The little girl in the right-hand corner of this photograph would become my grandmother, Helen. While her life would take many turns in eighty-four years, it was when she had become “Helen Adams” that she became an anchor. A lifesaver. In as many ways an anchor can save a life. In as many ways as a life can be saved because of an anchor.

This is an undelivered tribute. Because Helen Adams wouldn’t have this kind of thing if she were aware of it. An anchor does most of its work below the surface. If I were to attempt to draw Helen Adams up into the cargo hold in appreciation for all she has done for me, she would groan in her links as if to say, “Please. My place is below. Please put me back. There is still work to be done.”

There are many stories that one might tell about Helen Adams. And–in the next few days–some of these will be told between the adults now in their mid-thirties who grew up in the House of Hugs Daycare that my grandmother has run for as long as I remember. Some of these stories will be told in the local Eagle Lodge where my grandmother has served faithfully. . .dutifully. . .for a number of years. Stories will be told around camping circles, an activity my grandmother loved. Stories will be told in a local restaurant called J. W. Fillmore’s which seems to serve as the unofficial “newspaper” for the close-knit town of Petoskey, Michigan.

They all called her “Grandma.”

She. . .was my grandma.

There’s an old adage that goes like this: “To what extent and degree we may never know, we are all the product of what someone else thought was the right thing to do.”

And there is some familial folklore that forever connects this life to the live lived by Helen Adams. At least the last forty-five of which I am most aware. Because these are the years I have lived. And I have lived them thus because of “Grandma’s” influence. . .and because of her intercession on one occasion in particular and on many occasions thereafter.

By default, the work of an anchor is to drop into place and steady. . .if not give full-stop to boats at sea.

As a baby. . .I was a boat at sea. In a moment of what I have to imagine would be the most difficult decision to make for a mother, it was my “Grandma” who called my father–after a quick separation from her daughter–to tell him to come and to pick me up. That he would care for me. That my mother might not be fully-equipped to handle and to raise a small child. I was about three years old.

I needed someone to make a judgement in regard to what would be the best thing to do. And my father raised me. With a loving step-in mother. Raised in a sense of solidity and security I might not have known if not for this intercession.

Anchors are pretty solid this way. They know one thing in three parts: drop. . .stop. . .and steady.

And we would be distracted from offering tribute to the life of Helen Adams if we washed all of the family laundry publicly, but throughout my childhood, “Grandma Adams” acted as an intercessory between what a prescribed theology adopted by my parents and her idea of “the right thing to do.”

And this is why when I would visit “Grandma Adams” for the holidays, I would have one of my grandfather’s socks nailed to the door frame with the other stockings at Christmas time. I would get an Easter bucket from “Felix the Cat” to placate the notion that the Easter Bunny would not visit a nice Witness child. I was considered. I was included. I was her grand child.

During my time in the Navy, I always knew where to find “Grandma Adams” on Willis Avenue. I always knew her phone number as it has never changed. Anchors are made of a solid stuff and once they are forged they last for a very, very long time.

Through multiple relationships, the one thing we have always made certain is that the one with whom I would share my heart would meet my “Grandma.” This week, Kristie’s pain at the loss of losing “Grandma” is as palpable as my own. And such is the way of boats, usually as we admire the craftsmanship and celebrate the name, but miss the anchor. Kristie, too, has been influenced by the life of Helen Adams. As have our children, Noah and Maddie.

But there will always be something special between “Grandma Adams” and me. And one might think it inappropriate to mention on an education website, but Grandma always had two names for me: “Paully”. . .and. . .”Asshole.” They are both terms of endearment used interchangeably depending upon what I had been doing in my life. . .or within the last couple of minutes of my life. At forty-five, I regret now that the one voice that was permitted to use these monikers is now gone. I cannot adopt another as I would lose the voice that delivered them both with a sense of love and admiration one might offer to a dog they don’t really like. . .but a dog they totally like.

Oh. . .once–when I was trying to draft a genealogy paper for undergraduate work–I consulted Grandma for a little bit of guidance regarding our ancestry. I should have known better:

“You want to know where you came from. . .?”

“Yes, Grandma. . .I kind of need the information for this paper I’m writing.”

“Okay. . .here’s where you came from. . .two freight trains slammed together and you slipped out a hobo’s ass.”

And from this input came one of the best introductions to a paper I have ever submitted for a grade. The paper discussed the difficulty of genealogy when the figures consulted are cantankerous.

Anchors don’t mean to be cantankerous. They are forged to hold a place not to offer platitudes.

So. . . this is an undelivered tribute to the woman who saved me. The anchor which held its place while I learned to appreciate the difference between flush-able sea water and potable drinking water. Anchors settle into the same with indifference except toward the job that they have been given to do.

Drop. . .stop. . .and steady.

This is me. . .saying “I love you” to the woman who saved me in as many ways as a life can be saved. Would it be so ironic that one might be looking for a life-saver to be thrown vs. a anchor laid when one can keep you afloat while the other can steady your floating?

If you’ve ever wondered from where I get my sense of humor. . .my tendency to be a little cranky or to bend to the pessimistic. . .it is because of my “Grandma Adams.”

We are forged from the same material. And I couldn’t be more proud of my ancestry. I’d like to think that my “Grandma” just may have been a hobo jumping on and off of freight trains before I came along.

It’s not a bad story to slip out of. . .really.

And whereas she’s now been given the wings of a angel, perhaps her passing is pressing upon me the call to become more anchor-like. What “Grandma Adams” has been for me I would like to be for the people that come after me. I’m too old now to chase freight trains, but I can learn to drop. . .stop. . .and steady.

My “Grandma’s” life was a course of sorts. And I see in her passing the course she had set.

Drop. . .stop. . .and steady.

And. . .now. . .it’s time to drop a few lines. Stop to celebrate the life. . .and become steady in a world that has the spirit of Helen Adams within it. I’m an old Navy guy. I see the symbol of the anchor loud and clear. And I hear that anchor now saying:

“Paully. . .you asshole. I said ‘no tributes.'”

I love you. . .you creaky, rusty. . .steadfast anchor. Fair winds and following seas.

 

Love,

Paully (Asshole).