My father’s mother was an orphan, a hypochondriac, and an alcoholic. My mother’s mother was a rebel, a creative, and a lover of life. Except for being an orphan, I don’t know if those descriptions are true. Those are my thoughts based on the little I know about them. I wish I’d known them both.
My paternal grandmother died when I was around four years old. I remember seeing her once. She was lying in bed in a very small cabin. My father and mother were sitting in chairs beside her. I ran in once and was told to go play outside. When you’re four, everything seems much larger than it is. But that cabin was tiny, even to my young eyes. Her bed was on one side against the wall. Against the opposite wall was a kind of kitchenette. I only remember seeing a sink and counter, but I imagine there had to be at least a hotplate and maybe a small refrigerator. I think there was a little bathroom beyond that room. The head of her twin sized bed was against a back wall of the front room. I remember a fat crucifix hanging on that wall, over her head. It was fat because it opened like a box. Inside was a small candle, a little vial of oil, and I don’t know what else, to be used when giving last rites. I’d seen one of those before. Maybe we had one at our house. I don’t remember anything else hanging on the walls or anything of color. There were no pictures or knickknacks. It was dark inside.
Outside the cabin, the sun was shining, and the grass was soft and tall. But again, I was four. A couple of old pictures reveal my perception of very tall willowy grass differed from reality. A river ran behind the cabin. I remember seeing it but not going back there. Those were the days when you could let your kids play outside and not be too worried about them. My sister was two. I suppose my older brothers were keeping an eye on us. My grandmother died shortly after that visit.
She had a sad life. I don’t blame her for drinking too much or for always thinking she had some serious illness. She coped not just with alcohol, but with fantasy. She didn’t just imagine she was sick. She lived in a guarded world of fact mixed with fiction. A trait somehow handed down to my father, embellishing the lives I suppose they thought weren’t good enough.
My maternal grandmother died when my mother was seven. It was Halloween. The costume she made for my mother hung on the back of her door all day as people hurried in and out of my grandmother’s bedroom. She died, along with the baby, giving birth pre-maturely.
My grandmother’s father owned three homes on one property. He lived in one of the big houses with my grandmother’s sister. My grandparents lived in the small home in the back. When my grandmother found out she was going to have her third baby, her father traded homes with her. My mom said her mother went to work fixing up the house. And my mom believes that the paint she was using on the walls may have been toxic with lead, causing her mother’s untimely death.
I said my grandmother was a rebel. I think that because she married my olive skinned Spanish grandfather at a time and place where clearly, she should have married an Irish Catholic. She struck me as a woman who just did what she wanted to do. Local customs and norms didn’t necessarily apply. She bought a sewing machine, a ringer washer, and a fur coat – all luxuries at the time. She went to the city every Saturday with her girlfriends to shop.
She was creative. She made clothes and curtains (and Halloween costumes), and other things to decorate her home. There was a player piano in the house. My mother’s not sure if it was there before they moved in, but it was a lot of fun even though for a long time there were only a couple rolls of music.
My father took after his mother, and I believe my mother took after hers. Although I don’t think my mom was much of a rebel, she has always had a streak of independence. And she’s always been artistic, creative, and a lot of fun.
Like every family on earth, I have deep roots. Like many families on earth, I can’t trace them easily. At least not with personal knowledge. I don’t know a tremendous amount about my grandfathers either, but I’m not going to go there. It’s enough to know that I could be somewhat of an imaginative hypochondriac, rebel, creative, lover of life, with a propensity toward alcohol consumption.
At least you don’t have “diabetes!”