The Grandmothers

June 21, 2014

My grandmothers have been on my mind lately. They were both very tough broads, and perhaps my feeling less-than-tough lately has turned my thoughts to them. They certainly make me look like the weak link...or like I took a dip in the shallow end of the gene pool.

My mom's mom was Henrietta, whom we affectionately called Nanny. In my view, she was the cat's pajamas. We lived with Nanny and Papa for over two years after my mom died. There we lived from the end of my 4th year to my mid-7th. Nanny and I were roommates during that time. Each night she slathered a healthy dose of Mentholatum under her nose, turned off the light, then gave me a well-intentioned good night smooch. In the dark, however, 9 times out of ten what I got was a mouthful of Mentholatum before Nanny drifted into a chorus of snores that could have raised the roof.

When Nanny was a young mother in the late 1930s/early 1940s, clothes dryers had yet to emerge on the scene. Instead, one would send the wet laundry through a "wringer" which would pull each item through and "wring" the water out. One fateful day, Nanny was leaning down to pick up some clothes when her thick brown hair got caught in the wringer. Much of her hair was pulled out by the root. It grew back only sparsely, which left Nanny with the best that the Eva Gabor wig line could offer. She had an assortment of styrofoam wig heads on which she would rest her synthetic hair, and on which I would draw some very Picasso-esque faces, complete with makeup.

Nanny loved us dearly. Next in line were three other loves: Viceroy cigs, complete with cig holder; a gold lamé cup holder holding a glass of Gin and Tonic, and "Days of our Lives." I attended morning Kindergarten, as a matter of fact, so I wouldn't miss watching Nanny's "story" every afternoon before she would take her daily afternoon snooze in her rust-colored, cigarette-burns-on-the-arms recliner. One day, before she drifted off, I was sidled up next to her as we watched the drama unfold in that classic soap opera. I reached over and took a swig of her drink. As I quickly spat out what clearly was NOT water, Nanny didn't skip a beat: "That'll teach you to drink my water," she said with a wry grin.

Nanny's older sister never had children and was among the first female deans in any American college or university. "Auntie" was a bit too proper for my tastes and always encouraged me to "act like a lady," which wore me out. She lived just a mile away from Nanny, and would pop in regularly. But her timing was sometimes off, and she would arrive during the magic hour of "Days." Auntie would attempt conversation with Nanny while I looked on from the couch. Nanny wouldn't respond, save commercial breaks. After being ignored long enough, Auntie would grab her "pocketbook," get up, and leave in a huff. Nanny would just shake her head, take a drag from her cig (via holder, of course), and say, "I've told her not to interrupt my story," without ever taking her eyes off the television. She would inevitably continue, "she'll get glad in the same pants she got mad in." And indeed, Auntie always came back for more.

Nanny had the best laugh and a quick temper. She was also incapable of whispering and had a penchant for observing and voicing the faults in others (I get that from her): not mean spirited, just filter-free. But I could not have loved her more. And she made me feel like I was something else. Several years later, I was holding her hand when she took her last breath.

Not a day goes by when I don't miss her. It took me years to lose the impulse to pick up the phone and call her when something big happened. I had to remind myself that she was gone.

I would imagine she's up in heaven, smokin' 'em if she's got 'em. My guess is--if it's possible--she has her eye on me.

My dad's mom was a bit less colorful, but was absolutely a quiet, wise, unparalleled force. Born in 1905, she lived the bulk of her life working her fingers to the bone. Mimi was not a big lady, but she birthed three babies over 10 pounds each--the first two in the farmhouse in which she lived.

My Dad and his sisters grew up on a farm in the little town of Marionville. They were poor, hard-working Christian folks. Salt of the earth. Everything Mimi did, she did well. Everything Mimi did, she did without complaint.

When my Dad was almost twelve, there was a thick layer of snow on the ground. Mimi was cooking--as usual--when the back of her dress caught in the stove. Very quickly the flames crawled up her back. Dad grabbed her and threw her out onto the snow, beating out the flames. The entirety of her back side was badly burned, and she spent weeks in bed while Dad's older sister (just a teenager herself) took over the responsibilities of the house and changed poor Mimi's bandages daily.

If catching on fire wasn't enough, Mimi's eyesight began to deteriorate from complications of glaucoma when she was in her late 60s. By her late 70s, when I was around 8, she lost her eyesight completely. As a woman of almost 80, she had to learn how to live in the dark. Even without her sight, Mimi continued the play the piano at her home church, Buck Prairie. Her memory of the notes and the keys was strong enough to see her musical talent through. She played there for 52 years.

In spite of a life of hard labor and hardship, Mimi lived to be 91. I picture her at a heavenly piano...and she can see.

The Rash and the Pinkie

June 17, 2014

I’ve been coaching high school debate for 18 years. With around 15 tournaments each year and countless hours after school, I did the math and realized that—if those days were stacked one onto the next-- I have spent around 3-and-a-half solid years with my debaters.  Don’t get me wrong:  I’ve loved nearly every moment.  But one cannot take an average of 80+ teenagers each weekend to 270 tournaments without something happening sometime that is less than ideal.

One such instance was at the state debate tournament a few years ago.  My top debate team was comprised of two charming and brilliant young men—one a junior, one a senior. The night before competition began, the senior knocked at my door around 11:30pm.  I opened the door to find this fair-haired, fair-skinned, eloquent and usually calm scholar scratching his chest maniacally and twitching in pain.  I ushered him in, alongside my male assistant coach.

“What is it, Matt?” I asked.

“I just…I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand it anymore,” he managed, unable to stand still.

“What?” I implored.

