Earlier this school year, Alex’s fourth grade class took part in a program called Kid Scripts which is run by the Magical Theatre Company from Barberton, Ohio. The program is in two parts - in the first part, students (with some coaching) write a original story which is then submitted to the theatre group. The group then reviews the stories and picks two stories that are then used as the basis for a stage play. In the second part of the program, the theatre group returns to perform the two winning plays for the entire school.

Alex was incredibly excited by Kid Scripts - for a time, that was all he would talk about at home. For almost a month, my conversations with Alex included liberal doses of Kings, Ice Dragons, Knights, and Princesses. It wasn’t just at home - when we talked to Alex’s teacher at parent/teach conferences she told us that Alex was very motivated by this project, and that he would work on the story whenever he had free time at school.

I had forgotten all of this until earlier this month when a letter from the school hand-addressed to The Parents of Alex Schmidt arrived in my mailbox. My first reaction - to sigh and think to myself “What has he done now!” - quickly gave way to excitement as I read that Alex’s story had won the contest and would be presented to the entire school as a play in three weeks. Since this was to be a surprise, we were asked to not tell Alex - they would announce him as the winner at the time of the assembly.

It was difficult not tipping Alex off in the weeks leading up to the assembly, but somehow we managed. The part I thought would be the most difficult - getting him dressed in something nice the day of the assembly - was actually quite easy. I simply told him that we were going to surprise his mother and take her out to dinner after he got home from school, and he cheerfully put on his button down “blue flame” shirt you see in the photo above.

As requested by the theatre group, we arrived at the school early and were hidden in the teacher’s lounge until the program had started. Then they snuck us (Beth, Malinda, and I) into the back row of the gym along with the parents of the other winner. This was a bit nerve wracking, as our seats turned out to be about 10 feet away from Alex. Fortunately, our son was focused on the stage and he didn’t see us.

Soon after we took our seats, the play they were performing finished up and one of the actors told the audience that she would now announce the winner of the Kid Scripts contest. While she started to talk about the winning story I kept my eye on Alex - with each statement he seemed to sit up a little straighter, while his friend Ben kept telling him “it’s your story, it’s your story” over and over again. Finally, she announced “our first winner is Alex Schmidt for his story The Final Dragon Knights”.

I described what happened next to my friends as a Price Is Right moment for Alex - the students and teachers started clapping as he jumped up and practically ran to the stage, slapping hands with his friends as he ran past them. Modest child that he is, he then turned around and started taking bows to the audience. Big theatrical bows. Don’t ask me where he gets it from.

After they pointed us out to Alex (he seemed a bit surprised to see us), the actors sat him down in a directors chair in the middle of the gym. Then they performed his play.

It would be great to tell you that I have the entire play on tape here, and give you a YouTube URL like I did with the Christmas Program. Unfortunately, for the second time in the last year my lovely Canon Elura 50 video camera has failed to work. To say I was upset about this is probably a gross understatement, but I’ll refrain from going into too much detail on this problem - suffice to say my opinion of the quality of the video camera has been communicated to Canon in fairly graphic detail.

Regardless of the camera troubles, the play was excellent - the theatre company did a great job, not only with the performance of the play, but also with the creation of the script based on Alex’s story. Throughout the play, Alex sat in his directors chair with a great big smile on his face, a smile that was mirrored by mine. The play finished to loud applause from the students and faculty, and brought forth another round of bowing and hand-slapping from Alex. It probably doesn’t need to be said, but both Beth and I are incredibly proud of his accomplishment.

Alex is a very talented little boy, and he truly excels in the arts. I’ve talked on this site about his musical skills, but there are a number of other areas where Alex shows his creativity. He writes comic books (such as his most recent masterwork, Spring Man and the Deadly Nachos) . He writes little short stores. He draws pictures. He’s tried his hand at watercolor. He takes digital photos and manipulates them on his computer. He records podcasts which he calls “Alex Live” - although they can get a bit repetitive at times, they are pretty impressive when you remember that he is only 10 years old.

