Gravehopping and Finding My Way Home

My favorite song about home is “Can’t Find My Way Home” by Blind Faith. The summer of 1989 my life-long group of high school friends and I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young at Alpine Valley. 

We started the aimless trudge through the parking lot on the hunt for Eric’s Ford Escort, when Rolf called “Shotgun!” When we found the car, 45 minutes later, by parking lot etiquette, Rolf sat in the passenger seat and I sat in the back seat of what was really, quite a teeny, tiny little car. 

That Blind Faith song was on a “mix tape” stuck in Eric’s cassette player. I swear to god we heard that song two dozen times. I fell asleep at one point so that may be a low-ball estimate.

We were driving to Madison without a map, just some sketchy directions and a lot of pot. Did I mention we were all totally high the entire night? That probably explains why we shrieked like Howler Monkeys when we finally got to someone’s brother’s cousin’s house we’d been searching for in Madison.

“Home” has had multiple locations and connotations throughout my life. Geographically “home” has included Appleton, Boston, Neenah, Menasha, Milwaukee, Green Bay, Oconomowoc, and Shawano. The consistent location of home has always been Shawano. My maternal grandparents spent their entire lives there, or within the “suburbs” of Wescott and Richmond. My grandma grew up on what was or would become the Menominee Rez. My parents met and married there. I was baptized three weeks after being born there because my father was shipping out to Basic Training before deploying to Vietnam. While he was in country my mother and I lived with her parents, my Grandpa and Grandma Krause. 

We moved to Appleton within weeks of my second birthday, but still, Shawano was Home. When we were leaving after a weekend there, Grandma would kiss us gently on both cheeks and say, “Now you come home again soon.” Her cheeks were soft like powered pillows. I cannot remember a single time when leaving that house without hearing her speak those words.

Sometime in early 2003 my sister and I discovered that on Saturdays of Memorial Day Weekends, our grandparents and our grandma’s two sisters and their husbands, our great-aunts and great-uncles, spent the day driving to the graves of our ancestors. They cleaned off the headstones, pulled out the fake, faded flowers from last Memorial Day Weekend and stuck in a bouquet of new, brighter fake flowers, and shared stories on the drive to the three cemeteries they visited. With their tasks complete, they stopped at a tavern in Red River, another Shawano suburb. In this part of Wisconsin there are no “bars” – far too “big city.” These were taverns. They had supper at one of dozens of supper clubs they could choose from. Places we went to when I was kid and thought eating frog legs made me “exotic” and “sophisticated.” I was eight years old.

Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend 2003 my sister and I tailed along with our grandparents, great-aunt Margaret and great-uncle Dave, great-aunt Shirley and great-Uncle Butch. Butch and Shirley had an enormous Suburban with a back row tiny enough to rival the back seat of my friend Eric’s Ford Escort, which is where my sister and I sat. I swear to god every time we stopped at a cemetery, tavern or the supper club, Margaret would forget my sister and I in that cocoon and shut the door without letting us out of the car. That was the only way we could get out and every stinkin’ time she forgot, we knocked on the window looking forlorn and pissed off at the same time.

Every year at her grandmother’s grave, a woman I never met yet lives inside of me, my grandma said, “There was never a better grandma than her.” Every year I said, “She has a run for her money because you’re the best grandma there ever is.” She held me a little closer and said, “I can only hope so, Dolly.” She called all five of her granddaughters “Dolly”.

It didn’t take long before my maternal aunts and cousins filtered in to Gravehopping with us on the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekends. The more we gained, the more we lost. We all lose those we love to the inevitable unknown of Death. It may come fast or slow, tragically or peacefully, but still, it comes. There can be no other way. Margaret was the first of “the Golden Girls”, as we referred to them, to pass in 2010. Then it was Grandma in 2016 and finally Shirley in 2018.

My husband and I moved to Green Bay in August 2019 for my new job. With the help of Siri, Irish accent version, I can now find more places than the casino, the airport and the stadium which was the extent of my geographical knowledge of this town until moving here.

As Memorial Day Weekend closed in around me this spring, plans for Gravehopping were made. As I was writing down ingredients for Cucumber Salad, my signature dish and meal contribution since Grandma died, I stood in my kitchen and suddenly dropped my pencil, my notepad, and I couldn’t shut the cupboard door because I was literally paralyzed. I didn’t blink, I don’t remember breathing although obviously I was, I stood there with one thought banging inside of my skull: From where I stood, I didn’t know how to find my way Home.

