Let me tell you about my Grandma. It’s funny how we think of our Parents and Grandparents when we’re children. We think only of the way they are since we’ve come into the world. It’s almost shocking when you realize they too were young people, just starting out in the world. They had their own dreams and desires; I wonder how many of those were ever fulfilled?
Grandma was an amazing woman and her story is going to be one of the center pieces of my novel, Handsome Jack. It is a work in progress at this time but I will tell you I’m saving a lot of the best stuff about Grandma for the book.
I was lucky enough to have a full set of Grandparents as a small child and one set of Great Grandparents. There was Great Grandma & Grandpa Spurgeon, Granddad and Grandmother Blood, Grandpa Smith but there was only one Grandma. My Grandma Smith was a one of kind and God do I miss her.
Before I go too far I’d better clarify the family tree here a bit. Great Grandma and Grandpa Spurgeon were Grandma Smith’s parents. When I was a small boy my Great grandpa was about my best friend to go visit. He had been a real cowboy in his day and he dressed just like I did; a jean jacket, cap, jeans and cowboy boots. He even had some of the same problems with stuff like getting his jacket buttoned straight or having his pants legs the same way on both boots. He was the best adult in the world, as far as I was concerned, because he was the only one who always had time for me. Dad and Great Grandma were alright but they were a little too busy. They made me the happiest little boy in the world though when they would give me the job of keeping an eye on Grandpa (we never put the great in front of his name when he was around to hear) when they went into the house. I knew I was important because they would tell me that if I wasn’t around to keep an eye on him, he wouldn’t be able to stay outside on his own. I always thought it odd that a man, who had made his living outside all his life, wasn’t allowed out on his own now that he was old. But, I was honored and privileged to stay outside with him.
I remember I could talk about anything with him and he always listened; sometimes he would laugh out loud and make me awful proud of myself for getting him tickled. He never interrupted like a lot of grownups did. I did think it was a little odd that once in a while I had to go in and tell Dad and Grandma that he’d peed his pants. But, since I wasn’t that far past being potty trained myself, I could understand an accident once every now and again. Anyway, I loved my Great Grandpa a lot and still do, even though he and Great Grandma both left this world close together when I was about five. My memories are fond of him and discovering later on in life that he was senile back then, doesn’t diminish them one little bit. He was my best friend back before I hit the ripe old age of five.
Anyway, they brought my Grandma into the world and when they did, they brought in a dandy. Funny part about my memories of Grandma are not when I was little but later on in my teenage years or shortly before and through my early adulthood until she finally passed away. She had eleven children but the first one only lived a few hours, maybe a day or two and he was gone. I can only guess at how awful that must be for a young married couple and especially a young mother.
With my own children I’ve always had one prayer; that I never out live any of them. It’s selfish I know, but I never want to have to feel the hurt that would go with burying one of my kids; Grandma out lived three of hers plus Grandpa.
The thing I remember most about her was her talking. Dad used to claim she’d went in for her small pox vaccination and the Nurse had gotten mixed up and used a long playing phonograph needle on her. She never ran out of anything to say. Sometimes, what she said was not too well, let’s say, thought out. If she was nervous, her talking would almost take on a life of it’s own and sometimes run completely out of control.
Hospitals tended to make her nervous, so it’s only to be expected she might make a Freudian slip while visiting there. It happened, so the story goes, while I was being born. Back in those times, hospitals were run more like prisons. Children under a certain age weren’t allowed in those hollowed doors. Fathers couldn’t hold the babies until after they took the child home. Maybe the biggest difference between then and now is that back then, a Father was never, under any circumstances, allowed into the delivery room or labor room when a woman was giving birth. This was the days of the ‘waiting room’. The waiting room outside the delivery room was to be immortalized in several television comedy sketches over the years. They always depicted it holding nervous Dads, who were busy doing dumb things, caused by the tenseness of ‘waiting it out.’
Like I said before, I was the first grandchild born on either side of the family so nobody had a lot of experience at waiting in the waiting room, with the possible exception of Grandpa; he’d done it eleven times already. Sure, Grandma had been there eleven times too, but she’d always been more of an active participant than an observer and I guess she just wasn’t used to just being stuck in the waiting room.
One Nurse had already come out and told all of my family members that I was born but it’d be a little bit before they’d have me out where I could be seen. For this story to make sense to you younger readers, hospitals were not like they are now in any way, shape or form when it came to handling babies. Babies were kept in the ‘Nursery’ window and Father’s just had to stand outside and look in at their child. So, my Dad and my Grandpa breathed a small sigh of relief and settled in to wait for my ‘presentation.’ But, keep in mind it was a small ‘sigh’ because I was a ‘preemie’ and far from out of the woods. Evidently, Grandma wasn’t thinking about the fact I was incubator bound and she was just wanting to see her first Grandbaby.
At the same time I was coming into the world, some good friends of ours by the name of Nichols were getting ready to take their three day old baby home. Since the hospital wouldn’t allow the parents to carry a baby, when it was being discharged, a nurse had to carry the baby until you got to your car. The Mother was usually wheeled along in a chair being pushed by her husband. I think this was a strategy designed by the hospitals to keep the Dad’s occupied so they weren’t trying to take the babies away from the Nurses prematurely.
