I lost my uncle Jeff on February 27th. It still doesn’t feel real to me, even though I attended the funeral. I was asked to say a few words, and I wanted to publish them here to pay respect to him. He’d been waiting ten years for a kidney transplant, and just seventeen days after receiving one, he was gone. The transplant went very well, and he was recovering just fine, so we don’t know what happened or why. He was the second oldest of seven siblings (five girls and two boys), just three years younger than my mother. Here are the words that I spoke in honor of his memory. He will be sorely missed.
When I think of my Uncle Jeff, I think of Nike tennis shoes. Not Nikes in general, but a very specific pair from the 70s. They’re white leather with a red swoosh on the side, with a skinny wedge of blue in the center of the heel. And the soles had a herringbone pattern, so when you’d look at them from the side, the bottom sort of looked like jagged teeth.
Nike Cortez Classic, circa 1972
The reason I think of those shoes is because that’s what I remember him wearing when he’d come pick me up to hang out with him. As a little kid, I was amazed at how those shoes were always so clean and white, and I thought they made him look so cool.
I loved hanging out with Uncle Jeff. He’d take me places like the mall, or to get ice cream, or the park. He always made me feel so special. It wasn’t until I was grown that I found out the real reason why we hung out so much.My uncle used me as a chick magnet. Yes, my Uncle Jeff was using me to pick up women, because I was so cute, and even looked like I could be his daughter. I guess I was pretty good at my job because suddenly there was this woman named Almeda in the mix. And because at that time, I wasn’t aware of his ulterior motives, I was left to wonder who this woman was, and why I suddenly had to share my uncle’s time with her.
Our occasional team of two quickly grew to a crowded party of three, and then came the news. Uncle Jeff decided to marry Almeda, and his company was transferring him to Texas. No more candy, no more ice cream, no more trips to the mall. No more hanging out with Uncle Jeff. I was so upset, but I decided to look on the bright side. I still had Uncle Bobby, and he had a cooler car and played better music anyway. The happy couple appointed me as their flower girl, the deed was done, and they rode off into the sunset to start a new life together in Houston.
Uncle Jeff, his beautiful bride Almeda, and little ‘chick magnet’ me.
Fast forward to July of 1983, I was 12, and my mom booked deluxe arrangements for me and my sister to travel on Greyhound, to visit Uncle Jeff, andAlmeda, and Danelle, who was only three, and Candice, who wasn’t even a year old yet. I remember he lived in this nice house, in a really nice neighborhood, and I was so proud of him. Not that it was unusual for anyone in our family to live in a house, but this was a modern house. The kind of house where you didn’t have to remember any codes or patterns. Like the toilet code, or the stair pattern. Let me explain what those are.
The toilet code is when you’d have to flush twice to clear the bowl, but you’d have to wait at least a full minute between flushes, or you’d flood the bathroom, which would then overflow into the kitchen underneath it, and you’d end up having to wash all the dishes. And that’s a true story that happened to me at my grandparents’ house one Thanksgiving day. Now the stair pattern goes something like this. If you wanted to sneak up or down the stairs, you’d have to remember avoid the third, fifth, and sixth stairs, because those were the ones that creaked the loudest, and would alert the adults to the fact that you were doing something you didn’t have any business doing. Yeah, Uncle Jeff’s house was nice, and definitely didn’t have any codes or patterns.
There are other things I remember about that trip too, like the hot weather and lots of sunshine, and riding in the car listening to the SOS Band, Just Be Good To Me, and Midnight Star, No Parking on the Dance Floor. Apparently Uncle Jeff’s taste in music had caught up with Uncle Bobby’s at that point. Or maybe it was Almeda’s influence on him. I can remember they let me stay in Danelle’s room all by myself, in her princess bed, complete with a canopy. I also remember staying up all night in that same bed, after Uncle Jeff took us to see Jaws 3, in 3D. Every time I would close my eyes, that bed would turn into a boat, the canopy would turn into sails, and I had to make sure I didn’t dangle my arms or legs over the edge because there was a huge shark lurking just underneath the surface of the water. That trip was great, and I had a good time.
