What Grandpa Gave Grandma

My maternal grandfather was an interesting character, and I loved him tremendously.  We had a special bond, and I felt his loss keenly when he passed away.  I was not quite 12 at the time.  I have many fond memories, but one that always makes me chuckle is the memory of a Christmas gift he gave to Grandma one year.

Grandpa and Grandma had purchased a new car just before Christmas and had agreed that it would be their gift to each other. Grandma had never learned to drive, but this did not prevent her from offering advice, criticizing Grandpa’s driving, and hollering, “Frank!  Look out!” frequently.

When the whole family was gathered at Christmas, Grandpa presented her with a wrapped package.  She protested, “Frank, we said we weren’t giving each other gifts this year.”

He smiled and said, “I know…just open it.”

She unwrapped the package and opened the box to discover half a car.  He had sawed a toy car in two parts front to back and presented her with half.

As she removed it from the box, he said, slyly, “You will notice which half it is.”

It was, of course, the passenger side.

That gift was a joke, but he gave her “gifts” on a regular basis that were not jokes.

Grandma had trouble with her legs…lots of vascular problems:  phlebitis, clots, and sometimes even ulcerations.  Grandpa saw to it that she never had to scrub a floor.  He always did that job, preventing her from having to get down on her knees.

When the family gathered for dinners, which happened not only on holidays, but many Sundays, Grandpa would appear in the kitchen after the meal.  He would stack all the pots, pans and difficult to wash cooking utensils in the roasting pan and disappear to the basement.  The women were left with the silver, glassware and china, while he scrubbed the most difficult things in the stationary tubs downstairs.

These acts of love were not just a gift to Grandma, they were a gift to the whole family, as he modeled what a man should be.  I know young men that think masculinity is defined by their muscles or sexual prowess.  They take off, leaving young women to raise the children they have so carelessly fathered.  What a contrast to my beloved Grandfather who understood that loving a woman means tender care and self sacrifice.

I often say that my Grandfather was a prince.

Coal in My Stocking

Do you know of someone who actually got coal in their Christmas stocking?  If you know me, you do.

When I was little, the items in the stocking were treasured almost as much as larger gifts under the tree.  Fresh fruit was not plentiful in winter, and what was available was too expensive for our family with one breadwinner who was a blue-collar worker.  My stocking always contained at least one orange….a real treat.  There were also chocolates wrapped in foil and nuts in the shell waiting to be cracked.  Sometimes a small toy might be tucked in also.

The joy of items in my stocking was not in my mind when I learned to use scissors.  I believe I must have been 3 and a half, as I started school at the age of 4 years, 4 months and I am fairly certain my scissors misdeeds were a result of being on the loose without enough to keep my mind busy.  I started school at that early age, because I was driving my mother crazy.  The scissors episodes were probably part of the reason she felt like her sanity was teetering on the edge.

There were three scissors infractions, and I only remember two of them.  An aunt had hand-knit a skirt for me, and I hacked a triangular hole in it.  I had no appreciation for the hours of work I destroyed. I don’t remember taking any particular delight in that, but I do remember the fascination I felt cutting the chenille off my mother’s lovely bedspread.  The classic design at the time was wave-like curves running horizontally as the bedspread hung over the edge of the bed.  Cutting along these curves was a challenge and in my little mind was just plain fun!  I still remember sitting on the floor next to my parents’ bed snipping along the wavy lines and feeling pleased with my scissors skills.  It actually didn’t occur to me I was doing anything wrong, until my mother came in and expressed her shock and dismay.

Unfortunately, these incidents were not long before Christmas.  As I excitedly slid my hand into my stocking on Christmas morning I found a brown paper sack containing coal…..no candy, no nuts, no toys and no orange….just yucky black coal.

I was furious.  I stomped to the cellar door and down the stairs.  My Dad came along and opened the furnace door for me.  I pitched the bag of coal into the furnace and stomped back up the stairs.  I have no recollection of what Santa had left under the tree for me that year.  All I remember was the coal and the rage I felt.

I don’t really think it was effective in improving my behavior.  My mother once told me that I was her most difficult child before I started school and her easiest child once I started school.  The coal didn’t help, but keeping my mind busy productively did.  Learning to read opened up a whole world of fascinating adventure….no scissors required.

The Coolest Old Lady...Not

This morning I was waiting for my grandson in a parking lot across from the DMV when I realized I was right in front of a dollar store.  I had been told that this dollar store carried inexpensive marijuana test kits, and I knew someone who wanted one to make sure he/she was clean before applying for a job.

I have purchased drug test kits in drug stores previously.  When I was affiliated with a Christian maternity home, I was designated to check the residents when they were admitted to the home and spot check after that.  I had never used one of the cheap dollar store variety that only checks for pot.  I had to ask where to find the kits.  This made the staff in the store aware of my purchase.

