Granny

When I was twelve, my dad's mother lived with us for awhile. She took over my room, relegating me to a sleeping bag on the floor of my sisters' bedroom. My private space was the top shelf of the closet, since my sisters were too short to reach, even standing on the step stool I used. And any adult would have been taking life in hands wading through the mulch of dirty clothes and old school papers that covered the floor to get that far. I used to stand on the step stool for hours, my elbows braced against the edge of the shelf, hand-sewing doll clothes out of rags and cheap remnants from the dime store.

My granny was not a nice person, even if she was, at that time, "on the wagon." Before she came to live with us, my parents went through the house emptying out bottles of aftershave and cooking vanilla and giving away the half-full fifth of Smirnoff they used for their very infrequent screwdrivers. Granny still smoked, and she rolled her own. She even had a cigarette-rolling machine that looked like a rectangular makeup compact. She's put a paper in, sprinkle the tobacco on top, close the lid and then open it to reveal a perfect rollup. All she needed to do was lick the edge to seal it. Sometimes as a special treat, she let us make cigarettes for her.

Unfortunately, she didn't like me very much. She preferred boys, so my brother was her favorite, and my sisters were little and cute and no particular threat. I, on the other hand, was a very mature-looking almost-thirteen, with lovely skin and a pert young hourglass figure. She would have been about 55, and the smoking, drinking and sun exposure had taken their toll. Her skin resembled soggy crepe paper, most of the weight in her upper body had sagged to her hips, and her voice had a raspy, grainy quality that made her sound as if she was always on the verge of a cough.

As a young woman, her very slender, babyish looks had been perfect for the day. She had been quite a beauty in the late twenties and early thirties, and she could also turn on the charm when she wanted to. Even people who didn't like her claimed she could sell iceboxes to eskimos. In her heydey, she was a popular beauty married to one of the leading citizens of town. She and my granddaddy had in fact eloped on Christmas Eve 1930. (I ought to ask Great Aunt Lucille what kind of flap there was in the family about the marriage, because I bet there was one. If nothing else, Granny's grandfather was a Methodist Episcopal minister, and Granddaddy was a Jew.)

I don't know when her alcoholism got out of control, but she and Granddaddy divorced after he got back from his service in the Pacific during World War II. My dad might have preferred to stay with his father, but the judge asked if he would go with his mom to look after his little brother Johnny, who had expressed a decided preference for his mother. These days, the judge wouldn't even have asked the kids. If Mother was an alcoholic and Father was an upstanding businessman and honorable war veteran, Father would have gotten custody whatever the kids thought they wanted.

Granny doesn't seem to have been physically abusive, but she was abusive in other ways. She had a very vinegary tongue; I have forgotten anything specific she said to me (proctective amnesia, I expect), but I do recall having my feelings hurt regularly. My father had to put up with her much longer, and he never quite lived up to her expectations, unlike his brother Johnny, who was a good student, polite, and well-spoken. Unfortunately, John also became an alcoholic, and even if he was a better lawyer drunk than anyone else in the county sober, just think what he could have done had he abstained.

I wonder if some of my dad's overreaction when I make suggestions or seem to criticize him stems from his previous experience with his mother. Did she call him dumb? or stupid? Because he will sometimes shake with anger and grind out, "I must just be stupid, then," when I dare to question any of his unthinking assumptions or broad generalizations, for example. He used to be able to take suggestions, though, and consider other people's ideas without taking them as personal affronts even when they don't exactly agree with his own. Perhaps his mental deterioration is responsible for the loss of flexibility of thought, but the way he reacts could reflect his early upbringing.

Granny's mother had Alzheimer's Disease, or some form of dementia. I recall going to visit the home where she lived, but we kids stayed in the waiting room. The place smelled like Old People. At one point, my dad brought my brother in, but my sister Charlotte and I stayed behind. Many years later, Charlotte regretted missing this chance to see Great-Grandmother Iva, since Charlotte greatly resembled her, but I was able to reassure her she hadn't missed much. By that time, Great Grandmother was living in the past; she thought my father was his father, and my brother was him. A couple of extra daughters would have confused her. I hope my dad's heart carries him off before he gets to that point, if that's what's in store for him.

Next blog, I need to write about something totally frivolous and try to cheer myself up. Maybe about how Granny used Oil of Olay (which I thought of as "Oil of Old Lady"), and now I use Olay. Lots of Olay.