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.
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