So, anyway, here comes a nurse out of the double doors carrying a baby. As soon as Grandma saw the newborn her jaw kicked into gear, along with her feet. Before anyone could stop her, she runs to the Nurse. My Dad, in hot pursut, was trying to get her shut down and head of the train wreck, by yelling at her, “Mom, that’s not my baby!” But Grandma paid no heed to my Father’s words nor to the fact that a nurse would not be carrying a newborn, especially one that was two and half months premature and under weight, out to the lobby of the hospital. Instead she charged boldly on, shouting, “There he is!” My Grandma, God bless her, ran up to the nurse and pulled the baby’s receiving blanket back from it’s face (this was also against hospital regulations) and she stated in her own very high and penetrating voice she used only when she was excited or calling kids in for supper, “Oh! Jackie! He looks just like you!”
Now, I’m sure the Nichols’ were rather taken back by some little short woman possibly attacking their new baby. Maybe the pink clothes and blanket should’ve tipped her off that this wasn’t her Grandson. Her other clue could have been that the baby was black. I guess after the initial shock passed and the Nichols’ being the really nice people they are, they thought it was pretty funny, at least I guess Russell did. He laughed all over Dad’s apologizes while Grandma couldn’t figure out what she had done wrong. It all came out okay and turned into just one of those ‘life’s embarrassing moments’ we all have. Both families remain friends to this day, even though almost all of that generation is gone now. Russell got a kick out of it and used to tease me about it when I was still in school. But, I’m not sure his wife ever really trusted my Grandma again.
Grandma doing her favoriter thing, holding grandkids
One of Grandma’s traits I always remember was her morning phone calls when I was in High School. Grandma missed the party lines. For those who have never been on or heard of a party line, let me say you’ve never really missed anything. Back when the telephone first came to the country you were on what they called a party line. Of course you could option for a private line but they were more expensive and only the really well to do had them. The party line consisted of at least three or more homes to share the same phone line. When you were receiving a call the phone would ring with your ring, say two quick rings then a pause and two more quick rings. You would wait and make sure it was your ring before you answered the call. Once the phone quit ringing you knew the correct party had answered and now the line was busy so you didn’t pick up the phone. If you needed to make a call the proper procedure was to gently lift the hand set to your ear and if anyone was talking you were to hang up and try your call again later. That was the way it was suppose to work. Grandma and several of the other elderly ladies (and a few younger ones too) made a habit out of ‘listening in.’ If Grandma wasn’t out in the milk barn or working in the garden or taking care of a kid that had just had an accident (of which I was one more than once) or cooking a meal, she could ‘listen in’ on whoever’s conversation was going on and join in if it was a topic of interest to her.
The days of the party line were short lived because so many people started to pay the little extra for private lines the party line became as extinct as your average dinosaur. Most rural folks were very happy the party line was gone and they could have some privacy when talking to friends and family. Grandma on the other hand had just lost a major source of entertainment, because now she couldn’t just pick up the phone and find a conversation already in progress and join in. With the party line gone, she had to actually call someone in particular and since my Dad was her oldest son he’d get the first call of the day. Dad worked the swing shift for twenty years as a machinist and didn’t get home until around two in the morning but he was her first call so at around 7:30 am our phone would ring. I’d be getting ready for school but it always seemed like I’d be walking by just as the black phone in the hall, which hung on the wall, above the book cabinet, that came with the set of encyclopedias, would ring.
Even though Dad’s bedroom was on the other side of the house it was an unwritten rule that when the phone rang while he was sleeping the closest person to the phone answered it as quickly as possible. So, when Grandma called and I was closest to the phone, which seemed like most of the time, I grab the phone and have a conversation that went pretty much like this.
“Jackie!”
“No, it’s me, Grandma. Dad’s asleep.”
“Oh, you’ll do.” She’d always reply before I could offer to get Mom or see if Dad was awake or any other ploy to escape her machine gun fire conversation. Then she would proceed to tell me how Grandpa had beaten her at Domino’s the day before or checkers or cards; some old ladies group at the church or who was getting divorced in the small town where we lived. It was all riveting stuff.
Since I was trying to get ready for school I didn’t have time to listen to every exciting move Grandpa had made on the checkerboard the previous day so I’d set the phone done on top of the encyclopedias and I’d go get ready for school. As I’d pass back and forth in my preparations I’d pick up the phone and listen for a bit, make a grunting noise or two and put the phone back down. Grandma would carry on her own conversation until she ran out of things to say. Now, Grandma was of the school of thought that if she made the call it was ‘her dime’ and so she was the one who got to do the talking. If you wanted to talk you would have to call her back because, when she hit the end of what she wanted to say she’d state, “Well, that’s all I’ve got to say. Bye.” You’d hear a loud click. Then she’d be gone.
Years later, at one of our family gatherings, probably after somebody’s funeral, we were gathered up in her living room and telling stories. Grandma knew she had the cancer then and I think she just loved looking around a crowded house and knowing she’d either directly or indirectly brought all those lives into being. She was talking about calling out at Dad’s and talking to me in the mornings so many times. Then she tells my Aunts, “Troy used to be so quiet on the phone I wouldn’t know if he was there or not. Then he’d say, “Yeah, I’m here Grandma so I’d go on a talking.”
God I love my Grandma.