The most impressive part of this whole experience for me has been Alex’s motivation - it’s one thing to have a great idea, but it’s an entirely different thing to see it through to completion. I myself am very good with the first part, but not nearly as good with the second. I’m glad that Alex is able to put the two together.

Speaking of motivation, It wasn’t until I started to write this post that I thought of a conversation that I had with Alex last May after we saw Mike Buckley at his book signing in Montrose. Alex asked me about becoming an author - he was really inspired by his chat with Mike - and wanted to know what he should do. I can’t remember exactly what I told him, but I’m sure that it centered around having the confidence to just write and not worry about what people think about it.

Apparently it was the right thing to say.

If you who would like to read the script for The Final Dragon Knights, it’s attached in Rich Text Format (which should open in OpenOffice, MS Word, MS Works, or TextPad) below.

TheFinalDragonKnights.rtf

A few days ago, Alex and I were having a talk about his upcoming baseball season which at some point evolved into a discussion on commitment. Now, mind you, Alex has never had a problem with his sports commitments - at least not to a level beyond that of the normal background complaining of the average child - so this was more of a pro forma Dad talk for him to get ready for the new baseball league we’re going to be in this season.

I don’t know if Alex mentioned something about my Grandmother during that conversation or if I just happened to think of her for some reason, but at some point I started thinking of commitment in terms of Grandma. I thought of her raising five children, and of her work during the war in New Bedford. On a more personal level, I thought of all the time she spent with me and Shannon when we were little. Back then, both Mom and Dad worked (and Dad was going to College as well), so we spent many days under her care. Taking care of Shannon and I - well, there’s commitment for you.

Just a warning - at this point I start to trend into a bit of a….well, a rant. You see, there is something about my thoughts of commitment and my Grandmother that irritates me a bit about her funeral.

Grandma was a lifelong Roman Catholic. She was a parishioner at St. Francis de Sales in Parma, Ohio for many years. When I was a kid, if you were over at Grandma’s on Sunday you were going to church with her whether you liked it or not. Grandma always seemed to know what holy day of obligation was coming up, and always seemed ready and willing to supply the name of the particular Saint I needed to pray to in order to address the increasingly bewildering array of problems, afflictions, and concerns my youthful mind was able to come up with. As her health grew more frail, she didn’t make it to church as much (only when someone could take her), but she still remained what I would call committed to the church.

Like any good Catholic, my Grandmother had a funeral mass at her Church. She would have liked it - unlike my Grandfather’s funeral (where the priest tried to make a number of awkward connections to my Grandfather that didn’t exist), this time the eulogy was more appropriate, discussing the special bond between a Mother and her Children. The music had been picked out (mostly) by my Mother and my sisters, and the choir made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in skill. If Grandma would have been there, her highlight would have been Shannon. Although sick with strep and feeling miserable, she sang On Eagles Wings for the recessional, and - as Grandma would have put it - “she sounded like a little angel”.

Having been to a number of funerals in the past, I was expecting to see the priest one final time at the grave site. He would lead us through the final observances, and we would take leave of Grandma.

Only this time we didn’t have a priest - strangely we had one of the guys from the funeral home who held out a card and read what I would term a few “stock” prayers. Then we filed by the casket and said our goodbyes. Please note that I wasn’t disturbed by the lack of the priest - it was just that I was expecting him, as were many of my relatives by the look on their faces. Also - and most important to me - I very well know that Grandma would have expected the priest there.

It was only when we got back to the luncheon following the funeral that I found out where the priest was. Apparently, he had to do his taxes.

Let me repeat that. The priest couldn’t make it to my Grandmother’s internment because he had to do his taxes. At the beginning of March. His taxes. That’s what took precedence.