Looking back, I guess I did an ok job as uncle Jeff’s chick magnet. Almeda stuck with him through thick and thin for 43 years, and they had two baby girls along the way. And even though my cousins will never measure up to my level of chick magnet cuteness, they turned out to be kinda cute too. Even though Danelle’s head’s kinda big but don’t tell her I said that cause she’s sensitive about it. Of course I’m just kidding, my cousins are beautiful, just like their mother.
I have lots of other fond memories of Uncle Jeff, but for whatever reason, the memory of those Nikes is the one that stands out the most. Which is ironic, considering how young I was. I wasn’t even three when they got married. Anyway, I Googled those classic shoes, and I found out they’re called The Cortez. I did a little research on the name, and found out it’s a Spanish or Portuguese surname, derived from an Old French word (coreis) that means courteous or polite. Cortez is also a geographical name that means the court of a king or sovereign. Polite and courteous definitely describe my uncle, but so does the word king. He was a king, who used a young princess, to find his queen. He was also the descendant of a king, my grandfather, Robert Dawson Senior. And today, we should rejoice, knowing that Uncle Jeff has gone on to see The King.
It’s three o’clock in the morning as I write this, and I’m up because I had a dream about my maternal grandmother, who passed away just seven days shy of Christmas last year. And it has just dawned on me that today is Mother’s Day. Perhaps she felt the need to be remembered today, so I will do her that honor.
Being the second of eleven grandchildren, I got to spend a lot of time with my grandparents. They’d been married for sixty years at the time of my grandfather’s passing in 2009, and had five girls and two boys, my mother being the oldest.
I have so many memories of visiting my grandparents, most of which revolve around summer. There was the huge apple tree at the side of the house, with its bright green, Granny Smith-like apples. And the grapevine behind the garage, where my mother would catch a serious case of poison ivy many years later. And there was always the white peonies, planted along side the uneven blocks of concrete sidewalk leading up to the house. They were pretty but they always attracted those huge black carpenter ants.
My grandparent’s home, courtesy of Google Maps.
One of the biggest draws for going to my grandparents was getting to visit with my aunts and uncles.
There was uncle Jeff, whom I adored because he used to take me everywhere with him. We’d get candy and ice cream and do fun stuff together. I wouldn’t find out until years later that he had an ulterior motive and was using me to attract and meet women! Apparently I was pretty good at my job, because he’s been married for over forty years now to a wonderful woman. Aside from using me as a chick magnet, my uncle Jeff is a textbook example of how a man should treat his woman. But then he had a good example in my grandfather.
There was uncle Bobby, whom we affectionately called ‘uncle Nasty,’ because he was always doing weird things to gross us out. Uncle Bobby instilled in me a love for music, and introduced me to groups I never heard at home, like Pink Floyd and Aerosmith. He also drove the coolest car, a black PlymouthRoadrunner.
1971 Plymouth Roadrunner
It wasn’t the car itself that I thought was cool at the time, it was the actual Roadrunner decals on the sides, because I loved Bugs Bunny cartoons.
There was aunt Suzy, who I thought was the coolest person on the planet. She was always doing something artistic and creative, like drawing caricatures of my mom, taking pictures for a photography class, or appearing in a play called Jesus Christ, Superstar.
There was aunt Karey, who reminded me a little of my mom (short and kind of quiet). I can’t remember a time when she didn’t have her two boys with her, my cousins DeAndre (probably not the correct spelling) and Marcus.
Joni is the youngest, and she was my grandmother’s sidekick. They were thick as thieves, always together.
And last but not least, there’s my aunt Lillie, who left home early, so I really didn’t get to know her until I was a little older.
My grandparent’s house was the gathering place. They had a huge front porch, and at the back of the house, a small three step stoop. I don’t know how (or even why) we used to do it but sometimes there’d be about eight of us squished together, sitting on those tiny steps, telling stories on each other and enjoying the weather.
Here’s a picture of a stoop that looks like the one at my grandparent’s house. I cropped the original image, which is from the “iheartnola” Instragram account. Same size, same number of steps, and they were even this same shade of green at one point!
There was the “front room” where my grandfather always sat, watching the news or reading his Bible. You didn’t just walk into the front room, you approached it silently and stood in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged, and to be granted permission to enter and say hello. The “davenport” or the “den” was where the rest of the family hung out, free to watch whatever on tv or make as much noise as you dared.
