Pickles | A thousand words by Tyler + one image by Jesse

I didn’t get to go to Grandma Pat’s funeral. I wasn’t even told about it in time to ask off work. Nobody to cover, hadn’t been there long enough to accrue the necessary time off. She was an interesting person. Said racist things (I think a result of her age and upbringing in a rural town), yet voted for Obama proudly both times. Collected useless decorative plates. I have two of the original series Star Trek ones she gifted to me after she realized Grandpa Joe and I had been watching reruns. She made amazing pickles. We’d get the tiny— maybe four ounces— glass cups and down pickle juice like it was a shot of whiskey. She could never remember my partner’s name, which, as it turns out, was part of the problem.

She died with some form of dementia, probably Alzheimer’s. The last time I visited, she could recognize my face, but couldn’t come up with my name. I’m not a medical professional by any stretch, so I don’t know how advanced that might be. She wasn’t violent or aggressive, at least when I saw her. She was also only about five feet tall. I’m pretty sure I could take her. Her death led me to reflect on family and communication and knowledge and information and reliably, about a dozen other things.

There are several threads to untangle here. Or maybe leave tangled. Let sleeping dogs lie, that sort of thing. And maybe they should be intertwined. They certainly are in my mind. Families can be bad at communication. Mine is bad at it. Actually supportive, but I can’t give an accurate family history to a doctor, because I don’t know enough. If I needed a field picked clean of rocks, they’d be right on it. What Grandpa Joe actually died of? Who knows.

Anyway, I still have her handwritten pickle recipe on my fridge. I’m realizing I should laminate it to preserve it. You know, for posterity. Grandpa Joe’s Korean War trench coat is in my closet, with a first name and surely out of service phone number inscribed. I’ve never found out who that person was or is or what they meant to him. He didn’t talk often about the war. More often, he’d mention someone, a friend, or at least a compatriot, who had a fun personality. Even better, a funny anecdote. I don’t remember most of them now. Grandpa Joe died when I was sixteen.

What I remember from him was the aforementioned watching of Star Trek reruns, the watching of M*A*S*H, mopping as punishment, being taught how to do it right, and his frequent joke of, “open a window, I’ll help you out”. I recall him making sure we got to school and asking how we were doing at school and getting us sodas with equal frequency as having us help him pull weeds. He wasn’t much of a hugger, but he did the day my beloved dog died while I was at school and he buried her in the yard. He showed me where the grave was and told me she was a good girl. After we went wading in a nearby swamp, he took off the leeches with a burning cigarette. He could take out a splinter using a pocket knife. He would occasionally speak French in the house. I would find out later we were Quebecois. I assume that’s where I got my arrogance.

After he died, I attempted to get people to call me by my middle name. Didn’t take. His first name was Norm, and that’s how people outside the family referred to him. In the family, it was Joe. To ask to be called by a different, yet appropriate name, felt like a way to honor him. And to avoid my entirely uninteresting first name. At least my middle name means “gift of God” instead of “guy who makes tiles”.

I should mention Great Grandma Rose, the only great grandparent I ever got to meet. She was Grandma Pat’s mom, and the originator of the pickle recipe. She was an imposing four feet, ten inches tall. She would always put us to work, and there’d be a fabulous meal when we were done. Cooking, and specifically, cooking for others, was important.

My dad, Grandma Pat’s fourth son, didn’t cook often growing up. When we had guests, the grill was out. When we talk on the phone nowadays, the conversation often revolves around what he’s cooking, usually for friends coming over. I’ve spent time as a line cook, even adapting Grandma’s recipes when I host folks.

Dad was the first person on that side of the family to get a college degree. My younger brother was the first with a doctorate. My memory may be failing, but I think I was the first with a master’s. There are a lot of cousins involved, considering the six kids Grandma Pat had and the multiple marriages those kids had.

Grandma did a genealogy (I have a copy). We’re not related to anyone particularly remarkable. We might share an ancestor with Jean Jacques Rousseau, and that’s about it. But genealogy is different than heritage.

Hospitality is in my family. My dad, my brother, and I, create gardens and welcome people. You could say it’s in our blood. I think it’s in something more profound. I think it’s in family. I’m drawn to people who actively express and practice hospitality. It might be cooking, it might be medical aid, it might be just giving a shit.

My brother has recently taken up pottery, and he’s good at it. He gifted me a fermentation jar he made. The first thing I made? Pickles. They were gone within a week, and I drank the juice out of tiny, probably four ounce glass.

Genetics isn’t family. My heritage is to be decent to others, to gift them something, even when I’m bad at communicating. Must’ve learned that somewhere.

My heritage is pickles.