To Grandma on the Eve of Her 100th Birthday

Mid-May in the Midwest is always a remarkable time of year; the blustery, blistering cold of winter has subsided by then, and the promise of spring fills the air with the bucolic scents of tulips, lupins, cornflowers, iris, and peonies. The black fertile soil comes alive, almost apologetically making amends for its frozen rock-hard off-season demeanor.

May 15, 1909 was no different than any other mid-May in preceding years, or years since, except for this: on the plains of South Dakota, where people still traveled by horse and wagon, where electricity was still a rarity, and where airplanes had not been seen, much less occupied, by the locals, a little girl was born to Norwegian immigrants. As is often the case with beautiful foliage, harsh winters can result in a toughness that belies appearances, and this little girl was one such flower.

On May 15, 2009 -- one hundred years later -- this little flower will (with help) go to the cafeteria of her assisted living residence and will drink what she will then proclaim to be the best cup of coffee she has ever had in her life.

I have nothing but intense love and admiration for this woman, my father's mother, for her attitude and her enjoyment of life. Where did it all start?

For the first two decades of my life, I knew little about Ferne Schnoor except that she was graceful, elegant, beautiful, and that she appreciated the finer things in life. She and my grandfather, Al, lived in Santa Barbara, California, in a beautiful ranch house up "on the hill" overlooking the valley where most of Santa Barbara was nestled. Grandma and Grandpa moved to Santa Barbara from McCook, Nebraska, after Dad (their only son) graduated from college.

Grandma found California to be the perfect environment to feed her voracious appetite for gardening, and she was proud of her incredible flower garden -- I still remember the deep, vivid colors of her azaleas and camellias and all the other flowers -- and she had a keen eye for beauty. She loved looking across the valley to the snow-capped mountains in winter; she loved staring at the stars in the darkening evening sky; and she loved arranging and rearranging the furniture in her house to produce pleasant visual effects.

I loved Grandma, but from the eyes of this naive grandson, Grandma's life seemed to be an exceptionally easy and pleasant one, especially when I compared her to my other grandmother, who passed away in 1974 after being ravaged both by the chronic illness of, and the medical treatment for, Parkinson's Disease.

Of course, I was happy that things were going well for her. I just didn't think of her as being a tough person, someone who would be able to withstand the pressures of life should the winds ever change for the worse.

I was wrong, dead wrong.

My grandfather passed away in 1984, and for the first time in fifty years, Grandma had to figure out things for herself. My father and mother helped her considerably with this, moving her to Omaha, Nebraska so that she could be near the rest of the family.

That was tough for Grandma at first; going from her California hilltop house to a small apartment meant that she had to get rid of most of her possessions. She dealt with it though, and I remember visiting her apartment for the first time and being amazed at how everything was in place, nice and neat. There was no clutter, no mess, and it was a stylishly decorated abode.

In the late 1980's, Grandma's eyesight started declining, slowly at first but then rapidly disappearing, and by 1990 she was legally blind. She could detect shadow and light, and in her stubborn Norwegian heritage she refused to admit that she couldn't see. Or at least she refused to let it slow her down. Instead of sitting in her room listening to the radio, she found a pair of friends who went walking with her at the mall everyday.

If she couldn't appreciate visual beauty any more, she was at least going to get out and walk and enjoy the strength of her heart.

Then, in 1995, at her physical exam, doctors detected that her heart valves were failing. Further examination revealed that she was knocking on death's door. The doctors told her that she needed to have two valves replaced. If she did nothing, she could expect to live two to four weeks. The problem though was that the surgery itself was risky -- she was told she had a ten to twenty percent chance of surviving the surgery -- and it would be a painful ordeal.

She decided to not do the surgery. She had lived eighty-six years and was content with her life.

I flew out to Omaha to spend a long weekend with her. We had such a wonderful time together. We prayed, we laughed, we cried, we told stories, and she told me about her years as a school teacher in a one room school house in western South Dakota. Back in those days, the school house had no electricity, and she used a wood stove to heat the room. She would arrive early, chop the firewood, get the fire burning, and then she would melt snow and ice to provide water for the students. She was the teacher, the principal, and the groundskeeper. She did it all. I started to appreciate that there was more to this flower than I had realized.

During that weekend together, I gained a new appreciation for her outlook on life. Though she had grown up in the church, for many years her religious affiliations were primarily a social outlet. After her blindness settled in, she became more reflective and introspective, and she saw God in a new light.

Norwegians -- especially Norwegian Lutherans -- are not accustomed to opening up and talking about their lives, their hopes, their dreams, and their fears; but she opened up that weekend.

Late that Sunday afternoon, as I was preparing to drive the rental car out to the airport and fly home, I said good-bye to Grandma. There were tears in my eyes, and she wouldn't have known it if she hadn't touched my cheeks with her withered hands. She was crying too.

I talked to her a few days later, and she told me that she had decided to go ahead with the surgery. She said she wasn't ready to just give up.

The doctors inserted two synthetic heart valves. Not only did Grandma survive the surgery, but within a month she was back up and walking with her friends, and within two months she was walking a brisk mile three times each week.

Shortly after that, she moved to Minnesota to be closer to my parents, who had moved there a few years earlier for job related reasons.

Grandma again adapted, learning to get around in a new environment though she couldn't even see shadows by that point.

Then, two years ago, Grandma fell and broke her hip. At about the same time, she developed pneumonia. The doctors gave her a few weeks to live. "She won't make it beyond spring," they told Dad. And even if she survived, they said that she would be confined to bed the rest of her life.

The tough little flower from South Dakota had more tenacity than anyone realized. Within weeks she was sitting up in bed, eating, and then she began walking up and down the hallways of her assisted living facility, with the help of nurses and friends. Spring came, and then summer, and Grandma kept right on going.

She became more social than she had been for a while, venturing into the cafeteria for all her meals, trying to play cards with her friends (I'm not sure how she managed that, not being able to see ... I hope she wasn't gambling), and attending all the on-site church services.

And then, a year ago, she came down with the flu. She was sicker than she had been the previous year, and the doctors told Dad, "This is it." She was being fed through tubes and was receiving oxygen to assist her breathing.

Dad made funeral arrangements and everything was settled except for the actual date.

The doctors decided to take her off the tubes and the oxygen and just let her pass tranquilly.

Well ... Grandma ... sat up in bed one day, announced that she was starving and wanted some food, and then she called the nurses in to help her get out of bed so that she could go for a walk down the hall.

Day by day, she ate more and more and regained her strength. The doctors were baffled, but all of us rejoiced that Grandma hadn't given up.

During the past year, Grandma's mind has finally shown signs of the wear and tear of the passing of time. She gets confused now, and she mixes bits and pieces of her actual past with dreams or fantasies whose origins are unknown. She doesn't recognize Dad or Mom, or her grandchildren, any more. She talks about being a fighter pilot back in "the war," or about her days as a concert cellist. She is confused, but she is happy.

On May 15, 2009, Grandma will celebrate her 100th birthday. Dad told me last week that Grandma doesn't fully realize the significance of her birthday. She won't know the people who are there to celebrate with her. But one thing for certain is this. When she wakes up in the morning and is wheeled out to the cafeteria for breakfast, she will proclaim her cup of coffee to be the best cup of coffee that she has ever had.

The flower is wilting; the flower is fading. But the flower is beautiful; its splendor has grown these past couple of decades; and someday, when the last petal falls, I will press it between the pages of my memory.

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear Grandma,
Happy Birthday to you.

I love you, Grandma.