When I came to the check-out, two of the staff got in a discussion as to whether these inexpensive kits were accurate.  This caused a third staff person who was working on a computer with his back turned to me to turn around and look at me.

He said in a surprised tone, “Is that for you?!”

I replied that I was getting it for someone else.

Sounding disappointed he said, “If that was for you, I was going to tell you that you are the coolest old lady I have ever met.”

I told him that I guess I wasn’t cool.

One of the other guys behind the counter then launched into a monologue about his mother (probably a little old lady like me) who had anxiety issues, and her medication stopped working so she now uses pot and it mellows her right out.

I told him that I have a bathtub full of warm water for that purpose.

I can think of lots of other responses I could have made to this discussion….including a self-righteous sermon.

 

I also think it is possible that I am the coolest old lady he has ever met….just not for the reasons he thinks make an old lady “cool.”

So instead of lecturing, I walked away chuckling.

Playing the Wedding March....in absentia

I am sort of a 5^th string pianist.  I took piano lessons for years as a child and advanced rather well.  My big accomplishment was Claire de Lune which I played at the last piano recital I attended.  I was about 15 when I stopped taking lessons.  I was, for the next 40 years, primarily a vocalist.  I played piano for my own enjoyment and to accompany myself when practicing to sing a solo or duet.  I was only pressed into service as a pianist at church on rare occasions when the first string players were out of town.

I did, however, once play for a wedding….in absentia.

It was a warm summer day, and I was hot and sweaty from working outside when the phone rang.  A friend, sounding desperate, asked if I had the music for the wedding march and could play it.  I responded pretty hesitantly, that I had it, but wasn’t a great pianist.  She explained that a couple was scheduled to be married at her church in one hour, and the pianist was suddenly unavailable.  I don’t remember why.

I told her that I was a mess, and there was no way, I could clean myself up in time and get there.  She asked if I could come over immediately and play it.  They had an electric piano, and she could record me playing it and play it back for the bride to walk down the aisle.

I drove over to the church, which was just on the other side of our small city, just as I was in shorts, T-shirt and dirty from yardwork.  She set the electric piano to record, and I did my best.  It was probably better than I would have done in person, because I always got nervous playing in front of people, and I was playing to an empty church.

My friend was extremely grateful.  I never met the couple.  I don’t even remember their names.

I was wondering as I brushed my teeth this morning, who they were, and if the marriage lasted.

Driving in the Snow...an Adventure

We had about 6 inches of snow in the past 24 hours, and as I did a bit of slipping around on the roads, I was thinking about an experience I had in the late 70s.

My brother was in college and was in a musical group that was going to perform at a small church in East Pitcairn, New York, which is right at the edge of the Adirondack Park…very rural and isolated…the middle of nowhere.  My mother wanted to go to the concert, and for reasons I don’t remember now, I was the only person available to take her.

It was January or February, and we had had considerable snow that year.  I had been in the area during the summer a couple of years earlier when I had been the nurse for a Girl Scout Camp, so I was fairly confident I would recognize the turn-off to East Pitcairn.  However, having a mental picture of the location in the summer and in the winter are two decidedly different things.  The mountains of snow had covered some of the signs and landmarks I had in mind.

We drove back and forth on the main highway multiple times unable to find the road.  Finally, my mother exclaimed, “There it is!”  She pointed to a pole which had a typical street sign reading East Pitcairn.  This was not the big green road sign and arrow I had pictured.  But, it did say “East Pitcairn,” and the road was plowed, and there were houses visible at the beginning of the road, so off we went.

We were not very far along, when we came over the crest of a hill and the plowing stopped.  I tried to back up, but the hill was so slippery that I couldn’t manage it.  I noticed that although the road wasn’t plowed, there were visible tracks, so I told my mother, “Well, someone else has been through here so let’s give it a try.”

I had driven with my husband enough to know that you cannot slow down in deep snow.  You just have to blast through and attempt to control the fishtailing of the car.  My mother was gripping the sides of her seat and had stiffened her body out like a board.  I said to her, “You better be praying.”  She replied, “I am!  I am!”

I don’t know how far we traveled when I said, “We have come quite a way and haven’t seen a single house.  If there is nothing over the next hill, I will have to stop and walk back to one of the houses we saw at the beginning of the road.”

Thankfully, as we came over the next hill, we could see the church.  It was at the other side of a T-shaped intersection.  I blasted out of the next snowdrift onto ice and couldn’t stop the car.  I said, “There’s the church and we are going to drive right in!”  I shot through the intersection…fortunately nothing was coming….and skidded to a stop in the church parking lot.

A bit shaken, we entered the church and found the concert already in progress.  Our late arrival was obvious to the attendees. 

After the program, a local lady came up and inquired whether we had had difficulty finding it.  We said that we had.  She asked which way we had come.  When we explained our route, her jaw dropped.  “Oh, my dear,” she gasped, “that isn’t a road in the winter.  It’s a snow mobile trail.”