I remember watching Sesame Street at their house, and being introduced to crunchy peanut butter, something we never got at home. And my all time favorite? Tang. We only ever had Kool-Aide at our house, with the occasional pop as a treat. I’m from Ohio so yes, it’s pop, not soda or “Coke.” When I asked my grandmother what this sugary orange nectar from the gods was, she told me it was a secret, but one of the main ingredients was spider’s eggs. Yes, my grandmother was a little bent, so now you know where I get it from.
Tang Breakfast Drink
I can also remember her telling us to quiet down because her “brother” was on tv, Richard Dawson (because her last name was also Dawson), who hosted the game show Family Feud long before Steve Harvey ever got the gig. She loved her “stories” too, otherwise known as soap operas.
Other fond memories include trips to the library and Wards, at the Mellett mall, and playing hide and go seek in the church while she took care of church business. Those Christmas speeches we had to give in front of the entire congregation…HATED ‘EM, but I guess she was trying to instill public speaking in us. And man could she sew! She made wedding dresses, and even had her own label. At one point her basement looked like a Joann Fabric store.
One of the things I remember most about her was her favorite phrase; and so on and so forth.
The first time I can remember my grandmother not being the grandmother I’d always known and loved was when my grandfather had bypass surgery. Not being able to be there, which was a common occurrence since I’d joined the military and moved away at nineteen, I called the hospital to see how things were going.
The staff put a woman on the line that could not be my grandmother. I mean the voice was hers, but she literally went off on me simply for asking how my grandfather’s surgery had gone, so there’s no way it could’ve been her. I was so taken aback, that to this day I can’t remember what she said, but I do remember that she yelledat me, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he was still in surgery, and promptly hung up on me.
I remember literally staring at the phone, my mouth hanging open, in shock. This was not my grandmother, she’d never raised her voice at me. Never needed to. This wasn’t the grandmother who’d taught Sunday and vacation Bible school. She’d never been anything but patient and loving with me. I called back, and they put my aunt Suzy on the phone instead, who assured me that my grandmother meant no harm, she was just stressed out about the situation.
Some years later, I remember getting a call from my mother, telling me that my grandmother had been diagnosed with dementia. The electric company called my aunt Lillie about non-payment of services, which led to the discovery of a number of unpaid bills. But it was going to be ok because they would put her on medication and everything would be fine. Except it wasn’t. The medication made her ill, and she’d throw up so violently that it would literally cause her heart to stop momentarily, so she had to stop taking it.
A few years later in 2009 my grandfather passed, and after the funeral, we returned to the gathering place. This was the first interaction I can remember having with my grandmother after the news of her diagnosis. She and I were sitting alone at the table where she’d hosted countless family, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners, she at one end and I at the other.
She started telling me about my grandfather, and the parts of his life I never knew about. The man before the seven kids and eleven grandkids. About how they met, how he’d swept her off her feet, his time in the Navy, and how they had to live with her parents until he saved up enough money for a down payment for the house we were sitting in. And then, **gag,** how he was really good in bed. And even though I was cringing on the inside, I never let it show on the outside, because I knew at that moment I was privy to information I may not ever hear again, because she may not be able to access those memories ever again.
And I remember walking away from that conversation and breaking down in tears, worried and wondering how she’d get along without my grandfather by her side.
I remember my first visit with her after my grandfather’s passing. With my kids at my side, I stood on that three step stoop and knocked on the door, nervous and not knowing what to expect. She answered, and looked at us as if we were bothering her. There was no recognition in her eyes. “Grandma? It’s Angie.” Nothing. “Your granddaughter.” Her face softened slightly, and she opened the door to let us in. Not because she recognized me, but because she understood the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter.
We made our way to the front room, which was the oddest feeling, not seeing my grandfather sitting where he was always sitting 90% of the time when we’d come to visit. We all sat down, and she looked at me, and I finally saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. And then a smile spread across her face, and she looked at my kids. Suddenly, I was looking at the grandmother I’d always known.
“Angie! And these are your babies. Well they’re not babies anymore. Stand up so I can see how big you’ve gotten.” And my kids, slightly stiff and uncomfortable, stood as directed. “My you guys have gotten so big.” They sat down in unison. “How old are you now?” They responded in kind. Her smile faded, she went silent, and stared straight ahead for a moment. And then the entire scene replayed itself, like a record with a scratch in it.
