A Shmily for You
Throughout a marriage lasting more than half a century, my grandparents played a special game with each other. The goal of the game, from what I could tell, was to write the word "shmily" in unexpected places for the other to find. They'd take turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was that person's turn to hide the word once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the yellow canisters of sugar and flour to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in steam on the gold-trimmed mirror after hot showers, where it would reappear bath after bath. Once Grandma even unrolled an entire roll of lemon-hued toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.
Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found taped to the dash and steering wheel of the gold Audi, stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. The word was traced in mantelpiece dust and fireplace ashes, scrawled across catheter bags, prescription bottles, the canary-colored driving citations. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the Metamucil in the medicine cabinet.
Although I once asked my grandfather what "shmily" meant, he only shook his head and said it was something that my grandmother really enjoyed, so he played the game so that she'd know just how much he cared for her. When I asked my grandmother about the word, she'd purse her lips and say nothing.
It took me years before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' antics. Although three failed love affairs (two ending in botched suicide attempts) have kept me from believing in love that is pure and enduring, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than just a game to them. The word "shmily" colored their entire relationship, bringing to it an intensity that few are lucky enough to experience.
I remember how Grandma was always cornering Grandpa in the tiny kitchen, wrapping his arms around her for an affectionate hug or a peck on the cheek. Grandma knew Grandpa well enough that she could always finish his sentences before he got the words out, and she'd insist on helping him with the daily crosswords and word jumbles. She'd never let him forget about the household chores that needed done, or the special milestones in their relationship that deserved recognition, and with a quiet grace he'd always indulge her.
Sometimes he'd even smile whimsically while watching her from a distance and say, "Yep, I sure do know how to pick 'em, don't I?" Before every meal, both grandparents would bow their heads and give thanks, marveling over how God had blessed a marriage such as theirs.
But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: Grandma's breast cancer. When the disease had first appeared ten years earlier, Grandpa had doted on Grandma with considerable passion. Day and night he hovered by her bedside, as if the exhaustion and pain that often made her too tired to talk was not a bother to his eyes. On his own initiative, he enthusiastically painted their bedroom bright yellow so that Grandma could be surrounded by sunshine while bedridden. It was while she was stuck indoors that the word "shmily" appeared with greater frequency. Often Grandma wrote it several times for each time Grandpa did, a sign of her deepening love for him in her time of need.
That time, Grandma amazingly had recovered, but now the cancer had returned, with a vengeance. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, the couple continued to attend church, where often Grandma was surprised by decorations in blazing autumn hues. At Grandpa's encouragement, the children's classes often would present Grandma with painted pictures of smiley faces. And on Easter morning, the word "shmily" appeared 32 times on a special insert printed on beautiful goldenrod paper.
Quickly enough, my grandmother grew too weak to attend the services and could no longer leave the house. During that time, Grandpa would go in her stead and come home with bouquets of bright daffodils, buttercups, and tulips provided by concerned parishioners.
Shortly, what we all dreaded finally happened. Only a day after Grandpa surprised Grandma with a new blonde wig, to replace the hair she had lost, she was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet, on the church banners, over the altar, on little placards given to everyone in attendance to wear. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and creditors came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time.
As they sobbed, Grandpa stepped up to the casket. "Forty-five years," he murmured in a heartbroken voice. "Forty-five long years." Sighing, he stared at Grandma's body, dressed in a mustard-hued pantsuit he had bought her especially for this occasion, and then, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing. Despite his tears, his song was a melody of unexpected triumph and freedom amid the palpable despondency of the others.
Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty. When it had ended and the crowd dissipated, Grandpa sat down in a chair, smiling to himself as if he had been able to find God's peace amidst the tragedy of Grandma's death.
I could wait no longer to learn the secret of such a love. I approached him and asked what "shmily" had meant. Holding back his tears, he finally explained its deep significance.
"S-H-M-I-L-Y," Grandpa spelled, his soft laughter clean and sober as his eyes drifted back to the golden casket. "It was your Grandma's phrase, that old bat. 'STOP! How Much I LOATHE Yellow!'"
Moral: True love is color-blind.
