Elaine Lucille Armer
The
most important lesson my grandmother ever taught me was that there is
never one single answer to any question. To her there was always but
one truth – it was how you looked at that truth that made all the
difference.
My
grandma loved to tell me about her childhood. A simple, magical time
in which she was often in the care of her older siblings Don, Bob,
and most especially, my aunt Dorothy. The kids roamed the hillside
picking wild flowers, having picnics and reading poetry.
The
gentle guidance of her siblings gave my grandma an early, extensive
appreciation of the arts. She kept the sketches of her brother Bob in
a keepsake box near bed. If I was on my very best behavior she’d
take it out the box and we’d hold those impossibly thin sheets
paper up to the streaming sunlight of her bedroom as if they
artifacts in the Smithsonian. Don, she’d tell me, was mechanical
genius, the kind of guy who could and
would take
apart anything and put it back together better than before, just for
the fun of it. Dorothy, strikingly tall, eternally gentle – unless
you moved her stuff – my grandma’s true soul sister, never have a
more quietly mischievous pair existed. Least we never forget the
infamous wrapping paper fight of Christmas 2004 -- in which aunt
Dorothy most subtly gathered up one perfect ball of wrapping paper,
wound up her arm, and fired the first shot – to which my grandma
finally threw up her arms and sighed, “Well, ok, then.” Armery
chaos as usual.
Of
course, like so many of their generation, caught in the harsh shadow
of the Great Depression, my grandma and her siblings grew up poorer
than poor. Non-Mormons on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, the mixed
family was often isolated by the societal misunderstandings of a
different era. Christmases of perfect Orange Oranges actually meant
the only fruit the children would see all year. “Magic butter”
was just lard that needed to be colored by hand via a yellow dye
packet that came with the bucket.
She’d
always hold a place in her heart for Salt Lake but when she’d moved
to Tempe as a teenager, the spirited presence that we always knew and
loved truly blossomed into something of its own. She met truest
lifelong compatriot, Merle, and the inseparable duo shook up the
sleepy desert town. They appeared on radio shows, in school
assemblies and even at high society events delighting the crowds with
their smart humor and sweet harmonies. They had big dreams, they were
going to Hollywood, they would be darlings of the stage and screen.
Reality had other plans though. Merle went off to college and my
grandma enrolled in nursing school.
I
often wonder if the sisters at Saint Joseph’s began to question
their vows when they took on my grandma’s class of mischievous
students. Along with her kindred spirit, Anna, my grandma tested the
nuns' faith and their medical knowledge with a stunning ability to
sneak out undetected, stay out all night, and “sleep with their
eyes open” in class the next day. Still, my grandma’s time at
Saint Joe’s instilled in her two unshakable devotions; she was from
then-on forever committed to both the church and to medicine.
Nurse
McMaster was sharp and dependable, and she quickly worked her way up
the ranks of the hospital. It was during her patient rounds in her
early career that she met a quiet cowboy with eyes as blue and
endless as the Sonoran sky. My Grandpa Frank instantly fell in love
with my grandma’s sharp wit and love of all God’s creatures. They
connected over a shared belief that the best cure for anything was
quiet contemplation, wide open spaces, and clean, fresh air.
It
wasn’t long before my Uncle Tom was on the way, and then, one right
after the other, five more boys joined the crew. The Armery was born.
What
can I say about this ragtag group of kids for whom clothing was
always optional and property lines non-existent?
Uncle Tom, the ringleader, who took it upon himself to deliver the most
spectacular display of pyrotechnics any neighborhood had ever seen
each 4th
of July. There was no greater thrill to my grandma than to call up to
his office and have the secretary transfer her to DOCTOR Armer.
My
Uncle Steve, our family’s representative member of the counter
culture with an uncanny intuitive understanding of classical music
which he shared with his mother.
My
Dad, Jim, the gentle giant, who would begrudgingly try to take charge
of his brothers because it's not like anyone else was going to do it.
My
Uncle Pat, definitive proof that mischief is a genetic trait. If he's
got that Elaine twinkle in his eye, just, uh, stay alert.
My
Uncle Dan, the only person with the distinction of nearly being
killed TWICE for mouthing off to my grandma. Who would’ve have
thought that when he’d left his Mardi Gras bead collecting days in
N'Awlins
to come home to Albuquerque he’d become such a consummate caregiver
for his mother? I will never in my lifetime see such an act of total
love, complete devotion, and absolute compassion as the care that my
Uncle Dan gave to his mother in her later years.
Tim.
The baby of the family. He thinks he’s the favorite, but we all
know he was just shielded from the repercussions of his outright
Armerness by my grandma’s sheer exhaustion. His youthful exuberance
provided the comic relief to an otherwise challenging existence.
If
you’re keeping count that’s six. Boys. If you know the Legend of
the Armer Boys, you already knew that.
Six
boys.
Maybe
another thing that got lost in the story is that my grandma raised
those six fine boys all on her own. My grandfather’s rancher’s
lifestyle meant that he was only in town for brief visits throughout
the year, his untimely death made my grandma a widow with nothing but
her wits and her kids, all at the age 39.
Should
I also mention that this was all BEFORE women’s lib?
My
grandma, of course saw that one truth. She had but one goal: to
survive. She gritted her teeth, put on some pink lipstick, held her
head high, and just laughed it off. She refused to look on anything
but the bright side of things, because even God she said, had a sense
of humor.
And, maybe just to see if she could make God laugh, my grandma would, every Sunday, attempt the impossible and try to reign in the chaos of those six boys. Making it to church just barely on time, the only pew left was that one in the very front row. So, she’d stick out her chin and sit with her in that front pew with those six boys like it had been reserved just for them.
My grandma always told me she liked the front row because it was the best way see everyone’s shoes when they went to communion.
It was my grandma’s way of tackling those larger things in life.
A
few weeks after my cousin Sarah’s wedding, I asked my grandma if
she’d heard from Sarah:
“Well,
she’s got my fertility,” she said.
When
she dropped sandwich during a picnic at White Sands:
“Welp,
it’s not that different than salt,” she said.
“Well,
I guess those nurses are doing an alright job without real
training.”
She
taught me to focus on the good details, the finer things in life.
Petit fours and tiny glasses of Kahlua at Christmas. The delight of
warm cashews on an unexpected first class flight. The importance of
good seats in a well-designed space – it helps to have buddy like
Gil in the orchestra to get those seats comped. The way the sun ends
each day by shattering itself on the Sandias. Lilacs in the spring.
Humming birds buzzing for nectar. The laughter of children outside
your bedroom window – after you’d finally just decided to lock
them outside for the rest of the day.
Today,
as I find myself in the throes of incomprehensible grief, trying to
to figure out how to say goodbye to the incredible spirit who shaped
me in ways I have still yet to understand, I will try my very best to
focus on the bright side of things. I will embrace the gift of my
grandmother because it’s the only way I know to survive her
profound absence.
