Grandma Agee: 1914-2005
I know that most of you loaded up the new-look KRB today to read something about the Royals or baseball in general, but sometimes, baseball doesn't seem at all important to me when compared to the things that really matter. As a result, I periodically like to write about life and/or the people in my world. I express myself best in writing, so when times get tough, putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, in this case) is almost always very therapeutic for me.
My grandmother passed away on Friday night and was buried yesterday at a service in which I served as a pallbearer. Needless to say, times got very tough for me this past weekend. It wasn't that her death was tragic or anything; she lived to be 91 years old and was a very active and special woman up until the very end when her health took a turn for the worse. In fact, my family (and father, in particular) was so prepared for this that I, as a grandchild, was encouraged to write something in her memory. However, since I misunderstood what the memoriam was going to be (the tri-fold funeral program that's customarily given away at funerals), I wrote about four times as much as I needed to and, as a result, had my essay edited down to an extreme degree.
That's where KRB comes in. Although I'm not entirely sure how appropriate it is here, in place of the customary baseball-related stuff, I'd like to share that essay about Edna Agee, a woman who will always have a special place in my heart:
=========================================================
“What else can I do for you today?”
In our everyday lives, we hear the words, “What else can I do for you today?” in every single imaginable setting. Think about it for a moment. Finished thinking? If so, here’s an example: a person calling his cell phone company to get a question answered will almost certainly hear that phrase spoken by the representative on the other end of the line after he or she -- hopefully -- has solved the problem. Similarly, waiters and waitresses at restaurants making two or more “Can I get you anything else?” trips to somebody’s table certainly isn’t an unusual sight. It’s only courteous, even if they ask in hopes that the customer will cave and order a triple-fudge chocolate tower of goodness. For the record, I’d like a refill.
All kidding aside, no matter what the environment in which we typically hear it, “What else can I do for you today?” and variations of the phrase are almost always uttered with the best of intentions. It’s a way to verbally extend a helping hand, a method used to open doors of possibility, and a blatantly-obvious sign that says, “I care about you.” However, the trouble with that question is how amazingly easy it is to present. In most cases, the amount of obligation attached to it -- after that particular visit -- is zero. A cable technician might be concerned about maximizing his usefulness to the customer during his appointed time, but in all likelihood, he isn’t all that concerned about being of help in other areas of that customer’s life. Such unintentional insincerity can even extend to families. It isn’t something anybody wants to hear, but let’s be real for a moment: we’ve all hosted large family parties and oftentimes, breathed a sigh of relief when the last person has left for the evening.
You see, while it’s one thing to ask it and genuinely be concerned about somebody’s well-being for any period of time -- be it 30 minutes or 24 hours -- it’s quite another to live it. That takes commitment. It requires unselfishness. And most importantly, its main prerequisite is having a heart of gold. So, would it be safe to say that Edna “Grandma” Agee had it all? Heck yeah, I think so. Safer than a $100 bill at Fort Knox. But let’s not short ourselves here. She didn’t just have it all, she always had it all. When I was a youngster, my dad -- Edna’s only son, Don -- told me that when he and his three sisters were growing up in Lebanon, Edna and my grandfather, Alva, almost never spent a dime on themselves, instead choosing to make sure their four children had everything they needed. Whatever was left over was put into savings. How about that?
Fast-forwarding to the 1990s, my memories of visiting her at the farmhouse and her new place don’t have much of anything to do with in-the-room items. Sure, I’ll always associate her with gardening tools, the very-realistic-looking decorative dog, Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman, and, of course, a $5 bill in a Christmas card. I don’t even consider preparing food -- what I always considered her greatest pride -- to be my most vivid recollection. That is until it was time for Mom, Dad, and myself to head for home, an act that always seemed to trigger Grandma’s already-amazing “giving” reflex and boost it into warp speed. “Well, if you’re gonna go,” she’d tell us, “you should take some food with you!”
Our typical response of, “No thanks, that’s all right. You keep it, Grandma” wasn’t made because we didn’t want to bring her delicious leftovers and cinnamon applesauce back to Springfield. Consider it more a fundamental disagreement over the definition of “some food.” Using that stubborn, giving manner she’d clearly mastered at a very young age Grandma always seemed to win these arguments, meaning that we usually ended up with at least one food from each of the six food groups. I’m still not sure if she actually had more food than she could eat herself, wanted to weight the car down so we wouldn’t drive too fast on the highway, just got a kick out of always emerging victorious in the Agee Family Food Standoff, or a combination of the three.
Come to think of it, she probably didn’t have any control over how much she gave, when she gave, or what she gave. It’s a trait that was always in her blood, and it was the only way that she knew how to do things. In every single day of her life, Edna not only asked, “What else can I do for you today?,” but also, “What else can I do for you today, tomorrow, next Thursday, and next year?” And make no mistake, because she’s still giving. Giving us a model to use in the way we live our lives every day.