Grandmother's House Cont'd . . .

 

Grandchildren were never disciplined and allowed to run free on the "farm". On occasion, time was spent with children from across the road, running through the rows of corn with our imaginations right behind. We wandered great emerald jungles that would hide us until fireflies came out to play. The green apple tree was a favorite place while sitting on a limb with salt shaker in hand and a guaranteed bellyache to come. Green spiders were flicked off the mulberries as I sat among curtains of leaves and watched cars pass on the black top below. Mother would have had a coronary, if she had known. (She would have done her imitation of a flock of attacking birds.)

 

As stated earlier in my story, God was a constant companion.  I merely had to acknowledge Him to feel His presence.  In quiet solitude at grandmother's house, there was a lot of time to just "be in company of" my invisible friend.  He was there in the rows of corn, we shared mulberries and fed clover to the rabbits.  I was never alone; I ran with abandon without fear; my imagination soared beyond the clouds that built scenes of angel hair castles.

 

STORY: Chickenpox arrived when I was visiting Grandmother one winter. I remember a large galvanized tub she set up in the living room next to the potbelly stove. Into the water, which was heated one pail at a time, went baking soda and she poured it by the pitcher full over my lesions. Mother came to visit with one of the most unusual dolls I had ever seen; fourteen inches tall in a black and white nun's habit - rosary and all. ? (You remember: Mother sent the priest packin'.) Still strange to me. One thing about being sick: you feel so good when you are well again.

 

Grandmother would braid my hair and relate Indian folktales. Her brush stroke was so gentle and patient - not like Mother's. She was diabetic and shared her sugar-free ice cream which held a special attraction for me. I could eat an entire pint jar of her homemade pickles in one sitting with never a scolding. It was a magical world that was evidence of God in my life. Grandmothers can be such a special blessing.

 

 

 

 

STORY: I remember one visit in particular. My younger uncle was in his mid-teens, living at home and I was half his age. I used to torment him to get attention when outside excursions were called on account of rain or feeling restless. I was doing anything I could think of to take his attention away from his television program. The last time I did this, he carried me upstairs to his bedroom, laid me face down in the middle of his bed and pulled my panties down.  He then proceeded to rub his member between my thighs. I made such a commotion that he let me up. I ran and my visits to grandmother began to taper off.  On the couple remaining visits, I made it a point to know where my uncle was at all times so I could be sure to avoid him.  I was in my adult years before I related this story to my sister. Guess I felt like I asked for it. Guilt is a difficult thing for a child to cope with.  And, this has always been difficult for me to understand.

 

My uncle was a pubesic teen age boy is my excuse for him.  But this incident robbed me of a joyful part of my childhood.  I was now banished to the inner city of a crumbling neighborhood where we were no longer allowed to leave the safety of our own small yard.  No more running through emerald cities or climbing trees.  No more feeding clover to rabbits or drinking well water from a rusty ladle.  No more hours spent alone with my imagination or tales of illusive Indians.  Most of all, no more sitting with those gentle hands braiding my hair.

 

Diabetes was taking Grandmother's eyesight. She read her Bible cover to cover and back again, until the magnifying glass no longer worked for her. She and Grandfather were never divorced but they did not live together in my lifetime. 

 

 

 

Years later, Grandfather had three strokes over a period of several years. It was so sad for me to see him wither into such a frail person. It was just a few weeks after he died that Grandmother was taken to the hospital for exploratory surgery. She was failing fast and no one knew why. The doctor found cancer in her liver and sent her home to be with her family. She did not linger. Doctors could not understand why she never complained of any pain. To this day, I believe she withstood everything as long as Grandfather was alive. When he was gone she no longer cared to be here. You cannot chose who your heart will love.

 

To be continued . . . . .

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

A Two-Seater Outhouse

 

I hope for nothing, I fear nothing - I am free

 

Life is the dream from which we wake to the reality of death.

 

Summers with my maternal grandmother are some of my most treasured memories: corn fields, rabbit hutch, well water, coal heater and pickles.

 

She lived in the country in a long house covered with roofing shingles that looked like red brick, with a crawl space that set the house up on cinder blocks. Overhanging the road was a large mulberry tree, and a sour apple tree grew beside the dirt driveway.

 

So many wonderful memories retained all these years later, play like a picture album across my mind. There was the red checkered tablecloth with condiments in the center, her bed that sagged in the middle and the black cat under the coal burning, cast iron heater. This all-too-brief time in my life leaves me with wonderful food for peaceful daydreams.

 

> Her well water was a favorite drink of mine and I remember her saving enough at night for priming the pump, next morning, in the winter to get it started.

 

> There was a two-seater outhouse that I never did understand. I cannot imagine sitting in passing conversation with a fellow traveler. Under the eaves of the outhouse was a wasp nest that always gave me cause for concern. I remember my youngest uncle's rabbit hutch and the glorious cornfield that she hoed every morning at 5 a.m. in her straw sunbonnet. I was always excited to help.

 

> Inside the house, the kitchen held the galvanized metal water bucket with the rusty enamel ladle everyone shared for a quick sip. There were two cast iron heating stoves, one in the eating area, the other in the living room at the other end of the house. This one served to heat the two upstairs bedrooms in the winter because heat rises. In between was her bedroom and a makeshift pantry with a curtain that hid the shelves of canned goods.

