Yellow

yellowrose

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

My grandma’s favourite colour was yellow. (Being Canadian I spell both favourite and colour with “our”).

Her kitchen was yellow.

I loved her kitchen, despite not loving yellow.

She created good things in that kitchen.

The sun always seemed so bright in Grandma’s kitchen.

Perhaps it was the yellow walls. Perhaps it was the sunshine.   Perhaps, and this is what I suspect, it was Grandma.

When my grandpa was dying, over 40 years ago, he dreamed that he painted the outside of their farmhouse yellow. He inferred that he defied conventional wisdom because Grandma liked yellow. It was the perfect metaphor for his devotion, devotion that would otherwise remain unspoken in their Germanic, one-must-not-show-emotion home.

She told me that story several times, always with a catch in her voice, so I knew the impact it had on her.

As a child I had yellow hair. Perhaps that’s why Grandma cherished me so lavishly. (Or not!) I still have yellow hair thanks to Brian, with his roll of tin foil and a purple paste down at the Phoenician Salon.

My grandma had yellow flecks in her eyes. Officially, she called her eyes green, but they were actually yellow. That trait popped up in one of my daughters and one of my granddaughters; they have yellow undertones in their irises. The effect is that their eyes look like they’re the same colour as their strawberry blond hair. It’s weird. Beautiful, exotic, but strange.

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Mustard is yellow. It is my favourite condiment, in my opinion, a must-have for the complete enjoyment of a burger. Perhaps that’s where they got the name. I like the plain stuff. No Dijon, Honey or Horseradish; just plain mustard.

There are other good yellow foods. Nobody exposed me to squash as a child but my yellow-irised daughter shared the secret about the great flavour of butternut squash. I saute it in butter and maple syrup. Mmm!

I used to love Grandma’s pickled yellow beans.   Yellow beans are very tasty, fresh from the garden too. Canned yellow beans are gross; they certainly don’t deserve the title “vegetables”.

There is nothing more heavenly than a homemade lemon pie. Grandma used to make them.   A crust made of real lard, not hydrogenated vegetable oil, a sweet and sour sunshine filling, topped with a cloud of meringue, delicately kissed golden in the oven.   Mmm again!

When I was young I thought it was weird to declare yellow as one’s favourite colour. I preferred purple (my dad’s chosen hue, also unconventional) and blue. Even pink, red, and certain shades of green but not yellow!

I don’t know that I ever saw Grandma wearing yellow. It’s not a flattering colour for many people. Some shades of it make ME look green.

Grandpa always said Grandma looked best in white (good thing she was a nurse) and blue, but that was HIS favourite colour, so he was biased there, don’t you think?

Why would someone select a colour that one cannot wear?

I know blue makes my eyes look bluer than they are (actually they’re a blue-grey-green, depending on the weather and what I’m wearing). I guess I got some of Grandma’s yellow iris DNA too.

Most of the clothing in which I feel most comfortable is blue, like jeans and faded denim shirts, and the fabulous turquoise dress I got for $13 at a dress shop in Phoenix.

See. I know the fun of wearing MY favourite colour!

I wore yellow to Grandma’s funeral. In fact my declaration that I intended to do so inspired other family members to dig out or borrow or buy yellow articles of clothing to wear.

One of the most touching things my husband ever did was show up at my sister’s before Grandma’s funeral, wearing a crisp new yellow dress shirt. He proved he actually listens!

He looked great in that shirt with his dark hair and brown eyes, and miraculously it was exactly the same shade as my yellow jacket. We looked like we had actually coordinated our wardrobe. Quite the feat! Do you have any idea how many shades of yellow there are?

My brother in law’s tie was the same yellow as my sister’s blouse, both of which were totally different from and clashed with our yellow.

In the weeks after Grandma’s funeral I would find myself weeping, often while walking our Golden Retriever, Divot, (our yellow dog), in our local dog park.

One day I felt like I was tapped on the shoulder.

There before me was a meadow of mostly yellow wildflowers, waving at me. My eye was drawn to the buffalo beans. Grandma taught me the name of buffalo beans. As a child, I picked them in the meadow immediately behind her farmhouse.

And there were some Brown-eyed Susans and others whose names I don’t yet know.

The flowers danced while the breeze whispered in my ear, something I didn’t quite catch. It felt like “I’m okay”.   Or maybe, “I’m here”.   Or, “I was here; now it’s your turn!”

At the very least, the message that comforted me was that whenever I see a yellow wildflower I can think of Grandma. And I do.

I think of the many things she taught me.

I remember of the warmth of her unconditional love.

Before her decline in the last few years, we would compare stories about the wonder of being a grandma. I remember laughing with her about the cute things my grandkids would say. And she would repeat the cute things I said when I was her little Grandtoy.

Come to think of it, that was one of the “yellow” moments of my life.

