My grandmother left us almost fifty years ago. I think of her every day. And if I didn’t, I’d be reminded of her anyway: I sleep in her bed, I see her art, I use her cooking techniques, and if I were smaller, I’d still wear the tailored wool suit she wore to the State Fair of Texas in 1936 which hangs in my closet. A connection on a molecular level, someone suggested.
We called her “Moo” because I could say neither the French grand-mère she coveted nor her second choice, “Mother Ruth,” that I as the first grandchild morphed. She was a character. That she could bear good-naturedly such an odd name says something, and perhaps enough for now.
William Wordsworth used the phrase “spots of time” to explain experiences which help us through the hard times or, really, just the times. We don’t necessarily choose them, and they need not be considered “Great Moments,” but somehow they’re there. I remember, for example, when Moo took me to get my first perm. I was probably nine, and the hair salon was an entirely new but not necessarily wonderful experience. For the next 30 years, periodically I either went to a salon to get one or, more likely, wound my hair around rods, applied an ammonia-based chemical, waited (outside, at my husband’s request), rinsed, and neutralized to stop the process. It was brutal, but Toni made it cheap. The link to the Wikipedia article above reminds me that our process could have been much worse.
Another memory takes me to the First Methodist Church in San Angelo with my grandmother, her friend, and her friend’s granddaughter. There was a quilting bee on, with the women’s work stretched taut on frames. We crawled around at our grandmothers’ feet and generally stayed out of trouble. My grandmother was not a quilter, and I don’t have any idea why we were there, but that feather’s touch of time remains.
My grandmother always had what was referred to as “help.” One at a time, these women lived with the family when the children were young in a bedroom designed for them. It wasn’t part of my experience, and the only one living when I was aware remained a family friend. Her name was Viola, and after the children were grown and gone, she’d finished college, earned a master’s degree in education, and taught third grade for many years. Her family were country people and lived in a small town where they gardened and sewed, canned and quilted. And oh, could they cook. They came to a smaller town near San Angelo, Christoval, for a reunion every year. My grandparents contributed meat, and we were invited to the main meal which we regarded as heaven. I remember the afternoon naps in dorm-like, dimly lit rooms. But mostly I remember the cakes and pies and roasts and yeast rolls.
Somehow, all of this came together some years ago in the poem below. The phrase “funny-turned” is from Viola. The images pile on, so try to imagine a kid wanting to retreat, getting under the bed, having been under quilt frames like we were, hoping for better times. Writing in dialect is hard, maybe not always successful. About now, getting under something doesn’t seem that strange. And not coming out until I gotta!
Bed
If it gets any worse,
I gonna get unner the bed
An’a ain’t comin out never
An’a ain’t gonna cry none neither
Unner the bed is safe
unner the bed quiet
jus’ me, jus’ so
And the quilt’s over there
pink and green and white
purple red blue
Stars, made ‘em stars
Little bigger bustin’ over
An’ them women hands made it
An’ they talk bout me,
unner the frame way high
Proud I come home
after I go away
proud of me
funny-turned kid they say
talk bout me while they sew
six million gillion threads
Hold me down safe in there
unner the bed
for safe keepin’
only’s if it get any worse,
though, but till then
An’a ain’t comin out
till I gotta
For V.A.
