Ellsworth without Grandma

The headstone has been up for at least 5 years. The new addition, death date, was dark after having just been added.

I was pretty nervous about my first trip to Ellsworth after my Grandma died. I found some pretty unexpected results. First and foremost, I was able to take care of myself amidst all things Ranker. Secondly, my memories tended to focus on times when I was a kid.

Surprisingly still to myself, I was able to take care of me. My family is loud, argumentative, and often unkind to each other, especially on the male side. There are often arguments, unkind words, impatience, and we all have control issues. Sometimes this hits me upside the head because my brain helps me forget, every time I go there. Thanks, brain, but sheesh, it can be jarring.

I focused on myself, had the privilege of focusing on my child, and choosing how I speak to her and the rest of the family. My Belly and I just had a good time and did what we needed to do. First stop: Grandma Della’s grave. Throughout the years, I have almost exclusively stopped by Grandma’s first, so I thought it fitting to visit her grave first. Seeing the fresh dirt was gross at best. Someone had put peonies on her grave. One of if, not her very favorite flower. I added my 3 year coin.

I only saw my Grandma cry twice in my life, and both were alcohol related. One was exclusively my doing, staying out all night and cheating on my first wife. That’s all I have to say about that. And the second I will not speak on.

Bella was by my side and we inspected the grave, the new carving, and the amazing sculpture that had been added to my Grandfather’s side. This was made by my Uncle Duke and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen him make.

The blue N is for Northern Natural, my Grandpa’s company that he retired from before I was born. And I guess piston parts, and a circular crank from the plant as well. Other additions that were from my lifetime: the gearshift from my Grandpa’s truck, and his hammer. The back, a handmade hand-welded cross, all made by my Uncle Dwayne, who we also call Uncle Duke, who is a welder. Behind is a separate yard art sign that reads:

On Angel’s wings you were taken away, but in our hearts you will always stay. Your loving children. Dorsey Ranker. November 11th, 1924-September 23rd, 2017. Grandpa’s side is also decorated with the American flag and the Navy Flag.

They done already mowed over Grandma! Lol. And Grandpa’s grass isn’t looking too hot either.

Belly and I went, we saw, and then we headed for mom and dad’s. The weekend went off without a hitch. I was able to nap one day and sleep in the next. I was able to hold my tongue mostly most of the time in a very conservative place. I was able to be myself without shame or fear. I was able to take care of myself and my daughter.

I tricked her into this picture when she wouldn’t look up by yelling, “What was that?”

The most surprising thing was how easy it was to take care of myself and Belly. I had to laugh at myself upon reflection because the surprise was on account of me forgetting how much work I have done to be okay. 3 years of sobriety has never been achieved in all my attempts starting in 2009. I have done the work. I have taken the steps. I have failed forward hundreds of times with the only thing going for me is that I never died. I lived to tell, and try again. This time I am succeeding, thriving, really truly living. I am the only one to whom I answer, to whom I am accountable. That used to scared the shit out of me and I didn’t love me enough to show up. Today, that is so far from the truth that I still get to delight in it.

I get to grieve. I get to mess up. I get to show up. I get to “embarrass” my kid. I get to be bored as shit at horse shows. I get to swim with my belly hanging out because a sports bra is the only thing I can wear with the neuralgia. I get to love myself in my obese skin. I get to stay calm and speak kindly to EVERYONE. I get to travel with my kiddo and not worry my wife. I have a wife!

Back to Grandma: I may have put some of this on my family, but I think the result was healing for all. I started talking about homemade ice cream weeks before our visit. Now consider that Grandpa died 5 years ago and Grandma lived with my folks after he died and then the nursing home. So we haven’t made homemade ice cream for years, even before their deaths. But that was something that we used to do on big family weekends, so I had my heart set on it.

