Holder of holders

Old people chit chat

Themed tables

Competition between rivaling means of tissue distribution

There was a way in which the man nuzzled his chin against his chest. Seemingly in full concentration but more in a way to keep his eyes down and focused on the pavement in front of him. The sidewalk was new- well leveled and a shiny finish. The cracks were evenly spaced – their pathos allowed two steps equally distributed between each horizontal interruption. The count was sharp and strong under each heavy rubber soled step. That thick sole isolated each calculation and gave that man a staunch new height. He was elevated an extra two or three inches making up for his slouch. The foot made headway across that slab. His stride was long, seemed to go on forever. Until I looked down and he disappeared.

Grandma Naomi used to come downstairs to the basement where we played. She walked the painted wooden steps of the new suburban home down to the unfinished basement. Dad painted the floor a dusty blue. Not so blue that it felt like you might sink but a blue that you could skate across. The pole in the middle of the room was more of a kissing post/ dance partner to me. Bearing a striking resemblance to John Travolta circa “the Grease years,” OH, “the Grease years.”

But Grandma didn’t know that. She only recognized the public bus we’d created in the carpeted play area out of metal folding chairs retired from their years at my parent’s Pinochle parties. It  wasn’t clear who was riding or who was driving. We all took our turn boarding the bus. Grandma Naomi was the most outstanding character as she slowly boarded adding twenty years to her small fifty something frame. She pulled her imaginary Kmart special winter coat close and took slow emphasized elderly steps and boomed. “EH?” from her bending underbelly.

“ take a seat please.”

“EH?”

“Take a seat please, the bus is moving.”
“Eh!?”

My otherwise without much to say Grandmother, who made more conversation with her ridiculing magnified eyes and gasps of disapproval, was in this moment belting a senile and deaf eared, “EH?”

Although the bickering she exchanged with my grandfather was comical for it’s duration she was more comedic in her childish ways with her grandchildren. Giggling and boarding that bus while toying with us that she was deaf and couldn’t hear a thing.  I remember it as pure moment between all of us. We were all in on the joke. We were riding that bus as far as our laughter would take us. When Grandma let go of her disapproval, let go of her own unhappiness, I felt free with her.

Her free form antics followed us as we grew. From childhood through young adulthood we were stalked by fake vomit, fake doggie doo doo and a fire engine red “Mr. T” megaphone she armed herself with as she leapt from behind corners like a shifty lunatic. She kept the megaphone in her purse.  A clueless stroll from the lime green dining room into the bright orange bamboo chicken kitchen became a terrifying set-up as Grandma Naomi lept from behind corners and from under beds. Her chuckling mouth was blocked out by the full pursed lips and glaring stare of a bushy bearded Mr. T face adorning the front of the megaphone. Mr. T  and Grandma are forever linked and conspiring against me leaping from the darkness to make a very loud muffled old lady yelping, “Boo.”

What thoughts lived behind her glassy eyes, her round seventies shaded specs, mounted with that oppressive magnification I mentioned earlier…was anyone’s guess?

Naomi didn’t talk much. She griped at my grandfather everytime he moved. And she cooked. She could cook like nobody’s business. Years on the great plains of Iowa gave her the maddening maneuverability to cook a spread for 20+ farm hands in a jiffy. While I was old enough to pay attention she cooked with her swollen arthritis knuckles and clanked her silver and turquoise tortoise rings, one against the other as they occupied every finger but the thumb. They rattled against the edge of the stainless steel sink as she knocked off the excess water from rinsing…but never dry.

Grandma’s hands were always wet.

Grandma barely used a towel. She knocked her knuckles and walked to the next task with dripping hands, sometimes stopping to touch our young cheeks with cold water to wake us up and give us a yelp. She teased relentlessly. She’d chase you with those old bulky knuckled ring rattling beautiful blue veined hands.

She never turned on the lights in the bathroom. Often coming in to use the restroom ourselves, turning on the lights, we’d find Grandma on the toilet already, relieving herself in the darkness. I never thought it eccentric, some aftermath of the depression and a built in gauge to save on an electrical bill. But I did learn after sometime to let my eyes adjust momentarily to the darkness before entering the bathroom.

As Grandma Naomi grew older her obsession with stashing grew and the psychology that led to that behavior more boldly revealed itself. We never knew growing up but it turned out she was anorexic. And sometimes walking into those dark bathrooms didn’t reveal Grandma sitting there, but instead aftermath of her expulsion. As she got older she got sloppy with her secret. There were often times just strange remains of what was or wasn’t in her stomach.

She hid her purse under the sitting chair in our sitting room where no one ever sat. Lime green carpeting, furniture and window treatments matched the undigested contents of her stomach. She kept candy in drawers and groceries hidden underneath her bed. She threw random pills and vitamins in her purse. They fell to the bottom and when I reached in for her ever handy tissues I was met with a waft of pharmaceuticals, butterscotches, and caramels. It’s a smell that to this day recalls happy childhood memories of grandma’s giant soft leather purses and what seemed like a bottomless pit of possibilities.

I love her very much and miss the days of Mr. T chases.  She’d probably hate me writing about her. But I love her legacy and it pleases me to explore these memories. I’ll probably keep working on conjuring up the stories. She made being a grand daughter pretty fun.