Pit of shame
Read the original version of "A Shmily for You."
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the yellow canisters of sugar and flour to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in steam on the gold-trimmed mirror after hot showers, where it would reappear bath after bath. Once Grandma even unrolled an entire roll of lemon-hued toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.
Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found taped to the dash and steering wheel of the gold Audi, stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. The word was traced in mantelpiece dust and fireplace ashes, scrawled across catheter bags, prescription bottles, the canary-colored driving citations. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the Metamucil in the medicine cabinet.
Although I once asked my grandfather what "shmily" meant, he only shook his head and said it was something that my grandmother really enjoyed, so he played the game so that she'd know just how much he cared for her. When I asked my grandmother about the word, she'd purse her lips and say nothing.
It took me years before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' antics. Although three failed love affairs (two ending in botched suicide attempts) have kept me from believing in love that is pure and enduring, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than just a game to them. The word "shmily" colored their entire relationship, bringing to it an intensity that few are lucky enough to experience.
I remember how Grandma was always cornering Grandpa in the tiny kitchen, wrapping his arms around her for an affectionate hug or a peck on the cheek. Grandma knew Grandpa well enough that she could always finish his sentences before he got the words out, and she'd insist on helping him with the daily crosswords and word jumbles. She'd never let him forget about the household chores that needed done, or the special milestones in their relationship that deserved recognition, and with a quiet grace he'd always indulge her.
Sometimes he'd even smile whimsically while watching her from a distance and say, "Yep, I sure do know how to pick 'em, don't I?" Before every meal, both grandparents would bow their heads and give thanks, marveling over how God had blessed a marriage such as theirs.
But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: Grandma's breast cancer. When the disease had first appeared ten years earlier, Grandpa had doted on Grandma with considerable passion. Day and night he hovered by her bedside, as if the exhaustion and pain that often made her too tired to talk was not a bother to his eyes. On his own initiative, he enthusiastically painted their bedroom bright yellow so that Grandma could be surrounded by sunshine while bedridden. It was while she was stuck indoors that the word "shmily" appeared with greater frequency. Often Grandma wrote it several times for each time Grandpa did, a sign of her deepening love for him in her time of need.
That time, Grandma amazingly had recovered, but now the cancer had returned, with a vengeance. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, the couple continued to attend church, where often Grandma was surprised by decorations in blazing autumn hues. At Grandpa's encouragement, the children's classes often would present Grandma with painted pictures of smiley faces. And on Easter morning, the word "shmily" appeared 32 times on a special insert printed on beautiful goldenrod paper.
Quickly enough, my grandmother grew too weak to attend the services and could no longer leave the house. During that time, Grandpa would go in her stead and come home with bouquets of bright daffodils, buttercups, and tulips provided by concerned parishioners.
Shortly, what we all dreaded finally happened. Only a day after Grandpa surprised Grandma with a new blonde wig, to replace the hair she had lost, she was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet, on the church banners, over the altar, on little placards given to everyone in attendance to wear. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and creditors came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time.
As they sobbed, Grandpa stepped up to the casket. "Forty-five years," he murmured in a heartbroken voice. "Forty-five long years." Sighing, he stared at Grandma's body, dressed in a mustard-hued pantsuit he had bought her especially for this occasion, and then, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing. Despite his tears, his song was a melody of unexpected triumph and freedom amid the palpable despondency of the others.
Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty. When it had ended and the crowd dissipated, Grandpa sat down in a chair, smiling to himself as if he had been able to find God's peace amidst the tragedy of Grandma's death.
I could wait no longer to learn the secret of such a love. I approached him and asked what "shmily" had meant. Holding back his tears, he finally explained its deep significance.
"S-H-M-I-L-Y," Grandpa spelled, his soft laughter clean and sober as his eyes drifted back to the golden casket. "It was your Grandma's phrase, that old bat. 'STOP! How Much I LOATHE Yellow!'"
Moral: True love is color-blind.
Pit of shame
Read the original version of "A Shmily for You."
Labels: Chicken Soup for the Soulless
posted by marauder34 at 5:25 PM
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