Shawano has been my true north since conception. Not knowing exactly how to get there is akin to fate shaking me like a snow globe only when I land, the earth is sand, the air is stiffening fog and I have no voice.

Just like so many decades before when trying to reach Madison without a map made driving monotonous and pointless, I felt that way about driving up to Shawano. For the first time in my life I couldn’t find my way Home. 

Of course, Irish Siri got me to my aunt’s house easily. Gravehopping was accomplished and is in the books for another year. However, if I had to get in my car right now and drive to Shawano, I couldn’t do it...without GPS. In the genuine sense of the lyric, “I can’t find my way home.”

For My Grandmother

For My Grandmother                                            by Krissy Sack

Dry your eyes; please no more tears,                                               Listen to my words carried on the wind.

It may now seem we are so very far apart,                      But my tender syllables arrive with the summer breeze.

You are entirely a part of me.                                    And I of you.

Though time takes us apart,                                      The distance between our hearts could not be closer.

A Year of Loss

My grandma Krause died in February 2018. My great-aunt Annebelle died in April 2018. Today, my great-aunt Shirley, the last of my maternal grandmother's siblings died. She was the last of my grandma's siblings and now she is gone too. I no longer have any great-aunt or great-uncles who were born in either of my maternal or my paternal lines.
We called my grandma, our great-aunt Kootchie, and our great-aunt Shirley "The Golden Girls." They accompanied us during our Gravehopping tradition well before they became part of those we would honor as a result of that tradition. I can't remember the year, but one Memorial Day great-aunt Shirley taught us about FDR's desire to enter WWII. She picked out Grandma's oranges from the kitchen table fruit bowl to provide examples of the way airplanes were posted on the ships in Pearl Harbor which caused the US Navy a delay in response. Grandma turned from her kitchen sink and told Shirley, "Don't bruise my oranges just to make your point."
Shirley also told us the story of when they were all children, sitting on the front porch one Saturday morning when John Dillinger walked his dog past their house at 1202 S. Smalley Street in Shawano. Shirley recognized him and called out, "Good morning Mr. Dillinger!" to which he tipped his hat and kept walking his small dog.
These are the stories that fascinated us, her great-nieces, and sparked our imaginations of what their childhood was like. We knew our Grandma and her family grew up during the Great Depression. They treasured oranges in their Christmas stockings. During an 8th grade project that required me to ask our grandparents about what it was like to live through the Great Depression, Grandma Krause told me, "We didn't know we were any poorer because of the Depression, we were poor anyway."
I remember my great-grandma Ziemer and my great-great-aunt Sarah Denn babysitting us, especially during fair time, the Shawano County Fair is held every Labor Day Weekend. Grandma Ziemer and Aunt Sarah would undo the buns they kept their hair up during the day and they would braid each other's surprisingly long hair down their back and sing us Menominee lullabies. I was astounded by the amount of hair they managed to pin on the tops of their heads and how long and flowing it was when they took it down.
Before dementia began eroding away Aunt Shirley's memory, we would frequently talk on the phone. She always told me I was smart enough to be a doctor, but since I hadn't chosen medicine as my career path, she swore I would get my PhD without any difficulty. As much as my parents and grandparents encouraged me to continue my education after achieving my Master's degree, Shirley was the one who said, "Someday we'll call you Doctor." In a superficial way I'd half-smile and nod in agreement when my parents or other family members would talk about me going on to get my PhD. But when my Aunt Shirley talked about it, she was committed. She believed from the bottom of her heart that I could go on to get that PhD. That led me to believe in myself that perhaps one day, when my chaotic life settled down, I would start that arduous process. Now that she's gone, I feel as if I've disappointed her for not starting down that road, but no matter what my future holds, I know I will have someone who unconditionally believed that I could do it, can do it, and perhaps someday will do it.
Right now her funeral is planned for this Wednesday, October 10, 2018. Another tradition she sparked in us is her love for the Kentucky Derby. She and my great-uncle Norton used to annually bet on that particular horse race. I hope that we get to sing "My Old Kentucky Home" at her funeral.