My folks have their own hand-crank ice cream freezer. It needs to be soaked in water before we make ice cream to seal up the cracks so the salt water doesn’t leak out. Bags of ice and rock salt must be acquired as well. And I needed them to find Grandma’s recipe, which I had taken for granted that someone had saved. I urged my folks to prepare all the things and I would bring my cranking arm. They delivered and we had a really nice time making 2 freezers, each a gallon, of homemade ice cream.

I’ll tell you right now that it was not as good as grandma’s and I had not one, but two alcoholic scares in making the damn shit. Grandma always mixed up the batch. Always. I often watched, but even when I “helped,” I probably just pored the sugar that she had measured out, whipped eggs that she had already cracked, or did two teaspoons of vanilla. Once everything was set, she would always add a little bit more sugar, and, I think, vanilla. To taste. Her taste. She had it perfected.

My mom delivered with the recipe. I found out that my folks’ freezer was smaller that Grandma and Grandpa’s, so she had a smaller recipe that was proportionately cut down. She also had Grandma’s hand written original recipe. I have no idea where she got it. Mom and I mixed up the first batch and off we went. Kids gathered around the freezer and asked questions about the process. Why the salt? Why the ice? Why are we making this when we can go to the store and buy it?

Mavrik, Wyatt, Isabella, Arabella, Me, and Papa.

The first freezer of ice cream is harder as the ice melts and molds around the freezer inside, but the second batch goes pretty smoothly as the salt water is already melting and super cold. I went into the house to make the second batch. Without thinking at all, I licked the side of the lemon extract bottle after measuring it out. It’s a bad habit that is also strangely a family thing. My mother does it as well. Anywho, lemon extract is 87% alcohol. I was instantly nauseated and full of fear since I take a breathalyzer every night that I have Belly at 8pm. It was about 7:20. I freaked out and put my mouth under the sink and starting rinsing my mouth out and drinking a ton of water.

I grabbed my phone and texted the Calvary, who very quickly let me know that it would not show up on the breathalyzer. My heart was racing. My body temperature was high. I dropped the ice cream mix off into the freezer so the kids could crank and I headed out to my car to grab my BACtrack. I tested the BAC, and the Calvary was right, 0.00. Phew!

The next day, we were sitting around eating the ice cream with Uncle Eugene and Auntie Louise. I mentioned how the ice cream was subpar. My mom says to Louise, that we wouldn’t want to add too much extra vanilla on account me. I was like, why-not-oh-my-god-it’s-raw-and-doesn’t-cook-out, so there is an alcohol content. SECOND FREAKOUT! It never occurred to me. Vanilla is like 17% alcohol. The recipe is two teaspoons in a gallon, so I am good, but again worried about the 8pm breathalyzer. Oof.

In the end, all was well, but it was a great reminder to stay vigilant. I was thrilled to make homemade ice cream in order to honor Grandma Della and Grandpa Duke. We crushed it. We added plenty of new tradition as well. Mom and Dad have been in Ellsworth for like 3 or 4 years and I pray they are there for many more. I will bring my happy little ass without apology as often as I can. Living amends. May we never outlive them.

Me and Mommie: She is the new Matriarch and I absolutely adore her.

I successfully navigated the first weekend in Ellsworth without my all time most favorite person. I achieved self care and brought the kid back alive. We had a really wonderful time. I continue my grief process by walking right into each situation. The definition of courage is taking that action in the face of fear. Today I am safe, sane, sober, and strong. Caterpillar to butterfly. #loveholly

Get this kid a cape, she saved the day.

It feels super dramatic to say that the kid saved my life, but really there is no way to tell. Maybe she did.

All I know is that I did not get off the couch last weekend. I went to work this past week, but I went to work from home on that same couch spot. Everything has been hitting and sitting since we got back from Arkansas.

Hitting me like a two by four. Hitting me like grief. Sitting on my chest and staying there. The house was a mess. I mean the house was a mess like we threw our own wedding and then left for a week on a camping and kayaking trip. Wedding prep, after wedding mess. Gifts, decorations, wrapping paper, cardboard, life, mess, mail, leftover food, things stored or set, all over the goddamn place.

