So, I'm hanging out with Brady, my grandson. Something I do pretty much every Friday afternoon, since I don't work on Fridays and he gets out of school early on Fridays. I pick him up, we run a few errands, get something to make for dinner (I'm teaching him to cook), and hit Starbucks. Yes, he actually drinks coffee. An odd aperitif for an 8-year-old, but the boy loves the mochas (decaf, of course) and I, as the grandma, reserve the right to buy them for him. No matter what his mother says.
Anyway, we're driving around town and he starts asking random questions, as little boys are wont to do. Finally, after asking about the number of miles on my car, and how old you have to be to get married (I told him 37), and why cats can't talk, among other things, he hits on a topic that holds his interest.
"Gramma, when were you born?"
"1959, honey."
"I was born in 2000, right?"
"Yes, you were."
"When was Ma born?"
"1941."
"And she's 67, right?"
"Yep."
On and on and on we go, down the entire family list. Mom, dad, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws... finally we get to this:
"When was Gigi born?" Gigi being his name for my grandmother, who had recently had to cancel her trip to visit us due to weather and who is, at 88, the oldest person Brady's ever personally met.
"Gigi was born in 1920." I say, hoping he'll ask questions and I can explain some things about how the world has changed in 8 decades. You know, mochas and history, right?
"Wow! That's a long time ago!"
"Yes, buddy, it sure is."
"She's really old, isn't she?"
"Well, 88 is getting up there, that's for sure."
I can hear the gears turning and almost smell the smoke as he cogitates on this for a minute, and finally...
"Is she the first baby born?"
Sorry, Grandma, I don't make this up, I just report it.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Grandma's coming
My grandmother is coming to visit. My sweet, silver-haired, widowed little grandmother, who so looks the part of the pastor's wife she was for nearly 50 years that you'd think my grandfather found her in central casting, is risking being strip-searched in an airport to come visit her daughter's family for Christmas.
Personally, I believe she comes to visit not because she loves and misses us so terribly (I'm sure she does, as we do her, but I don't believe that prompts her bi-annual visits to us) or because she doesn't want to spend Christmas at home in Arizona. I believe she comes to visit us to keep us from visiting her.
My grandmother lives in Cottonwood, Arizona. The small, but growing, little community she and my grandfather retired to many years ago. She has friends, activities, a church, and a life. She's a hospital chaplain, she plays piano at the old folk's home (now that's ironic) and more. Grandma has a complete life and if she decided to stay home for Christmas, it's not like she'd be alone or lonely. No, I think Grandma has a much more sensible reason to come visit us.
See, here in Washington, there's my mom, the previously mentioned daughter. Then there's me, my brothers (one of whom is currently a guest of the governor in a fine and very secure facility located three hours from here) and one of whom is unemployed and lives with my mother. There's me and my sister. And we all have families. There are kids and grandkids all over the place. It's ridiculous, when you think about it.
My grandma was one of... one. And only child. She had two children. My mother, and a son. From these inauspicious, humble, meager beginnings, we have grown nearly exponentially. (Except that doesn't really work as my grandmother being an only child means that multiplying by any exponent would only result in one. Again. Some more. But I'm not here to teach calculus, so let's not dwell on it.) Nowadays, this side of the family includes the four original kids, 8 grandkids, one great-grandchild, two spouses, and two near-spouses. There are enough of us to start our own trailer park. Don't laugh; it's something we've considered.
Age wise, we range from the late 60's (my mom) through our 40's and 20's and teens and clear down to 8 years old. It's a lot of people and a lot of noise and a lot of stress. Especially on Christmas morning when we're all crammed into Mom's double-wide and everyone under 25 is clamoring for their presents and their breakfast, and the ones who smoke are huddled together on the uncovered porch sucking on cancer sticks as if their lives depended on it (again with the irony, huh?) and the rest of us are downing coffee - some of which is not laced with alcohol - and begging for a small amount of personal space in which to tear our hair out. Trust me, it's not pretty.
Now, my grandmother has been known to do things like pick up a full cup of coffee, toss the drink, and wash the cup, simply because the person drinking the coffee had the temerity to go to the bathroom and leave their cup unattended. If you're cooking, and you lay a spoon in a spoon rest to stir your pot with a little later, don't expect to find it there when you need it. Grandma will wash it, dry it, and put it away. This is a woman who used to work me for hours when I was a kid, on Saturdays, changing the beds in the guest room (even though no one had used them), dusting, mopping, waxing, scrubbing, sweeping, and even *gasp* making me wipe down the legs and pedals on the piano. For fifty cents. That's right. I'm not kidding. She worked me like a Hebrew slave for fifty cents. Not fifty cents an hour. Not fifty cents a chore. Not fifty cents with bonuses for good work. Just fifty cents. Which I promptly took to the neighborhood grocery store and blew on candy. Especially Milkshake candy bars, which you can't even get anymore, but that's not the point here, is it?
Anyway, this woman, my dear grandmother whom I love like no other human being on the planet, has actually said that she can't sit down and unwind if she knows there are dishes in the sink. She has seriously made the following statement: "Vacuuming relaxes me." Grandma has some very weird ideas, like that towels should match, the dishes aren't done until they are dried and put away, and you should actually wipe the stove off after you spill stuff on it!