 

Aunt, Grandmother, Mother

 

> The two bedrooms upstairs had beds heaped with blankets in the winter. One bedroom was occupied by my mother's youngest brother with the other generally reserved for visiting grandchildren. Behind the heater in the eating area was a fourth bedroom reserved for one of my older cousins who stayed more with grandmother than her own mother. In a small mud room off the back of the kitchen was the bucket used when it was not convenient to trek off to the outhouse. That was one cold metal bucket that left a ring around your butt if you sat on it. And, you better sit down squarely if you didn't want an overturned bucket.

 

> Grandmother had been an only child and wanted a large family. She lost three children at birth, two were twins. Nine babies survived that she and Grandfather raised through the Great Depression.

 

> I loved visiting. One summer, Mother called to ask if she would get to see me before school school resumed. "Are you ever coming home?" Every opportunity to visit Grandmother was accepted with great enthusiasm. Her country residence was always an adventure of monumental proportions. Every bit of it was adventure to this city girl and Grandmother was in her element with grandchildren around.

 

To be continued  . . . . . 

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

P.S. About Mother

 Not perfect:

She was not perfect and didn't pretend to be. She loved the night life and dancing and I saw her drunk more than once. "Cold milk" she would demand on a morning after. She was a champion at nagging. Even though she had a tough shell, there was that tender heart that got her taken advantage of many times.  

The nagging made me crazy! She was a very clean house keeper. Working long hours meant this chore fell to the oldest girl - me. A few quotes I remember fondly: "You call that dusting?", "I work seven days a week to put food on the table and you won't even run the vacuum." "Just look at the mess in that room. How can you stand it?" (In defense of myself, it was dusted and the bed was made. She had fits over clothes left draped over a chair.) Here is one everybody thinks was so cruel: "I don't have to take this. Your father left and so can I. What would you do then? You're gonna wake up one morning and I just won't be here." I remember waking and tip toeing to her bedroom door to see that she was in her bed. There were times that I thought, "Beat me; just shut up and beat me." But all this nagging got the job done.

 

STORY: In prior text I stated how she only had to shame me but I remember the two "floggings" I did get. I was about eight years old the first time. She had gone off to grocery for bi monthly shopping. Grandfather was taking a nap. May brother and I were in the cellar where laundry was hanging to dry. We were there with a coffee can and matches. My sister wanted to "play" too. We told her she was "too young". We had our little "bon fire" in the coffee can and fled upstairs when we heard Mother coming home. The "baby" was mad at my brother and me for not letting her "play" so she tattled on us. We were sat down on the sofa for the nagging lecture as Mother was boiling out of control from fear of what could have happened. Since I was oldest, I always had main responsibility for everything. When she could not control herself any longer, "Get up to your room, I can't stand looking at you." As I hung my head in shame and passed her, she lit into me like a flock of birds; slapping and scratching with those tallon-like nails of hers. It was fear for our safety that brought this out in her. Next time, I was about ten years old. My sister and I were arguing, she called me a bad word and turned her back to run. I lashed out and caught her in the middle of the back with the bottom of my palm. She began gasping for breath and turning an unnatural color, as I just stood there with my mouth open in shock. Mother came around the corner "What the h___ is going on?" (Oh yeah, Mother could swear, too.) "She called ma a b____." (Kids swear when no one is listening.) She took one look at my sister and let loose that flock of birds all the way to the stairway as I ascended to my room.

 

 I love remembering these stories. Mother was human and didn't pretend otherwise. The only apologies I remember was during the time of depressed confusion brought on by menopause. She did not apologize to her children. 

 

 

 

Grandfather used to say, "She lets her heart rule her head." She took in stray kids that my brother and sister would bring home. She got them jobs and gave them a place to sleep. Sometimes it worked out and sometimes she had to turn them out again for stealing or lying. She always had a soft spot for our father. My step-mother had the means to go across state lines and get him to court for back child support. The court ruled he had to pay for his first family first. He came to Mother with papers and asked her to sign them relieving him of any back or future support for his three children. She put the proposal to us, "He hasn't ever given us any support and we manage. He surely can't pay if they put him in jail" was her reasoning and we agreed. She signed the papers. I believe a large part of her decision was because of the love for him she never got over. You can't choose who your heart will love.

 

When I was around forty years old, I was living in a small house behind Mother's. She would knock on my door almost daily telling me I needed a break from my drawing board. We would go for ice cream and coffee or sit in her wooded backyard and watch her pet rabbit forage through the clover. On one mild summer afternoon we were sitting with a cold beer and girl talk. Out of the blue, came the story of rape. Many years prior, she had been on a date, drugged and raped. I had a baby brother somewhere that had secretly been put up for adoption at his birth. Oh God, my poor dear mother ! ! ! What a horrific thing for a woman to go through and keep secret all these years. Grandfather had helped her hide it from us kids and Dad's mother with lies. Mother loved her children, hated lies and had some strong moral beliefs. "I couldn't afford another kid. It was all I could do to take care of the three I had." I totally understand and loved her more.

 

To be continued . . .