And then we gathered anything and everything camping, which did not coincide with throwing a wedding. And left for a blissful week full of supplies and resources, tent, coolers, camping totes, food, kayaks, safety gear, lanterns, bug spray, campfire supplies, saws, axes, life jackets, bedding, clothes, shoes, bought more stuff there, and then came home and I personally just crashed. I barely had the energy to empty my own car yet alone hers.

What made it out of the cars after the wedding and the mini-moon found a new temporary home in the front room. And so started the making myself feel bad for feeling bad. This is rookie mental health stuff, but I think that even the pros could succumb to this on occasion. Stuff like, I am so blessed that I have two living rooms and one is just storing shit right now. Two couches but you can’t even see one. Laundry to do but nope, not getting off the couch. Oh, and by the way, why is it so painful to sit on the goddamn couch? If this nerve pain were a greater issue for a greater number of people, then the pharmacy companies could make money off of it and someone would have found a better cure by now, better pain killer, hint of boomer, where is the goddamn pill I can take instead of doing something about my condition. It hurts to sit. It hurts to move. It hurts to think about where to even start organizing this life in this spot.

Enter the life saving thought. I knew this kid would save my weekend. I knew she was coming and I knew, at absolute bare minimum that she would say, I’m hungry. And while I could have said, great, there is food in the kitchen, thanks only to my wife, I knew that I would not do that. I knew I would get up and assist her in getting food. I wonder if she brought a cape. I wonder if I could find my KU cape to loan her.

I didn’t tell her all of this. I told her some. I told her I had been struggling to find motivation and that it had been hard for me to be happy this week. I wanted to share as much of me as I could, at an age appropriate level. I did not want her to know that I was relying on her to pull my ass out of the ditch. That’s not her responsibility but I gladly used her as a tool.

She came through with flying colors. We had food adventures, again, assisted by my lovely wife. We mowed. Then we played soccer. She encouraged me so well. I want to play soccer so your effort in mowing the lawn isn’t wasted, she said. Who’s playing who? Who cares?! We edged the garden beds. We weeded gardens. We played with the dog. We biked. She explored the limits she’s learning with how far geographically she can go and how often she needs to check in. She explored her emotional limits by stating she didn’t want to go to church. Small fits were thrown. Boundaries were tested. I took care of myself. Angela did her own thing including but not limited to being by my or Bella’s side all weekend long.

I was so happy smack dab in the middle of a heavy deep depression. I sat on the front porch waiting for bella to get back from a lap on the bike, and cried, thanking Angela for her help and expressing my feelings. I’m so happy, I said, tears streaming. This is so nice. This is exactly what I needed and I knew that my little family would just be themselves and deliver.

My current mental health meds have been the same prescription since January 2020 and I have no desire to change them. That being said, I do not cry very much, or as often as I used to, by far, by very very far. This grief and downswing after the wedding and mini-moon has brought me to tears repeatedly. Being able to cry happy tears in the midst of all of this was an incredible emotional release. I was so grateful to be sitting sadly on the front porch crying happy tears with my new wife waiting for my superhero to round the corner on her bike.

One week anniversary of being Mrs Brownrabbit

First question, did we legally change our names to Brownrabbit? You’re damn right we did. I was Brown and she was Babbit, so we meshed the two and came up with Brownrabbit. Simple. Fun. Iconic. Different. New.

These last two weeks have been such a journey. I laid in bed last night thinking of all the things I wanted to write about. Instead of prewriting this post in me head, I just starting thanking god for all the things that were popping into my head. I can write a gratitude list, let me tell you. One thing leads to another and it turns into a meditation that eases my mind and puts right to sleep.

