My mom started writing a book for me when I was a baby. I think she started it because she lost her own mother a little over a year after I was born. My grandmother, Georgeann, or Gran Jan, as we would have called her, was also a redhead – just like me – not exactly natural but we pulled it off (very well I might add) and no one could really remember us having a different hair color either. Especially her—since her childhood photos were in black and white.
So anyway, back to the book. Here is an excerpt from October 23, 1990, when I was 6 years old:
Sarie,
We went to Ground Round for dinner tonight ‘penny a pound’ for kid’s food right now.
When we left you got a balloon—helium of course. We went outside where you immediately announced, “I’m gonna send this balloon to Gran Jan.” We went into the parking lot, you gave the balloon a kiss, then asked me to. I did.
Then you gave the balloon a hug and when you passed it to me I felt very nostalgic and felt a longing to really hug my mother… I hugged it and passed it back to you. You let it go. We watched it go up, up, up, it got *very* small heading for the stars.
You said, “Mommy, do you think Gran Jan keeps all the balloons I send her?”
And I replied, “Oh yes—even when they get very small and flat, I’m sure Gran Jan keeps them all because you sent them to her.”
And then you paused. You said, very matter-of-factly, “Well, Mom, they never *get* flat and small in *heaven*!”
I love you, baby—
Mommy
When I read this passage, it hit home for another time in my life, probably 20 years later. So I texted her:
“I only read one of the blue book stories when I feel I really need it, and I folded a page down about sending the balloons to Gran Jan. And how she kept them and they never got deflated because she was in heaven. My heart broke. I remember sending the balloons but never saying that. I know Jana (cousin) did it too and we always gave them kisses.”
The story started to have more symbolism because of Uncle Phil…
Uncle Phil was obviously an uncle of some sort—but to one of my customers. I always called him Uncle Phil. He maybe started coming in when I was 25 or so. He hung out with John England (another story most definitely). He would come in every Wednesday night and drink 3 Budweiser bottles and maybe have a Seagrams VO night cap. Wednesday was steak night. He got it medium rare with a baked potato with sour cream only and always added a salad. He got the house dressing, and low calorie Italian if we were out of the house. I know the details aren’t important but its been over a decade since I’ve taken his order and I remember every detail. I know his birthday was in August… it ended up being August 15. It landed on a Wednesday the first year I started waiting on him and I got him a balloon and made the restaurant pay for his dinner. It was one of the first manager things that I ever did.
“Mom, he took that balloon with him. I never knew this part but once it deflated, he folded it up and tucked it away. He even told people that he kept that balloon because I gave it to him. Like I became special because of one little balloon that I got for a dollar. I gave him a balloon every year after that. He died a little over a year ago. I hadn’t gotten to see him in a while, but I know he saved all the balloons. He folded them up and tucked them away. He kept every single one, just like Gran Jan did, and I know they are all floating around with him in heaven, and with her too.
And I never made that connection between all the balloons. There must be a million of them floating around up there. It makes me so happy. I don’t want the stories to stop. I’ll write the stories too. That is why I’m doing this. We should always have balloons. As long as the stories continue, the happy ones of course, the balloons will never be deflated.”
I definitely need to send up some balloons to Uncle Phil and Gran Jan. It’s been a while.
SIDE NOTE: This was originally a song about the defeat of Nazi Germany. Interestingly enough, both of my grandfathers were colonels and pilots in both the Army and Airforce. They were both German—especially my paternal grandfather, Walt. Don’t even get me started about the Thanksgiving tradition of red cabbage… probably one of the only things I don’t care for that is red besides sunburns.