It was the last attempt of prolonging our stay at my grandmother's house. Her only son, and his three children -- my sisters and I -- and her only daughter-in-law, my mother. We'd slowly eat our afternoon dinner, making conversation, as most of us slowly finished off our lunches, my grandfather and I raced to the finish. The only evidence that he'd finished first was that he'd push his plate just slightly to the right so that he could pick up the tiny, tiny bread crumbs with his forefingers. He'd raise his eyebrow at me, noting that I had come close, but, in reality, he had, indeed, once again, finished first. I would give in, silently noting his advances. After all, it was a fight to the finish, and it occurred every time we had our afternoon soiree. It wasn't truly a "soiree" because it didn't truly happen in the evening, but it had that same ambiance. The same seriousness an evening meal might hold. We met every six weeks or so, at my grandparents house, only about thirty five minutes or so away. Nonetheless, it was a calm, uneventful race to the finish.
Coffee would follow. I would, inevitably, go into their bedroom and use their pink dial telephone to call my boyfriend, at the time, a local yokel soccer player, who lived thirty minutes away from them. It was cheaper to call him from their line than mine an hour away. They were nothing, if not frugal. Never mind that he never actually was home, and if he was, he never actually wanted to speak to me. But I would hole myself up into their bedroom, between their twin beds and make that phone call. The one call I had waited to make every six weeks. Now, thinking back, I never realized the more important things.. Like my grandparents beds were set up -- two twin beds. Two four poster twin beds, with one mahogany bedside table. A doily, a pink telephone, and a marble lamp between them. They had heavy bedspreads, deeply embroidered, and tasseled, with bed skirts to match. It was so oddly different than the way our lives were now in this millennium. On the wall, hung a beautiful portrait of my grandparents on their wedding day, April 13th, 1932. He looked so handsome, and she so peaceful and lovely. In this room, he had his dresser, void of any personal items, no dust would dare to settle there. She had her own dresser, with a large mirror above it. On it was a blue jewelry box that rested on, of course, a doily. A few perfume bottle decorated the sides. But other than that, it was absent of that might signify that someone might use that dresser in daily life.
She was German fried potatoes. She was green beans that had been purchased 4 years, and 5 months ago -- you knew, because she had written the date of purchase on top of the can with permanent magic marker. She was egg noodles and "brown stuff" -- which was browned butter with bread crumbs. She was chocolate cookies with a recipe she had copied prior to World War Two. She could can gooseberries, and currants. She grew them in her garden here in the States because they reminded them of when she was a child. She remembered crossing the border in Switzerland when she and her sisters had similar names. They were questioned for their similiarities. But yet, she was still jello, with canned fruit cocktail, and ultimately, if you so desired, she was Cool Whip. She was Christmas tins filled with cookies. She was over-sized underwear, so that you thought there might have been a bra built into the original panty. She was jealous of the sweetness and glorious loveliness of my mother, yet she was no less deserving of the same. She was the youngest of eight. That's a lot of talking to be heard among seven before you. I don't think she understood that she was unique, special, funny, lovely and kind. I think my sisters and I were the ones who got to see that amazing side of her. I wish the rest of the world had gotten to see the side of her that would grab our sweaty socked feet, and squeal with joy "Eww -- stinky toes..." just to hear our laughter, because it brought her sheer joy.Yet together, they were Grandma and Grandpa.
Together and separately they brought joy in every moment we were there. They were every single, solitary, Sunday morning, when I phoned from college at 10 am, Grandma and Grandpa. They were never judging, though they knew better than to ask. They were ever present. They listened. It didn't matter what you said. Every single month he sent $25 from his income check, until I got married -- when he said to my husband, "She's yours." He fixed everything. If you brought him something you "found" -- he either fixed it or made it better. She always found a comfort food out of something in her cupboard. She kept her hand held mixer in a hand-made wooden box, made, of course, by my Grandfather. I sat at her counter while she cooked our typical every six week Friday afternoon lunch of chicken noodle soup, waffles, and, of course, jello with or without Cool Whip. I sat in the seat, with the steps that folded up under the seat. The seat had an odd aqua color. Her small kitchen matched the aqua color and the oddly shaped handmade box for her mixer.
I still have that mixer box, though I don't have the mixer. I expect it would be close to forty years old now. I wish I had the bowls for the jello. Every time I pass the fruit cocktail in aisle three I think of her. I take a deep breath, and I'm okay. But then again, in aisle ten, I'm in frozen foods, and the Cool Whip calls my name. I think of fruit cocktail, wooden boxes made for hand mixers, pink telephones, and whose going to beat Grandpa to the finish line.
To me, my grandmother was lovely as every Grandmother should be perceived. My grandfather was just as handsome, and helpful, perhaps more helpful now, that he maybe realized all that being a grandfather might bring. He was everything to me. He was a carpenter. He could fix anything. He was varnish, and stain, and pine shavings, and small nails in tiny baby food jars, with the tops nailed to the shelves. He had "coveralls", and rags, and a sink in the basement, which I thought was magnificent. He listened, he argued. He argued some more, and then, inevitably, he argued even more than that. He didn't like any boyfriend. They were never good enough. One was too dumb, one was too smart. One didn't talk enough. One carried a gun -- never mind that he was a police officer. But the last one. The perfect one, in his, and my, eyes -- well, he was... good. "Good" was the ultimate compliment to me. My father was "good' in my grandfather's eyes. My husband was "good". And it was going to be alright. Not perfect. It may not always have Cool Whip, and grapes in the jello, but it was good.
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