It was shocking, being immersed into a different culture. We always assumed that all of the states were similar. We were wrong. There were vast differences between the people of Minnesota and Utah. It was like we were in Scandinavia when we talked to locals. Phrases like, 'dontcha know' and 'you betcha' were riddled with Swedish accents. It was like we were in The Farmer's Daughter and our world was surrounded by clones of Loretta Young. It was like we were in a spa, talking with a muscly masseuse with long, blonde braids.
When we first arrived, Grandma took us to a bakery. She was excited to have us try some fresh treats. At the end, the cashier asked what kind of a 'baig' we wanted; did we want a plastic 'baig' or a paper 'baig'? While we started walking to the car, Sarah asked, "Grandma, what's a baig?". Grandma burst out laughing, scaring all of us. She explained that it was an accent, that the cashier asked what kind of a bag we wanted. We were confused. Why didn't they just say bag like the rest of us?
"I pledge allegiance to the FLAG of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." I used to shout the word, flag, so that everyone could hear it. I didn't like that they said 'flaig' and refused to say it with them. I informed my friends that they were saying their words wrong, the ones that ended with 'a' and 'g'. I tried to teach them to say it correctly, but it was surprisingly hard for them. They couldn't say it the way that I did; they only accomplished saying it in a posh manner, 'baug'. Some of them even held their heads higher as they attempted to say it the way that I did. One friend really thought about it and asked, "Well, what do you call a bagel? Do you call it, boggle?"
In Utah, I was surrounded by Mormon families. I didn't realize until later that it created extreme pressure for some of my friends, everyone being LDS. I remember one of the girls in my class saying that she was Mormon, even though she wasn't. She said that she just wanted to fit in, because everyone else was Mormon. One of my classmates said that he couldn't play with someone because they weren't Mormon. This is by no means what the religion teaches; it's the religious culture that can be scary. I had never heard of an Atheist before, until one kid in my class refused to say The Pledge of Allegiance. He explained that he was an Atheist, that he didn't believe there is a God, and that he doesn't think it's right for him to say it when he doesn't believe it. I told Grandma about my Atheist friend and was surprised when she simply nodded. Grandma told me about her friends and explained that not only was it doable, to have friends from different religions, but that it was good for me.
I met a lot of her friends. She had so many that came from different backgrounds and religions. One thing I learned from watching Grandma and her friends was that they loved to learn. She wanted to know everything! She wanted to learn about different religions and lifestyles. She had mountains of cookbooks in her study with recipes she experimented with. She consumed books on culture and art and romance. She wanted to see the world, taste it. She thirsted. She was brilliant. She took us on her adventures. She took us to museums and old book stores. She bought us bags of books to read. She let us wander to pick what we wanted to read. She took us to the library and left us to our own devices as she sat nearby. She let us dream. She took us to gardens, flower gardens. She took us to rivers and had us wade in them. She took us to new and different restaurants, ones where you had no idea what you were ordering or eating. She took us to the farmer's market often; we walked by every stand and asked people what they were selling and how they made it. She took us to farms. She took us driving, showing us landscapes and architecture. She took us to concerts. She would hastily apply her lipstick, rubbing a little on her finger to put blush on her cheeks. She would rustle through the rows to her seat, her over-sized, tattered coat trailing behind her. She was dedicated. She wanted us to learn. She wanted us to thirst.
I used to ask Grandpa to play for me. We would take turns playing. I loved it when he would come and sit near me while I played. He would often fall asleep while I played through Grandma's music. We didn't have to say anything to each other. I would start to play and soon enough, he would make his way to the music area and sit down. When we moved to the other house, he would tell me that he missed my playing. He said that I could come over whenever I wanted and play on their piano. It was nice to be missed. He plays the clarinet so beautifully. We used to sit around him and listen to him play. It was magical. The best part of him playing was that it felt like he somehow left us, that when he played, he had an experience. You could close your eyes and listen to him for hours. Even though I was taking music classes at school, he gave me clarinet lessons on the side. He always told me that I needed to work on tightening my mouth, that he had to work on it a lot when he first started playing. The tighter the mouth, the better the sound. One time, my teacher complimented me on my playing and asked if I had learned from anyone. I explained that my grandpa works at the university and that he gave me some pointers. I later found out that my teacher was one of Grandpa's students when he first started working at the college.