I was rambling on about this to Beth the other day and she was asking me exactly what bothered me about this. Commitment. That’s what bothered me. Personally, I don’t think having a priest at the grave site matters one way or another. To be honest, I don’t think any of the religious ceremony surrounding the funeral matters. However, I know that to my Grandmother - and a good portion of my relatives - it was important. That bothered me.

You know, it doesn’t matter now, but just to make myself feel better I wanted to write this out and get it off my chest. Grandma went to church, she raised her children in the church, she supported the church, and she defended the church. This is just my opinion - but the way I look at it, when it came time for the church to reward that commitment they failed. You see, it was tax time.

I hit the steering wheel with both hands when I got off the phone with my mother, put my head down and closed my eyes for a second. In my mind, all I could think was “I’m sorry, Grandma, I tried”. I was sitting at a light in Parma and one mile away they were closing my Grandmother’s casket at the funeral home. An early morning snow storm had slowed traffic to a crawl down, and it took over two anxiety ridden hours to take a trip that normally would be 40 minutes.

While I sat at that light and tried not to explode, I reached my hand back to pat Alex on the leg. He patted my hand and then lifted it up to his lips and gave it a little kiss (he can be darn cute when he’s not being a pain). More than anything, this made me to realize that things were really not that bad, and that if she was there she would understand.

By the time I pulled into line at the funeral home and waited to drive to the church I almost laughed thinking about what she would say if I was able to call her up. I’d tell her what happened, and she’d tell me that I shouldn’t worry - that everything was fine. Our call would then end the way it normally did:

Jason: OK, Grandma, I’ve got to go but I’ll call you in a week or so.
Grandma: OK honey - you take care of Beth and the little guy.
Jason: I will - you be good.
Grandma: I will, and if I don’t I’ll name it after you.
Jason: Love you.
Grandma: Love you too, sweetie.

We talked quite a bit, before she went into the nursing home - I tried to call her at least once every week or so. She always wanted to know how everyone was doing - she’d ask about Dad and Mom, she’d ask about my sisters, she’d ask about Beth and the kids. She’d bitch about those “damn Indians” when they weren’t doing well. She always liked it when Alex was playing piano in the background when I called so I’d try and call during piano practice time (preferably when Alex wasn’t being too whiney about his practice).

As we drove to the church, every block or so there was a reminder of her. The street she lived on with my Grandfather for my whole life…..the grocery store (now an auto parts store) we used to walk to…..the bar where (somehow) we managed to get her to come out to for a drink every now and then. And then the church she used to drag us to on the weekends.

When helped carry the casket inside, all I could think was “I miss you”.

The priest seems to drone on during the service….I sit and pieces of memories play through my mind…34 years worth…pieces here and there…some clearer than others….

…Grandma and me….

• Riding the bus with her to the mall when I was four or five years old - she proudly announces to the driver that I’m her grandson when we get on, and she has me drop the coins in the meter. When we get off the bus we go to a garage sale on Grantwood by the bus stop, and I manage to talk her into buying me a few small toys.
• Grandma babysitting me when I was in 3rd grade at St. Columbkilles. I’m reading a book on the Bismark and I’m trying to make sense of the work “rendezvous”. She patiently sits there and explains it to me, then sends me down to talk to my Grandfather because “he knows about ships”.
• Grandma making chocolates. You’d walk in the house to see chocolate chickens, bunnies, eggs, raisin clusters, haystacks, and other types - all lined up to cool in the dining room and kitchen. If was good, Grandma would let me lick the spoon that she pulled out of the old double boiler when she was done. If I was hungry, I could always sneak a few pieces of chocolate from the box of chips for melting that sat on the old bench in the dining room.

….Grandma and my parents….

• Grandma and Great Grandma Mae getting out of the old Mercury Bobcat in my parent’s driveway when I was in High School and Mae telling my father how they got lost on the way and got directions at the local biker bar.
• Grandma trying to give Dad money when I was a little kid, her practically chasing us out to Dad’s car on the street. Don’t know what happened to the money, but I do remember got to sit on Dad’s lap and steer the Buick down the street that day….