This happened about four or five times, literally, until my son finally had to walk out of the room. He couldn’t take seeing her like that, and didn’t want her to see the tears rolling down his face. I got up, gave him a hug, he wiped his face and we sat back down. We stayed a little longer, and listened to her talk about my grandfather’s death, and being alone, and how my aunt Joni had moved in to make things a little easier. It was apparent as she spoke that she was well aware that her mind and her memory weren’t exactly as they used to be. We left shortly afterwards.
My next encounter with her would be at a family reunion in Chattanooga in 2012, and I was so happy (and relieved) that, for the most part, she was the grandmother I’d always known and loved. She knew who I was, knew my name, and talked to me about how she knew her husband was gone, but couldn’t remember exact details like what year he’d passed, or how long they’d been married. Again, acknowledging that she knew she had a problem. She also recognized my kids, but couldn’t quite recall their names, and we were both completely ok with that. It was a really good weekend, where she was aware and present most of the time.
The last time I saw my grandmother, I was at my aunt Lillie’s house, who lives directly across the street. She’d asked if we’d been over to see her, and I told her no because I wasn’t sure what type of reaction I would get. I didn’t stop by out of fear. To look in the eyes of someone who helped raise me, someone I’d visited on an almost weekly basis growing up, and have them not recognize you at all is a feeling I can’t even put into words. Fucked up is the first phrase that comes to mind, and I know I should be able to express myself better than that, but unless you’ve been through it you can’t possibly understand.
It’s one thing to be able to say to someone “it’s me, from **insert some time, place, or special event** ” and have that person go “oh yeah, I remember now.” But to not have the ability to do that, to have your own flesh and blood, someone so close to you, not recognize you, it’s hard for me to find the right words to express how that feels. Not just from the perspective of the person not being remembered, but imagine being on the other end, the person not able to remember. So yeah, it’s fucked up, all the way around, an experience that will definitely mess with your head.
My aunt Lillie offered to go get her, to feel her out and see if she was in a good place or not, and I agreed, because I really did want to see her. And to my surprise, she came over. She sat down, her purse in her lap, and there was recognition. She knew who we were. Not our names, but the glimmer of recognition was in her eyes. She chatted for about ten minutes, and then went silent. It’s really weird because you can actually see when they shut down, when they’re no longer ‘there,’ for lack of a better term. Finally, she announced she was ready to go home. My aunt told her she’d walk with her, and my grandmother snapped at her. “I know my way home!”
I received the news of my grandmother’s passing via text message (Facebook actually), literally seconds before I had to facilitate a meeting at work. A major meeting, in a large room, with many people gathered around, along with a conference call with many people dialed in, including upper management. And on top of that, I had to concentrate on the flipping slides of a presentation that was shared in the room and over the internet. I prayed no one would ask me any questions, because once I’d read that message, I was on auto pilot, and no longer there mentally.
When the meeting ended, I slipped into the bathroom and tried my best to cry silently, even though I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach. Luckily no one walked in, and it took me ten minutes to get it together enough to gather my things and leave. Or so I thought. As I announced I would be leaving and why, I broke down yet again. And even though most people can understand or at least empathize with a situation like that, it’s still sucks breaking down like that and being completely vulnerable in front of people you work with. They asked if I was ok to drive, I nodded yes, and headed home.
Her decline had been quick. At Thanksgiving, she’d gone into the hospital for a medical issue, and they released her to a nursing home, where she simply stopped eating and wasted away. My uncles had decided to come for a visit from Texas, ironically not wanting their last time seeing her to be at her funeral, and the next day she passed. We believe once she’d seen the last of her children, she decided to finally let go. When I saw my grandmother in her coffin, I wasn’t even sad, because it didn’t look anything like her. She was really thin, her fingers merely flesh and bones. The sadness came from the memories, and seeing other relatives mourning her loss.
As I struggled to resolve the physical memory of her in my head against the reality lying in the coffin, my uncle Bobby shared with me that the funeral home had done an excellent job. He said when he saw her in the home, he had to really search her face for any sign of the woman he’d known all his life. “She was so thin Angie that she looked like an Ethiopian woman. I literally did not recognize her when I saw her.” He offered to show me a picture but I refused. I didn’t want to remember her that way.