"The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,
 'Tis summer, the people are gay,
 The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom,
 While the birds make music all the day.
 The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
 All merry, all happy and bright:
 By'n by Hard Times comes a knocking at the door,
 Then my old Kentucky Home, good night!

Weep no more, my lady,
 Oh! weep no more to-day!
 We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
 For the old Kentucky Home far away."

We will honor her with that "one song for the old Kentucky Home,
For that old Kentucky Home far away."

After 168 Hours Have Finally Passed

So maybe it's not exactly 168 hours since the Packers defeat by the New York Giants, but I know 168 hours ago I was sitting on this very couch, watching this very TV, likely wearing these very pajamas, and my heart broke.

Not because my family wouldn't be going to Super Bowl XLVI in Indianapolis (which, in all honesty, is not a very exciting town). No, my heart broke for those 53 players on the Packers roster. My heart broke for Donald Driver who played like the team's life depended on him, and for a good portion of that game, it did. There's just something magical that happens when Driver catches that rocket and rides it for 10 more yards and another first down. My heart broke for Aaron Rodgers. As a team captain, much is expected from him and generally much is delivered, but not on this given Sunday. And for the dozens of coaching staff, the trainers, equipment personnel, travel staff, and everyone else affiliated with the team that would've been eligible to travel with the Pack to Indy, my heart broke for you too.

But my heart was really breaking for the family of Offensive Coordinator, Joe Philbin. Michael Philbin was 21 years old and drown in the Fox River. The portion of the river where his body was found runs parallel to the UW-O campus and happens to be right in front of my office at the Oshkosh Seniors Center.

Had the Packers lost without the trauma of a death affecting their Offensive Coordinator, without several players likely experiencing thoughts of their own families suddenly popping into their heads, and without someone likely taking a step back from all of the hype, the spread, and questioning what was really important, would the loss have been any more or any less disappointing to us, the average fan?

Sometimes something very horrible has to happen in order for a group of people to gain a deeper understanding of life. As much as I love my Green Bay Packers, the week they spent before last week's game had to be dreadful. Traditionally men aren't very good at expressing their feelings, much less deep, sad emotions. It's never better to say nothing, no matter how awkward you feel about approaching a grieving person or someone you know who has just lost a loved one. Say something, do something, but don't just stand there and do nothing.

Maybe ask that person if he'd like to go toss the ball around. Who knows? Maybe that's just the out he's been looking for.

Day 7

Peanut's appointment at the vet this morning didn't go terribly, but the news isn't exactly uplifting either. His kidneys are failing pretty severely. His Creatinine is 3.3 and normal limits are .5-1.8, his BUN is 103 and normal limits are 7-27, and his Alk Phos is 873 and normal limits are 23-212. The first two are kidney functions and the last one is a general liver function. They wanted to put him on doggy-ibuprofen and medicine for doggy-Alzheimer's but not with his kidneys and liver in such bad shape. His thyroid has been out of whack for a couple of years and he's been on doggy-Synthroid since, and the thyroid test results will be back tomorrow. If that's abnormal that may explain the liver function being high, but I doubt it. His thyroid's been pretty well controlled with the doggy-Synthroid. I think his liver is just aging. I think (actually, I know) that he is aging and it breaks my heart to watch. It will be 14 years this weekend before Thanksgiving that I brought him home as a baby 10 week old puppy. He was so funny on the ride up to Appleton from Milwaukee: he sat all curled up in the backseat of my Nissan Sentra, minding his own business, not really sure what to think of me yet. Then on the way back to Milwaukee on Sunday he crawled from the backseat onto my lap and made himself to home, and that was that. He literally crawled his way into my heart and has been there solidly for 14 years. Some people don't understand my devotion to Peanut, but in my mind he's the only child I'll ever have. If he were a human he would have started 9th grade this fall: that puts it into perspective for a lot of people instead of saying, "Well, he's 14 years old." The vet is confident we're talking about a matter of weeks or months in terms of his quality of life and his life expectancy. She gave me some signs to look for including him not being interested in his food, vomiting, and pulling away from the family. Somehow I always thought that I'd know...I'd just intrinsically know when it was time...that he'd look into my eyes and would say to me, "Mommas, it's time." That hasn't happened yet, but now I have to be on the look-out and ever vigilant for those signs. I still think he'll tell me in his own way. Until then, I'll just love him the best that I can.

If there's a dog in your life...

Enjoy.