Dear Boomba,
I have tried really hard to remember what my first memory of you is.
The first thing that comes to mind is being a young kid and loving that you had a waterbed. When you babysat for mom when I was a young child, I would immediately run and scurry into the waterbed. As long as I didn’t jump, I was allowed to roll, lay, and wave on the bed. The sound of the waterbed is kind of what sticks with me. It’s not a sound you hear often, but it's not uncommon per se. The whoosh of the water in the soft rubber plastic man-made cover.
Another early memory had to be in 1999-2000, and what comes to mind is one time You was watching me while my mom was at work. I couldn't have been more than 4. We were watching something on TV and I was so enamored that instead of getting up to use the bathroom, I walked over to the step lid garbage can, and peed into myself into it. Only time in my life I recall doing it. As I wandered back into the living room of your little one bedroom apartment nestled away just outside the city. As you watched me enter, you did a double take and asked me point blank - “did you just pee into the garbage can?” I only then realized my mistake. All you did was laugh and make me promise not to do it again.
The only time I have seen you angry, truly angry -rage filled -as during some argument between my stepfather and my mother. I was sitting on the couch in your living room that looks down the narrow hall to the kitchen and the entrance. I don’t recall what the argument my parents were having was even about; knowing them, something to do with spending habits in the family and what I can call to mind is the moment the switch flipped in your mind. You marched from one end of the house to the other. Decisive steps, forward, purposeful in your stride. What sticks out to me is the crack that rang in the air as you slapped my stepfather across the face. No one talks to your daughter that way.
There’s a family story of my mom being a teenager and going to shovel out the Ralph in 1988 for the time they beat the Jets and clinched the AFC East Title for the first time in 8 years. She stormed the field and snagged a piece of the goalpost and for many years it was claimed to be tucked away in the attic storage of your apartment. I begged you to look for it and to let me look for it, but we couldn’t make the timing work and your attempts were fruitless. In doing some research to get this timeline right, it doesn’t look like that November game was particularly snowy. Reports suggested cold and rain, but the game is uploaded to YouTube and in my cursory viewing, doesn’t look like much snow is on the ground.
I’m willfully choosing to believe now that BEB and I are moving and going to be closer to you, if I just dedicate enough time to coming through the storage and the boxes and find my white whale. The goalpost piece is simply wrapped in some old newspapers, or buried under some old blankets, barely out of reach. All the years of me desperately asking you if you had found it and you were genuinely looking for it. Taking extra time out of your prolonged, tiring, and sometimes grueling days to try to make a little 9 year-old kid happy. That hope, I think, has been mixed into the Roman concrete that makes up my foundation as a person. Striving to do little things to make those closest to me happy and giving me a chance to believe in something. To keep hope alive even when the outlook is slim. It’s a small thing, but it builds.
Not only that, I love that Bills and Sabres have tethered us together. Especially over the last 8 years or so, every autumn Sunday, we exchange text messages about our beloved Buffalo Bills. Hell, anytime we got nothing better to do, we watch Sabres games and send messages about the disappointment that the organization has become. I love your short texts. So short it can almost be blunt! Only sending across exactly what you need to say. It is also probably something about the generational gap between us. The details that can be seen between the lines of text on a screen. Seeing whatever Bills or Sabres post on Facebook and thinking of me enough to send it to me or whatever local news story you think I will enjoy.
I don’t know who I would be without you. I am so grateful I get to spend this birthday and every other birthday until the end of my or your days. I cannot overstate the joy I get from telling people that you text me 30 minutes before the Kentucky Derby to see if I placed any bets, and even without yourself pulling a ticket. You still had trifecta picks. (You hit ⅔!) . I don’t know too many people that can say that they’ve ripped Jagerbombs and whiskey shots on several occasions with their Grandma. I think I could go on, but what it really comes down to is the willingness to simply be fearless. You’ve faced your fear of flying. Twice!
Not to mention ask me if I’ve seen the latest news story de jour from the national level. Election seasons, weather events, sports, history whatever comes up organically. We get to talk about whatever comes to our minds. I’m sure it is in part because of the built nature of the relationships but compared to my mother where every move felt under a microscope - as her only son it is understandable. She wanted what was best for me. As my grandmother, maybe the distance that our relationship has had as I grew older made it easier in some ways to be open. I learned early on that you didn’t go and tell my mom everything. It wasn’t until the relationship between moms and me wilted, it allowed us to find our footing as adults. You aren’t only my Boomba, you’re a confidant. There’s an ease and comfort you bring to our conversations. You have the traditional grandmother's warmth and sweetness. Your accent is thick with Western New York quirks. When we talk, you typically start our conversations with “Hey bud, what are yous up to?” it still cracks up BEB when I have it on speaker. The effortlessness in which the accent comes out is only seen in me after extended stays in Buffalo or in deepest moments of excitement or anger. The moments when I revert back to the base level of my biology. It is your normal tone. In the spring, the “Rh-ain” comes down, the wah-ter is really coming down. Though, these lovely conversations never last super long. You are a busy woman! You’ve got your gaggle of girlfriends to keep up with going to a casino or running out to picnics in Alleghany, taking trips to the market downtown; you got a life to live in the universe you built
Mom wanted us to have the open, honest relationship you and I have, but I learned from a young age that she was tremendously judgmental. Intentionally or not, correct, or not in the judgments made, the speed in which her comments came combined with the warranted concern or dismissal as mothers do.
It is impossible for me, I guess, to really put into words how much you mean to me, Boomba. I am excited as BEB and I move across the country to spend so much more time together now that we will be in the same state. I love you tremendously. The joy you carry fills every room you enter. You are a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. The hard work you displayed day in and day out in. Never asking for more than what you were owed, always willing to do more than what had been asked of you. It cannot be enough to write words to tell you how much you helped shape me. You were always my tether to my hometown. The rust belt had its stripped life away from it, you remained. Rooted to the city that raised you, your daughter, and your grandson. It always was home.
I love you, Boomba. I can't wait for what we do next!