I know this isn’t the warm fuzzy Happy Mother’s Day message you were probably expecting from me, but after that dream, I really felt the need to share my memories, both good and bad.
I have to give the utmost respect to my aunts and uncles, especially Joni and Lillie, as they had to care for her most often after the diagnosis. And I’m sure they saw the absolute worst of my grandmother, as dementia can turn a person very mean.
The ultimate pick me up in this story, and the thing that lifted our spirits a little after the funeral, is the fact that my grandmother is no longer suffering. She’s free now, back in her right mind, and hanging with my grandfather again.
Perhaps they’re eating crunchy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches right now, while sipping on some ice cold Tang. Or eating some of that caramel cake my grandfather used to make from scratch. Man, he used to put his foot in those cakes. Anyway, the bottom line is, they’re together again.
Happy Mother’s Day grandma, it’s me, Angie.
Excuse me while I wash my face and clear these tissues off my bed,
Since I’ve updated my website with a new design, I’ve been trying to go back through my blog posts and find those moments when I mentioned something that was “a story for a another time.” While I was doing that, one came to mind. The story you’re about to read is literally about the time I had to pick my kids up from the police station. Here’s what happened.
My kids were in elementary school, my daughter was about eight or nine, so my son had to be ten or so. They were obviously too young to go home after school, so they attended after school care at the Boys and Girls Club until I got off of work. On this particular day, I was about five minutes away from picking them up, and I got a phone call.
Me: Hello?
B&GC Employee: Hello Miss Cason?
Me: **I roll my eyes because this was never my last name, even when I was married.** Yes?
B&GC Employee: This is <insert employee’s name>. I just wanted to let you know that you’ll have to pick your children up from the police department today.
Me: WHAT?
B&GC Employee: Everything’s ok, we just had a little incident, so you’ll have to stop by there to pick them up.
Me: **sighs loudly** Ok, thank you.
Now, my son has always been a handful, but never in a legal way, and when my son and daughter put their heads together, they’re like twins, so at this point there’s no telling what this little “incident” is. My best guess was there was some trouble with another kid, or kids, and The Wonder Twins banned together to defend themselves. And the parent, or parents, didn’t appreciate the fallout of whatever happened from that point.
I pull up to the police department, and I’m met outside by a plain clothed officer.
Officer: Are you Angela Waderker?
Me: I am.
Officer: Hi, I’m detective <insert some name here>. **extends his hand to me**
Me: Hello. **takes his hand, and he proceeds to squeeze mine as if he’s trying to break it.**
Officer: It’s my understanding Miss Waderker that you like to beat your children with wire hangers.
Me: WHAT?
Officer: **holding the door open** Why don’t you come on inside so we can sit down and talk. **he points to a bench near a customer service/intake window** Have a seat and I’ll be back out shortly.
He leaves me there for about thirty minutes, then comes back out and explains that they’ve called child protective services, and they’re waiting for them to come and interview the children.
Me: What are you talking about, why am I here?
Officer: Your little girl told the Boys and Girls Club staff that you beat her and her brother with wire hangers.
Me: Are you serious?
Officer: Yes.
Me: I’ve never hit my kids with wire hangers.
Officer: Well what do you hit them?
Me: I spank them, with a belt, when they need to be disciplined.
Officer: Well we’ll see, won’t we.
Long story short, after several hours, my son finally rolled over and told them the truth. That, coupled with the fact that they weren’t able to find any bruises, scarring, or any other evidence of mistreatment, led to them being released back into my care. With caution.
Officer: You know, I have to apologize. You seem like a nice lady and a good mom. You have to understand, we see stuff like this all the time, and we take every case seriously. I’ll be honest with you, I spank my own kids with a belt. It’s the way I was raised, and probably the way you were raised too.
Me: It is.
Officer: And it looks like we both turned out ok. Do you have any other family in the area?
Me: My sister. Why?
Officer: Well, I’m a little hesitant to release the kids to you. Reason being, I know if I were in your situation, I’d be plenty upset with my daughter for telling a lie like that. I’d want to take her home and spank her. And I wouldn’t blame you one bit. And if that’s what you decide to do, just be careful that you do it to teach her a lesson and not out of pure anger.
