Today is my grandmother's birthday. I really wanted to sit down and write something positive and uplifting to remember her by, but all I can really think about is how much I miss her. Even though it has been 10 years since she died, sometimes it seems like it was only a few days ago.
She was a wonderful woman, what every grandmother should be. Not in the have cookies and milk waiting for you kind of way, but the spoiled part, yeah she got it down pretty good. She always kept pickles and Wolf brand chili in the cabinets for us, and books for me. When we went fishing, she'd come into our room early and wake us up, with something sweet to eat on the road. We'd stop and get peanut butter and crackers, chips, and drinks for the trip.
There was a kids perfume out called Tinkerbell, and I wore it over to her house once and she told me how wonderful I smelled and how much she liked it. I bought her a set of it for Christmas, and now that I think back on it, she probably just wore it to make me feel good, not because some cheap kid's perfume was what she really liked. There was warmth and comfort and softness and everything good in the world in her.
She ran a Senior Citizen's center where they could all meet on Tuesdays, pay a nickel for clothes, knicknacks and games sent over from the resale shop, have baked goods for breakfast and hot meals delivered for lunch. I loved going there, smelling the strange odor of clothes too long in plastic bags, coffee and cinammon rolls, watching all of the old people play dominoes. She called them all old, like it never occured to her that she was old too. She called them 'her' seniors. She had to be home on Tuesdays to take care of 'her' seniors, no matter what.
Her best friend was a black woman named Whittalee who would come up and help her, and they would gossip in the kitchen of the Center about all the other old ladies. Whittalee took me to an all black church with her sometimes on Sundays, and I loved feeling the energy they had there. They truly did praise God, not demonize him with talks about what he hated, but spoke of what he loved, which was you and me. The women there really wore big funny hats and cooled themselves with paper fans with the black Jesus on one side and ads for a local car dealership on another. She passed a few years after Nanny did, and I miss her almost as much.
When I ran away from home at the age of 5, I was headed towards her house, Barbie suitcase in hand. Before my parents found out I really had ran away, and not gone to hide under the stairs, before my dad could get in his car to come and get me, they say I had made it about 3/4 of a mile down the frozen road that led from our apartment to her house. My mom says I'd have made it all the way, maybe 2 miles, if they hadn't of stopped me.
When I learned how to read, I started in on the National Enquirers and other trash mags that she loved so much. We would get excited to see what BatBoy or Bigfoot was doing traipsing around in our world. Neither of us bought into any of it, but she used to laugh seeing her 6 year old granddaughter propped up on her couch, reading about the most recent alien abductee.
There was a comfort in her, in her body, the way she smelled, how she would rub my legs at night when they ached, that no single person can ever replace. I find something similar in my husband, but it just isn't the same. I wish she had lived longer, so that I could ask her about things that didn't occur to me before she died.
I found out a few years ago that she was a dancing teacher before she married my granddad, and I would love to have her see me and my husband on the floor one night. I'd love to be old enough that when we went camping down at Indianola, when we went to a little beer joint there, that her and PawPaw could share the floor with us, although they would probably dance us straight off of it like I saw them do so many times as a little kid. It amazed me to find out that she used to teach dance, especially since she had polio as a child.
I just miss her. My mom and I are headed out today to get a few things and take them by the old folks home here in town. I probably won't go in since I've been sick, but I promised myself today that I would start going up there and seeing them. There are probably a lot of men and women up there that are as wonderful as my grandparents, but with no one to appreciate them for the comfort they can bring or the stories they can tell.
She was a wonderful woman, what every grandmother should be. Not in the have cookies and milk waiting for you kind of way, but the spoiled part, yeah she got it down pretty good. She always kept pickles and Wolf brand chili in the cabinets for us, and books for me. When we went fishing, she'd come into our room early and wake us up, with something sweet to eat on the road. We'd stop and get peanut butter and crackers, chips, and drinks for the trip.
There was a kids perfume out called Tinkerbell, and I wore it over to her house once and she told me how wonderful I smelled and how much she liked it. I bought her a set of it for Christmas, and now that I think back on it, she probably just wore it to make me feel good, not because some cheap kid's perfume was what she really liked. There was warmth and comfort and softness and everything good in the world in her.
She ran a Senior Citizen's center where they could all meet on Tuesdays, pay a nickel for clothes, knicknacks and games sent over from the resale shop, have baked goods for breakfast and hot meals delivered for lunch. I loved going there, smelling the strange odor of clothes too long in plastic bags, coffee and cinammon rolls, watching all of the old people play dominoes. She called them all old, like it never occured to her that she was old too. She called them 'her' seniors. She had to be home on Tuesdays to take care of 'her' seniors, no matter what.
Her best friend was a black woman named Whittalee who would come up and help her, and they would gossip in the kitchen of the Center about all the other old ladies. Whittalee took me to an all black church with her sometimes on Sundays, and I loved feeling the energy they had there. They truly did praise God, not demonize him with talks about what he hated, but spoke of what he loved, which was you and me. The women there really wore big funny hats and cooled themselves with paper fans with the black Jesus on one side and ads for a local car dealership on another. She passed a few years after Nanny did, and I miss her almost as much.
When I ran away from home at the age of 5, I was headed towards her house, Barbie suitcase in hand. Before my parents found out I really had ran away, and not gone to hide under the stairs, before my dad could get in his car to come and get me, they say I had made it about 3/4 of a mile down the frozen road that led from our apartment to her house. My mom says I'd have made it all the way, maybe 2 miles, if they hadn't of stopped me.
When I learned how to read, I started in on the National Enquirers and other trash mags that she loved so much. We would get excited to see what BatBoy or Bigfoot was doing traipsing around in our world. Neither of us bought into any of it, but she used to laugh seeing her 6 year old granddaughter propped up on her couch, reading about the most recent alien abductee.
There was a comfort in her, in her body, the way she smelled, how she would rub my legs at night when they ached, that no single person can ever replace. I find something similar in my husband, but it just isn't the same. I wish she had lived longer, so that I could ask her about things that didn't occur to me before she died.
I found out a few years ago that she was a dancing teacher before she married my granddad, and I would love to have her see me and my husband on the floor one night. I'd love to be old enough that when we went camping down at Indianola, when we went to a little beer joint there, that her and PawPaw could share the floor with us, although they would probably dance us straight off of it like I saw them do so many times as a little kid. It amazed me to find out that she used to teach dance, especially since she had polio as a child.
I just miss her. My mom and I are headed out today to get a few things and take them by the old folks home here in town. I probably won't go in since I've been sick, but I promised myself today that I would start going up there and seeing them. There are probably a lot of men and women up there that are as wonderful as my grandparents, but with no one to appreciate them for the comfort they can bring or the stories they can tell.
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i echo wildswan: To the memory of Nanny.
Your mud pictures are great. It seems you had too much fun.