Now, what does all of this have to do with why my grandmother comes to visit? Well, consider that we have an 8-year-old who believes if he doesn't get to eat Ritz crackers in the living room while watching SpongeBob on the DVD player, it constitutes cruel and inhumane conditions. Consider our 21-year-old who eats no fewer than 7 bowls of cereal a day, and has never become conversant with the mechanics behind how exactly the dishes get from the stack of dirties on the counter to the cupboards, clean and ready for use again. He believes it's a mystery, like the pyramids, Stonehenge, and Paris Hilton's "career". Consider a 40-year-old who, because he doesn't have a job to go to, thinks that showering should be reserved for special occasions (a visit from the pope, Queen Elizabeth, or Rebecca Romijn), or those times when even skunks give wide berth to the yard because they can't stand the smell. Consider having all 16 members of the Washington contingent of my family in your nice, quiet little neighborhood, telling everyone they can find that you're their grandmother! You get my point, yes?
So, I sincerely believe my grandmother comes to visit us not only because she loves us, and misses us, and wants to spend the holidays with us, but also because, by coming to visit us, she keeps us from coming to visit her. And I think that may be a very wise thing for her to do.
Personally, I believe she comes to visit not because she loves and misses us so terribly (I'm sure she does, as we do her, but I don't believe that prompts her bi-annual visits to us) or because she doesn't want to spend Christmas at home in Arizona. I believe she comes to visit us to keep us from visiting her.
My grandmother lives in Cottonwood, Arizona. The small, but growing, little community she and my grandfather retired to many years ago. She has friends, activities, a church, and a life. She's a hospital chaplain, she plays piano at the old folk's home (now that's ironic) and more. Grandma has a complete life and if she decided to stay home for Christmas, it's not like she'd be alone or lonely. No, I think Grandma has a much more sensible reason to come visit us.
See, here in Washington, there's my mom, the previously mentioned daughter. Then there's me, my brothers (one of whom is currently a guest of the governor in a fine and very secure facility located three hours from here) and one of whom is unemployed and lives with my mother. There's me and my sister. And we all have families. There are kids and grandkids all over the place. It's ridiculous, when you think about it.
My grandma was one of... one. And only child. She had two children. My mother, and a son. From these inauspicious, humble, meager beginnings, we have grown nearly exponentially. (Except that doesn't really work as my grandmother being an only child means that multiplying by any exponent would only result in one. Again. Some more. But I'm not here to teach calculus, so let's not dwell on it.) Nowadays, this side of the family includes the four original kids, 8 grandkids, one great-grandchild, two spouses, and two near-spouses. There are enough of us to start our own trailer park. Don't laugh; it's something we've considered.
Age wise, we range from the late 60's (my mom) through our 40's and 20's and teens and clear down to 8 years old. It's a lot of people and a lot of noise and a lot of stress. Especially on Christmas morning when we're all crammed into Mom's double-wide and everyone under 25 is clamoring for their presents and their breakfast, and the ones who smoke are huddled together on the uncovered porch sucking on cancer sticks as if their lives depended on it (again with the irony, huh?) and the rest of us are downing coffee - some of which is not laced with alcohol - and begging for a small amount of personal space in which to tear our hair out. Trust me, it's not pretty.
Now, my grandmother has been known to do things like pick up a full cup of coffee, toss the drink, and wash the cup, simply because the person drinking the coffee had the temerity to go to the bathroom and leave their cup unattended. If you're cooking, and you lay a spoon in a spoon rest to stir your pot with a little later, don't expect to find it there when you need it. Grandma will wash it, dry it, and put it away. This is a woman who used to work me for hours when I was a kid, on Saturdays, changing the beds in the guest room (even though no one had used them), dusting, mopping, waxing, scrubbing, sweeping, and even *gasp* making me wipe down the legs and pedals on the piano. For fifty cents. That's right. I'm not kidding. She worked me like a Hebrew slave for fifty cents. Not fifty cents an hour. Not fifty cents a chore. Not fifty cents with bonuses for good work. Just fifty cents. Which I promptly took to the neighborhood grocery store and blew on candy. Especially Milkshake candy bars, which you can't even get anymore, but that's not the point here, is it?
Anyway, this woman, my dear grandmother whom I love like no other human being on the planet, has actually said that she can't sit down and unwind if she knows there are dishes in the sink. She has seriously made the following statement: "Vacuuming relaxes me." Grandma has some very weird ideas, like that towels should match, the dishes aren't done until they are dried and put away, and you should actually wipe the stove off after you spill stuff on it!
Now, what does all of this have to do with why my grandmother comes to visit? Well, consider that we have an 8-year-old who believes if he doesn't get to eat Ritz crackers in the living room while watching SpongeBob on the DVD player, it constitutes cruel and inhumane conditions. Consider our 21-year-old who eats no fewer than 7 bowls of cereal a day, and has never become conversant with the mechanics behind how exactly the dishes get from the stack of dirties on the counter to the cupboards, clean and ready for use again. He believes it's a mystery, like the pyramids, Stonehenge, and Paris Hilton's "career". Consider a 40-year-old who, because he doesn't have a job to go to, thinks that showering should be reserved for special occasions (a visit from the pope, Queen Elizabeth, or Rebecca Romijn), or those times when even skunks give wide berth to the yard because they can't stand the smell. Consider having all 16 members of the Washington contingent of my family in your nice, quiet little neighborhood, telling everyone they can find that you're their grandmother! You get my point, yes?
So, I sincerely believe my grandmother comes to visit us not only because she loves us, and misses us, and wants to spend the holidays with us, but also because, by coming to visit us, she keeps us from coming to visit her. And I think that may be a very wise thing for her to do.
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