Thanks, again, Grandma!

My Baby Sister

 

April on Tinker, circa 1970

April on Tinker, circa 1970 Photo owned by www.shelleygoldbeck.com

Today, my baby sister, April celebrates her 50th birthday.

It’s hard to imagine her being 50. I wonder how my parents feel: their baby is 50!

What to get a 50-year-old woman who has a very happy life? She wants for nothing. She has family, friends, a nice home.

A party is out of the question. She hates being the centre of attention. She once threatened my life if I even thought of a surprise party like the one we threw for her husband’s 50th birthday.

Finally inspiration. A Letter to the Living. A few years ago I wrote about the importance of telling people how you feel about them before their eulogy.  I call them, “Letters to the Living.”

And I have never sent one to my sister. So here goes.

Dear April:

I remember the day you came to this planet. Mom announced to Dad that the baby was coming and our brother and I were shipped off to Grandma’s. I remember staying home with Dad a few days too.  He fed us and cared for us but he didn’t wash one dish. I remember Mom facing a pile of dirty dishes when she got home with you.

Dad’s parents were immediately taken aback by your name, as no Germans are named April. Named after a month! How absurd! All discussions ceased when Mom reminded them of Great-Uncle August. I happen to think April is a pretty name.

You changed our family. Our parents were finally old enough to be parents and they showered you with love, as much as they were able. In fact, Grandpa exclaimed that at last he saw “Mutterliebe”, mother love in our mother when she brought you home.

Brother and I loved kissing your soft baby arms, cooing, “Chicken wings, chicken wings!”  You would giggle and then pinch us so hard we would cry.

In typical sibling fashion your presence was barely tolerated at times. Other times, I was fiercely protective of you. I remember a friend of mine excluding you when I was eight and you were two. I insisted on your inclusion. She had no siblings. I concluded she didn’t understand love for a little sister.

Brother and I quickly figured out Mom and Dad had a soft spot for you. You became our ambassador, our negotiator. If we could convince you to ask them on our behalf, we reasoned, odds were in our favour of scoring.

Alas, you soon learned of the power you held and you often wielded it for your own good and against us. You adeptly extracted favours for your petitions to parents or you out and out refused us. I suspect you savoured your power over us.

You were ten when I left home. I have often regretted being wrapped up in my own life and not being a mentor or even a good big sister to you, especially as a teenager.  Somehow you grew up and became someone that I have long considered a lifelong friend.

Sisters we may be but we are different in so many ways. I have always known that you were the most intelligent of our parents’ children, though I wouldn’t admit it when I was young. Of course I let on that I was the smartest, but deep down, I knew.

As an adult, I enjoy the intelligent conversations we have. I relish sharing books with you, knowing you have the capacity to understand them as I do.  It’s not easy to find intellectual equals, but I have my sister.

There were times I was jealous of your relationship with Mom and Dad. Thankfully, I grew to value it. You did much to teach them how to love their children and to teach all of us how to have good relationships with our parents and children.

I remember a time when I doubted you would ever be a mother or much of one. How wrong was I?

One of my proudest thoughts has been of you tenderly rearing your children to be the fine citizens they are. I often boast about the accomplishments of my niece and nephew; we all know their mother was integral to their success. Thank you for having a son, whom I think of as a son. He holds a special place in our family of girls.

I am grateful for your thoughtfulness to my daughters and for being an example and mentor for them. They regard you highly, and they recognize the impact you’ve had on their life choices.

I admire how you handled being a stepmother and a grandmother at a really young age. I witnessed that you were always fair and loving towards your stepdaughters. I see you continuing to support them as they raise their families, exploding that whole evil stepmother myth. Well done!

I have you to thank for getting my business books in order. My detail-orientation gene is not as strong as yours.  When you did our books I enjoyed the regular interaction it forced. I miss that.

Your devotion to Grandma in her last years left an indelible mark on my heart. I couldn’t be there but I was comforted that you were and you would defend her to the death. And you did. Thank you for carrying that burden for our family. You did us all a great service.

I can’t think of many others I would enlist to plan a special event or navigate through government bureaucracy. I’m glad you’re the younger sister. You are better equipped to organize my geriatric care than I am yours!

I admire your ability to keep house so much better than I can. I simply didn’t inherit Grandmother’s neat freak tendencies and my priorities are different. But I sure do enjoy walking into your beautiful, neat, clean and orderly home.

Your ability to rise above life’s hurdles and mud holes is inspiring. It’s not easy to crawl from the depths and fashion a brand new life but you did it. You held up your head. You did the hard work. And you emerged a wonderful woman, wife, mother, sister, daughter, and friend.

I honour the day you were born, 50 years ago today.  I am thankful for the day I was given a sister. I am proud to call you my friend.

Happy Birthday, April!

Love, Shelley