Speaking of sleep, “it’s a great day to wake up instead of coming to.” This was a quote said at the beginning or end of a share by my dear friend, Gloria, who passed away I guess a couple years ago at this point. Two days ago was her wife’s birthday. Her wife, Belinda, a very dear friend of mine since my first days in recovery, about 2009, passed away this year as well. I happened to still have a rose from her funeral hanging on my dashboard while we were on our minimoon. I released her into the fire. Her death comes in waves when I wish to reach out to her, or, more often these days, think about her kids. Belinda and I had a short talk and I assured her that I and her children were fine. We would be okay and she should just enjoy being a free soul.

Back to my gratitude meditation, let’s start with the fact that I am grateful that I have the right to marry my love. Only since June 26th, 2015, has same sex been federally recognized in the United States. Thanks, Obama. Since I was a baby gay, coming out at 15 or 16 years old, I had been told that gay marriage would not be legalized in my lifetime. Now look at your full grown gay, divorced and remarried! I imagine explaining this to my kiddo when she’s older, telling her that when she was born on March 13, 2015, it was not legal for her mother and I to marry. Since 2 moms is all she has ever known but will be inundated with a heteronormative world, I can just imagine her simply stating how stupid it would have been if her moms weren’t allowed to marry like everyone else on the planet, or something of the like.

I digress because we divorced like so many couples; grateful for that opportunity as well. I would have died in that marriage. And now, 5 years later, give or take, I am one week Mrs Brownrabbit.

But wait, let’s go back one more week. Two weeks ago today on April 16th at 12:25 pm, Della Fern Wachs Ranker passed away at 93 1/2 years. Born November 29th, 1929, this woman saw some things. Before she was 10 years old, the Dust Bowl struck Kansas and then WWII broke out. She would have gone through the Great Depression as well. She grew up on a farm outside of Ellsworth, KS. I wish I knew more about her childhood, but she never complained about it. Hard work. Well into retirement, coffee break was at 10, dinner at noon, coffee break at 3, and supper at 530. Farm time. My dad was born in 1948 as the eldest of 3 boys and he graduated KU in 1970. That puts my grandma at 19 when he was born, in her 20’s in the 50’s, 30’s in the 60’s, and 40’s in the 70’s. By the time I was born in 1979, she and my grandfather were retired, folks. Boom. Done working. At 50ish.

Della Fern Wachs: Confirmation 8th grade

Grandma was second of 5 kids. She still has 3 living siblings! I wonder if she was ever that ornery second born kid. I was also second of 5. I don’t think she ever graduated from high school. Her obituary says different so I could be wrong. I think she started working at the grocery store to help out the family as early as like 13 years old. I think her family had moved into town at that point because she told me that she was scared to walk home from the grocery store at night. I don’t know what her mother or father did after the farm or if they just moved into town but kept the farm. Not sure. I should reach out to my Aunt Nancy and Alice, grandma’s sisters, to get some stories.

Her obit says she kept the books for several different organizations. She was an excellent record keeper in so many ways. She was highly organized from scrap books, to checkbooks, to holidays, letter writing, etc. As I was writing this, another wave of my losses in addiction hit me because I am certain that I lost many of her letters. Grandma and I wrote avidly to each other and I found out later that she did the same with her siblings and who knows who else? I was one of few who could read her handwriting with ease. She was well spoken and wrote well.

I’m sure I knew at some point where her and my grandpa met, maybe a town dance? I think it was after WWII. My grandpa’s mom signed a release for him when he was 16 or 17, to join the navy so he could go into the branch he wanted to go into before getting drafted. So I think he went at 17 and was back at 21. He was born in 1924. It is my understanding that my grandfather worked 3 jobs and my grandmother was a battle axe stay at home mom. I think she ran a pretty tight ship.

She wasn’t my mom though, she was my grandma. She is the one who gave me my first nickname, Holly Dolly. I don’t remember much about my early childhood. We went to Ellsworth for holidays or they would come to Manhattan. They were often at grandparent’s day at school and around for plenty of soccer and tee ball games. They were at First communion, confirmation, and graduation.

First Communion with Grandma Della, Grandpa Duke and Grandma Terry.

