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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
January 6, 2013
Published as Family History in a
Gramma Letter dated January 2, 1996.
© 1996 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Ducks, 2008
© 2008 by Bud Grossmann
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MA’S GOING TO BE OKAY
Tuesday, January 2, 1996
Dear Gramma,
I’m home again, and I’m packing away my coat and mittens. My kids’ break from school continues until tomorrow, so we might go to the beach for a swim this afternoon. But what a wonderful visit I had with you in wintery Wisconsin!
A few letters ago, I kiddingly asked you to have snow for me while I was with you, and you must have taken me seriously. I thank you for the wonders of winter and for the warmth of your welcome. I enjoyed every minute.
Sunday night, after you climbed into your bed and I kissed you goodnight, you wished me safe travels and a Happy New Year. Then, I bade goodbye to my mom and dad in the parking lot of Columbia Manor where you live. A carpet of fresh snow muffled our footsteps, and falling flakes mingled with the tears on my face.
Dad took my luggage out of his car’s trunk and loaded it into the station wagon of my friend, Jim Riordan. Jim had paid a New Year’s Eve visit to his mother in Pardeeville, the town next-door to where you live, and he was returning to Madison, to the home he shares with my Rio friend of many years, Barbara Reed. They had offered to bring me to their home for the night and then take me to the airport in the morning.
Barb and Jim and I chatted till midnight. When the clock began to chime and celebratory fireworks boomed from a park across the street, we each lifted a glass of ale in a toast to the New Year. I’m sure you, Gramma, were sleeping peacefully at that same moment, without a drop of spirits in your blood.
Your daughter Darlene and her husband Jerry DeNure have told me of the time, twenty-five years ago, when you discovered your allergy to alcohol. At the Owl’s Nest restaurant, near the end of a meal in celebration of Aunt Dorie and Uncle Phil’s 25th wedding anniversary, someone opened a bottle of Cold Duck and poured a splash of it into each diner’s wine glass. Someone said a toast, everyone sipped the champagne, and you, according to Aunt Dolly, “passed right out of the picture.”
A damp napkin on your forehead began to bring you back to consciousness, but your face was swelling with hives, and everyone agreed you should be examined by a physician. Uncle Jerry put on his coat and rushed to the parking lot to bring the DeNures’ 1955 Ford Crown Victoria to the restaurant’s back door. Then he went back inside, lifted you in his arms, carried you out, and put you in the car’s rear seat. Grampa sat up front with Jerry while Darlene cradled you in her arms in back.
Grampa—keeping his eyes on the highway ahead as Jerry sped toward Divine Savior Hospital—reached over the seatback to hold your hand and comfort you. For several fear-filled minutes no one said a word, but then Grampa’s voice broke the silence. “Ma’s going to be okay,” he said. “She’s got a good, strong pulse.”
“Dad!” exclaimed Aunt Dolly. “You’re holding onto my wrist!”
You did, of course, survive your sip of Cold Duck, dear Grandmother, and I am very glad you did. I wish you a Happy 1996. I wish to you and Aunt Dolly, both of you, a strong pulse the whole year long.
Love,
Buddy
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Thanks! BUD GROSSMANN
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This page was updated Sun, Jan 6, 2013, 12:53AM CST
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© 2013 by Bud Grossmann
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