Grandpa wanted to take us to the park. We piled up in the car and went on our way. We were headed for 'the hide-and-seek park'. This was where Mom and her siblings used to play. They played hide-and-seek here, hence the name. Grandpa said that we had one stop on the way and pulled in front of a doughnut shop. Yes! I love doughnuts!! I wasn't prepared to have that love tested. Grandpa took us in and we bought a dozen of them. We got six exciting ones. Maple, jelly-filled, sprinkled, cream-filled. There were six regular, glazed ones. It was an exciting time; our mouths started to water. We sat at a table in the park and Grandpa informed us that we weren't allowed to leave the park until we finished the whole box. We were stunned, but still on an excitement high. I thought it would be easy. I downed my first three easily. But, the fourth doughnut was difficult. The stickiness in my mouth wasn't pleasant anymore. I started to get thirsty. The fifth doughnut was even worse. I started to gag. Sarah and Kristi had admitted defeat, but I wanted to keep going. Holding my stomach, I brought the sixth to my mouth. It was the second to last doughnut. I started to chant in my head, like I was about to cross some finish line. But, I couldn't do it. I felt like throwing up and I knew that this sixth doughnut would tip me over the edge. Grandpa smiled and grabbed the last two doughnuts and ate them. We didn't play in the park. We wanted to go home.
I think Mom was scared to leave us with Grandma and Grandpa. She had a hard time growing up with them and she left the house as soon as she could. She told us that Grandpa liked things to be quiet. She told us that sometimes, he gets impatient and when he's angry, he yells. She wanted us prepared. She figured that, though he was older, he would still be the intense father she grew up with. Thankfully, he wasn't. He still liked for things to be quiet; so, we stayed out of certain areas in the house. And, I can remember only two instances that Grandpa really yelled at us. One time was a misunderstanding; he thought Sarah was disobeying him when she was actually obeying what Grandma told her to do. He later apologized to Sarah for his yelling. The other time was when I was watching TV instead of helping Grandma in the kitchen. He was gentle with us. He was kind and patient. Grandpa drove us everywhere. He, like Grandma, wanted us to experience everything. I remember dreading some of our meals, because he brought home creepy-looking meat and smelly cheese. He tried to get us to eat blood sausage one night. I couldn't do it. He was infamous for his treats. He loved making pound cake and would often make two, one for our house and one for him. He loved going to the bakery and would often let me pick what we'd bring home. He asked me about school and friends and music. We talked every day. He was actually interested in my life and who I was and wanted to be. It was different, having a man accept who I am. The men in my life always wanted more of me, more that I couldn't and wouldn't give. It was nice to have someone be there for me; Grandpa's stability helped me survive. I knew I could count on him. I knew that he was on my side. He didn't make me choose between Dad and Mom; he wanted me to choose my own path. I knew that he loved me and that it was unconditional, and that was a first. His love didn't depend on if I did what he wanted me to. His love was real. I wish my mom had grown up with him like that.
One of my favorite memories of living by Grandma and Grandpa was that after we moved into the house next door, he would shovel the snow every day after it snowed which was usually every day of the week. He shoveled a pathway from their house to ours. He even shoveled through neighboring yards, making a safe and clean path for us to walk down the block to our bus stop. I don't think he really asked them if he could shovel through their yard; he just stayed close to the edge of it and created the path for us. He would sometimes drive us if it was really cold, keeping us warm in his car until the bus came. It was reassuring, waking up and seeing him outside shoveling for us. For a while, he couldn't find his regular hat; so, he'd wear this bright pink fisherman hat while shoveling. He was a dedicated man shoveling in a neon hat.