He struggled to put a sentence together. “Well, see, I’m going to California next week and I’ve been going to a tanning bed to get some color before I hit the beach.  I think I’m having a reaction to the tanning lotion.”  The twitching and scratching persisted.  The poor boy was clearly in agony, but I was still a tad amused at his predicament.  “I know, I know,” he said, seeing my slight smirk.  “It’s ridiculous.”

“Okay,“ I said.  I took a breath. “Show me.”

With that, he lifted his shirt to reveal one of the most heinous displays of irritated, rash-laden, completely disgusting skin I’ve ever seen.  And it was all over his ample torso.  I’m certain I gasped.  The look of horror on my face was not lost on him.

“I’ll meet you at the car,” I said, grabbing my keys.

We ventured to the nearest emergency room where Matt sat writhing in his seat while he waited for relief.  When finally he was whisked away to be examined, I took a moment to take in the sights and sounds of the middle-of-the-night ER waiting room.  Faith in humanity can be vigorously compromised by such surroundings.  This ER did not disappoint.  As I waited for news of treatment for the big rash, for example, an elderly lady was wheeled in.  She sat about 10 feet from me and was twitching much like Mike, but without clawing at her abdomen.  Every so often she would scream, “I’s gonna kill myself!” And some other weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth would accompany her proclamations.  Don’t get me wrong: threats of suicide and obvious distress are not at all funny.  But at 2am with a debater being treated for a tanning lotion rash, I was searching for a bit of levity.  I found it.

Finally Matt got a prescription which we filled en route to the hotel.  

What makes this story even more memorable is the fact that Matt (debating with little sleep and even less comfort) and his partner proceeded to win the state championship that weekend.  All that suffering for a good cause.

But the story persists.

The following year, Matt's partner Ben had joined forces with an impressive redheaded senior named Thomas.  Again, at the state tournament, all had gone well for the boys in the first day of competition, and they were set to debate in the championship round the following afternoon for the state title.  They remained at the hotel that morning while I took the other students to competition. Around 11am I got the phone call.  It was Thomas.

“Um, I don’t know how to tell you this…” he began.

“What is it?” I felt a bit of panic surge up to my throat.  This was never a good way to begin a conversation.

“Well, Ben slipped in the shower and he thinks he broke his pinkie.  He apparently tried to grab the shower curtain but it was no use.” Ben was not a small fellow.

“I’ll be right there,” I responded.  

Indeed, I arrived to find said pinkie no longer straight, but rather the top half was nearly perpendicular to the bottom.  I assuaged the feeling of nausea that hit at the sight of the misshapen fingerby turning my attention instead to the task at hand.  No pun intended. Back to the ER we trekked.  

I stood next to Ben as the doctor popped his pinkie back into place.  He was a trooper.  I had to avert my eyes.  With meds and a bandaged hand, we had just a couple hours before the debate was slated to begin. Unfortunately, the pinkie was on Ben’s dominant hand.  Any good debater will tell you that the ability to write and take notes rapidly is a key to success.  While the pinkie is hardly pivotal in the writing process, a splint and a sore finger can prove a hindrance.  Such was the case for the two.  While they both believed they had won, the decision was 2-1 against them.  But 2nd place at the state tournament , we all agreed, was nothing at which to sneeze.

Ben and Matt, just after learning they had won the State Championship. Matt was able to stop itching...for awhile.

Dance on, sistah!

August 1, 2014

Yesterday we ventured to Seattle's Pike Market and Park. The market showcases an array of vendors selling everything from shirts to paintings to jewelry. The culinary area of the market hosts all foods imaginable, including the best cherries I've ever eaten. I'm certain I've devoured at least three pounds thus far. Another favorite is a little donut stand featuring hot donuts smaller than a fist that bear a striking resemblance to the taste of beignets, and even more remarkably taste like the sugar-and-spice donuts that Nanny, my maternal grandmother, used to make for my brother and me.  Tasting these donuts on the cobblestone street in the hub of the market took me back to her kitchen. I can see her now, standing next to the brown sink and the speckled counter top, squeezing my cheeks with one hand for a smooch before she handed me a plateful. I had to text my brother and let him know what I had found. He, too, could transport himself back to 1980 to the smell and the taste of one of the simplest highlights of our shared childhood.

After scoring some wares from select vendors, my nieces and daughter and I rounded the flowered street corner to the busy park adjacent to the market and overlooking the water. The grassy hill was littered with people grabbing lunch or just some sun while a shirtless man juggled two machetes and roaring chain saw. The girls desperately wanted henna tattoos, and we luckily found the little lady to do the trick. As she decorated their hands, one-by-one, I took in the cross-section of humanity around us.

Then came the best sight thus far:  where the juggler had been, there appeared a very short lady--either Polynesian or Asian or some mix thereof--in a pointy, 1950s-esque white bra. No top. Sizable gut that spilled over a very short skirt. Black combat boots. She gyrated like a stripper in need of a pole, ran her fingers through her greasy hair, and then threw her arms in the air with glee. The bonus round came when she would bend over and shake her ass, revealing what seemed to be an adult diaper beneath her scant skirt. Occasionally she would taunt the crowd, or help herself to a drink or food in the possession of an onlooker. No one dared to fight to retrieve the stolen Starbucks cup or pastry:  this was not a woman with whom to trifle. If nothing else, I'm sure the fear of being treated to an involuntary lap dance was enough to make us all keep our distance in bewildered awe.

While the very nature of Seattle as tolerant and eclectic is conducive to displays like this, the abandon of this "artist" (mentally fit, sober, high, or otherwise) was surprising nonetheless. And, for me, the trip was made.