couch and drink wine while we watched. And on that Saturday night, my stomach would accept shrimp or lima beans or even sautéed liver, just because I was in the same room with my favorite New England family.

#2 While Dan cooked, my little grandchildren, Sophie and Clark, scampered in and out of the kitchen like soft fuzzy gerbils.

#3 And while the shrimp sizzled, my brother Chuck, who I see once a year if I’m lucky since he lives in Maryland and I live in California, found a way to Boston, and to this N.E. family, for a quick 24-hour visit.

The Cabernet he brought with him was too expensive: ruby red with expressions of cranberry and plum, which coated our mouths and minds like a soothing lubricant.

“My dog Oliver got in so much trouble this week,” Chuck complained as he petted Nadine and Dan’s sweet Golden Retriever. “He peed on the new rug, and he never misbehaves like that. I think he wanted to get in trouble.”

“Why would he want to get in trouble?” I asked, nibbling on the salsa and chips Nadine offered.

“No dog, or man, wants to be perfect all the time,” Chuck answered as if the comment made sense.

“Well, neither you nor Dan have a thing to worry about then,” Nadine said with a laugh to her uncle.

I gulped some wine as I looked for Dan’s reaction, but he was too busy chopping onions and green peppers and celery and throwing it all into his simmering tomato-based stew. Actually, right about then, Dan looked pretty perfect to me.

“I love shrimp,” my normally non-effusive brother announced. In fact, the more wine I poured in his goblet, the more he loosened up and the wider he smiled. I could have hugged Dan for making a dish I wouldn’t like, but that gave such joy to Chuck.

“I love shrimp too!” I said as I poured more wine into Dan’s glass and clinked it with my own.

“Cheers!” we toasted to each other, to shrimp, and to ordinary family get-togethers that are extraordinary in their ability to make us happy.