Mary Jane Hudman

When someone passes away, a complex range of emotions surfaces, shaped by the nature of the relationship. For me, grappling with the reality of my grandmother’s death feels almost surreal. It’s difficult to accept that I can no longer visit her or be there when she needed me. The feeling is a strange blend of loss and regret—a wish that I could have been present more often.

As a child, weekends with my grandparents were a treasured routine. Their home, with cable television and no strict bedtime, felt like a world apart. I would camp out on the couch, watching Nick at Nite until I drifted off, only to be gently woken by my grandmother’s breakfast the next morning. Together, we’d watch the Cowboys or the Rangers, play dominoes, snack on popcorn, or tune into Wheel of Fortune. By night, I’d find myself back in front of the TV, rewatching episodes of I Love Lucy as I fell asleep, feeling safe in the rhythm of her world.

In later years, illness began to steal that vitality from her. A stroke, lung surgery, and a gradual decline changed her slowly but relentlessly. She transformed from the strong matriarch I’d known into a more fragile version of herself, with a childlike vulnerability. Distance and time between our visits grew, and when I did see her, the woman before me seemed different. Yet, the connection—the special bond with her—remained. Sitting with her, I’d listen to her latest ailments and feel helpless, unable to ease her pain. I watched her fade, as if in a time-lapse I couldn’t slow down or reverse.

When my dad called last Wednesday to tell me she had passed, I wasn’t surprised. Life as a father and corporate professional had left little space, and I hadn’t been sure I’d make it. Yet, somehow, I was there with my family, able to say a final goodbye. Carrying her to her resting place and seeing her face one last time, I felt her presence deeply. In that moment, I sensed her telling me everything would be okay, reassuring me that we’d see each other again. Her love felt eternal.

While I couldn’t be there to ease her suffering, I was there to witness it end. I couldn’t lift her pain, but I carry her with me now—forever in my heart. I love you, Grandma. Until I see your smiling face again.

Reflections on Advice and Adulthood

Allow me to join the multitude of voices, contributing thoughts that meander without definitive direction, touching upon varied topics, without a precise endpoint. My intention here is to present my perspective—though it may only reach my own eyes. I seek to offer insights from my limited experience, to construct narratives that blend reality with fiction, and to provide solace to those whose faith rests on fragile foundations. And so, our discourse begins.

A notable cultural artifact relevant to this exploration is a music video that aired on MTV in the late 1990s, titled Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen), produced by Baz Luhrmann. This piece delivers its message through a reading of Mary Schmich's 1997 essay, originally published in the Chicago Tribune under the title "Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young." Schmich's essay, crafted as a hypothetical commencement speech, offers insights and life guidance intended to resonate with those embarking upon the journey into adulthood.

Schmich opens with a sentiment likely familiar to many of us: "Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who'd rather be Rollerblading. Most of us, alas, will never be invited to sow our words of wisdom among an audience of caps and gowns, but there's no reason we can't entertain ourselves by composing a Guide to Life for Graduates." She then concludes her prelude with an invitation, "I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my attempt."

Rather than replicating Schmich's text in full, I instead offer Luhrmann’s visual interpretation. This video, in my view, elevates the essay to a level of poetic artistry, embedding its prophetic message within a medium that enhances its impact and resonance.