Grandma, Grandpa, Erynn, Holly, Paul, Nick. Possibly Easter egg hunting at 701 Elling St in Manhattan, KS. Notice Paul’s Bert and Ernie shirt. That old yeller passed down through all of us.

Grandma’s house was spotless but there was no running in the house because you would “stir up the dirt.” There was significant dirt outside though. My cousin, Sommer, is my age and we grew up when I was in Ellsworth, together. We played in very small warm puddles on the patio that was laid by my grandpa. We made mud pies in the back shed. We made homemade ice cream that was hand cranked and would not freeze, hand to heart, unless one of us sat on it to hold it down for the cranker. Coffee break was at 10 and 3, cookies and milk for the kids. Dinner was at noon. My aunts and uncles would come by for dinner or supper when I was in town.

During the summers I would get to spend a week alone at grandma’s. It was a welcome vacation with cable TV and my choice of dinners. I first fell in love with shells and cheese at grandma’s because we had the Mac and Cheese with the powder at home and she bought the good stuff with the cheese that you squeezed from the package. We played a ton of games, many of which no longer exist like Cooties and Snoopy. There was a significant amount of Play-Doe. Grandma had a “playroom” in the basement. Imagine! A whole room just for play!

That smile though. She loved giving. We prolly each had like 5 presents from grandma and grandpa every Christmas. And that little feller is my cousin, Luke. Hims full grown with a Masters degree in City Planning these days.

Grandma taught me how to play rummy. My family has a strange version that I have never seen elsewhere. It consists of 7 hands, each a different requirement. I learned how to play sitting on my grandma’s lap. Dominoes was another family game. I remember playing cards and opening Christmas presents with my great-grandpa, grandma’s dad. He was very quiet. He lived across the alley from grandma and grandpa and did his own thing well into his 90’s. He had a wood shop in his garage and I still have several pieces he made. They are mostly hideous but grandma displayed them about her house with pride.

Marble game made by great grandpa. One of the few good pieces. What a racket!

They had a massive garden in great grandpa’s yard for a long time and we ate fresh cucumbers in vinegar or half and half, fresh tomatoes with sugar, watermelon, cantaloupe, carrots etc. I wish I had spent more time out there with grandpa, but I was either with Sommer or grandma, always. As they got older, the garden became too much to take care of, great grandpa died, and they sold the house. Great grandpa’s wood shop caved in on itself and sits there to this day. The back shed, where mud pies were made, was rebuilt and we grew up. The raceway for tricycles was replaced with individual stones, but the lawn remained spotless. My grandpa’s signature canas were no longer able to be cared for and were replaced with grandma’s peonies for a time, but then those were too much as well.

Family reunion in 2017, me grandma and her sister, my Aunt Alice.

Grandpa developed Alzheimer’s and once grandma couldn’t care for him, he went to the retirement home in Lyons. He died about 5 years ago in 2017. Grandma stayed in the house till my folks retired to Ellsworth about 3 years ago. She went to live with them until they were unable to care for her. She spent her last couple years in the retirement home that she took us to to visit her mother as kids. She was still quite vibrant until her death. We played cards every time we would go see her. She wasn’t much for conversation. She “didn’t know anything.” So we would tell her what we had been up to lately and then settle in for a game of cards. I would have sat there in silence doing nothing though. Oh how I adored that woman.

Grandma trying to use a smart phone. She never owned a cell phone or a computer.

Covid Thanksgiving. Matriarch. Mom and Dad on the left and my dad’s middle brother Uncle Dwayne and Aunt Geri.

Last trip to Lawrence. She got to see our home and spend the night with my mom.

Her last Christmas (I think). I gave her a giant board of photos for her room at the retirement home. She sat and looked over every photo.

Her second to last day on this earth was incredibly moving. I will write about it another time. And more as it comes up. I love you forever with my whole heart, Della Fern. Ang and I named our kayaks Fern and Irma after a different old lady couple in her family, but mine doubles as a guide of the greatest love I have ever known, you, grandma.

Until next time, Holly Dolly.