Me: I’m not going to lie, I am very upset, and I do want to go home and spank her. However, I’m not going to touch her. Instead, I intend to have a long talk with her so she understands the seriousness of what she’s done today.
And with that, they were released to me. Now why would my daughter tell such a lie? Let me explain. The day before, when I signed them out, she was unable to find her homework. I’d had a long day, and I was ready to go. I told her she’d just have to re-do it. To which she replied she couldn’t re-do it, and if she didn’t turn it in the next day, she couldn’t go on the upcoming field trip. I gave her an extra ten minutes to find this special homework, then I told her we were leaving. She didn’t find it, and was so upset with me that she concocted her lie and shared it with the afterschool care staff. That was her revenge and my punishment for not allowing her more time to find her homework.
From staying with relatives that not only allowed them both to watch that movie, but other age inappropriate movies as well, like The Godfather. And I found out about that one when I overheard them talking amongst themselves one night about finding horse heads in somebody’s bed. I know, what responsible adult does something like that, right? I can’t even get into that right now. Anyway…
I had to deal with some weird looks from the staff for the next week or so, but I don’t think anyone ever actually believed I was abusing my kids. And the whole thing was quickly forgotten once the next incident occurred, which was my son telling a staff member that he was “Rick James, bitch.” And the staff member freely admitted the only thing they could do was laugh.
Don’t know how I managed to raise these kids and keep all my hair,
I had plans to do some things around the house this evening, after enjoying dinner with my family, but I’m having trouble finding what I need. I’m missing an entire box of supplies. I can’t go to the store, because it’s closed. And besides, I’m not spending the money because I know it’s around here somewhere (I do NOT live in a mansion). I feel like I’m losing my mind. So instead of getting frustrated, I took it as a sign to take a minute, relax, and think about all the reasons I have to be thankful. So with that, here’s my list. And just so you know, it’s far from all-inclusive. I’m so thankful for:
My family and friends, too many to name here. And I know I don’t tell them often enough. They accept me for who I am, flaws and all, and are always there when I need them.
My son. That kid cracks me up so badly sometimes that my stomach aches and I have tears rolling down my cheeks. It was a really hard road there for a while, but I’m so incredibly proud of the young man he has become.
My daughter. She’s usually pretty quiet, but when she speaks, there are times when what comes out is profound. More often than not, I find myself saying “you know, I never really thought of it like that.” She has an old soul and a wisdom beyond her years, as if she’s somehow been here before.
My readers. Y’all did the dang thing, and made my book launch more successful than I ever dreamed. I didn’t have a plan at all, I was just happy to see my life long dream finally come to fruition. My thoughts were if my momma bought a copy, that made me legit and I was happy. Any thoughts of a marketing campaign were hindsight. But you all ran with it, using word of mouth, and my sales have been phenomenal. And I love each and every one of you for it. **MUHWAH!**
My job. I may have my moments, when I complain about too many meetings or a stressful commute, but I am so very thankful to have a job. There are so many others that don’t. And I have one that allows me to make ends meet pretty comfortably. Don’t get me wrong, there are times when there is more month than money (as my grandma Nanny used to say, I really miss her), but me and my children have everything that we need. The key word being need, which is very different from wants.
Me. I feel so blessed to be at a point in my life where I finally feel balanced. I am secure in who I am, what I want, what I’m willing to deal with, and what I absolutely will not tolerate. I’m also thankful for my health, and that I’m finally on my way to getting back to the woman I used to see in the mirror, physically. I can look back now and clearly see when I lost her (and why), and it’s time to welcome her back home. It’s been a lot of hard work, but the results are paying off. I look and feel great.
Have you taken time out today to really think about what you’re thankful for? And I’m not talking about all the good food you’ve probably consumed. I think we get so busy with the day-to-day hustle and bustle that we don’t do it often enough. I guess I shouldn’t say we, maybe you do. I know I don’t, and I can only speak for myself. We should all be thankful every day, whether we choose to vocalize it or not, as we all have many things to be thankful for. If you don’t think so, I challenge you to dig deeper. Even if you’re not in the best place in life right now, whatever your situation, there’s always someone who has it worse than you do. So, in the immortal words of William De Vaughn, Be Thankful For What You Got.