…Grandma and my family…

• Grandma and Alex - her holding him at my house in Kent when he was a baby up through him sitting with her and holding her hand the last time we talked with her at the nursing home. She loved Alex - it was hard to get more than a sentence or two into a conversation with her before she asked about him.
• Grandma and Steven and Malinda - sooner than anyone in my family, Grandma accepted my older children. She would always ask after them - what were they doing, how were they doing. Although she was in the nursing home when Kai was born she perked up when I told her about him and admonished me to keep an eye on him and Steven. She was proud of Malinda’s success in school, even though she (by her own admission) had no idea what it was Malinda was doing.

We leave the church and go to the cemetery. When we get there, I help lift my Grandmother out of the hearse and move her to the same pavilion where we said farewell to my Grandpa two Novembers ago. The ceremony at the gravesite is short, and we file past the casket to say goodbye. Alex lays a carnation on the casket for her and tries not to cry as we walk by, and I place my hand on the cold metal as tears well up in my eyes.

As we drove away from the cemetery one memory stood out in my mind - a long-ago summer day in the house on Grantwood. Grandpa was working in the garage, and Shannon and I were visiting with Grandma. The smell of dinner - Chicken Paprikash - was in the air, and Grandma was patiently teaching Shannon to sing a song. I remember hearing the two of them sing over and over again….

“Meet me in St. Louis, Louis,
Meet me at the fair,
Don’t tell me the lights are shining
any place but there;
We will dance the Hoochee Koochee,
I will be your tootsie wootsie,
If you will meet in St. Louis, Louis,
Meet me at the fair.”

Goodbye Grandma - we’ll miss you.

Last week, my Grandmother Schmidt passed away after a lengthy stay in a nursing home. Her time in the nursing home had been rough for me and the rest of the family, and her death - although not unexpected - has been hard on everyone.

Although there are many things about her I want to write about, I think it’s going to be easiest for me if I start to talk about one Grandmother with a story involving the other.

I have a vivid memory of being in a car with my Grandmother Priefer 20 years ago - we were at Audrey’s, a convenience shop down the road from her house. I stayed in the car with Grandma while my Uncle went in to buy some beer. I must have been being a pain in the ass about something - unfortunately this was the norm for me at this age - and I smarted off about my Grandmother Schmidt.

Bad idea on my part. It’s been over 20 years and I can still see what happened next. Her head whipped about, and her eyes bored right through me. Then in a tone colder than any I had ever heard from her she said “your Grandmother Schmidt has done everything for you, and you should be thankful for that. Some day she’ll be gone - how are you going to feel then? I’ll tell you - you’ll miss her!”.

I remember sitting back in my seat, and being on the verge of tears. Smartass or not, my Grandmother’s opinion carried quite a bit of weight with me. I’m sure I mumbled something to try and make things better - trying to walk to the line between saving some face while still being apologetic. It didn’t work - I don’t recall her talking to me for the rest of that visit. I knew that I had disappointed her.

That incident became a defining moment in my life - in some significant way it helped me realize that it wasn’t a Jason-centric universe out there and that my words and actions had consequences far beyond myself. Having a degree of empathy and a degree of humility helped me pull through some rough times in my life. In a twist of irony that I’m sure would have made her laugh, my Grandma’s words that day at Audrey’s helped me cope with her death years later. Now, this is not to say that I’ve never been a self-centered prig since then, but I can say that those times are few and far between now. At least I try to keep them that way. My family can attest to how successful I have been with this better than I can.

Many times this past week I’ve thought of this story - while at the funeral home, at the church, and again at the cemetery. It made me laugh, it made me cry - but more than anything it reminded me how lucky I was to have two such remarkable ladies take an interest in my life.

So to both of my Grandmothers, I send a heartfelt “thank you”, for everything. Oh, and Grandma Priefer…..

You were right.