Grandmothers, pt 1

I'm glad the babe-o-licious Michelle is back with us after a too-long absence; we had a nice Messenger chat last night. Because of her (even before the chat), I've been thinking about grandmothers lately. Grandmothers in general, and my own in particular.

(I loved Stennie's memories of her Grandma Neff, who made everything taste so good. As Stenns said, even her breakfast cereal was better than anyone else's.)

There are two things I always say about my grandmothers; in fact, I'm sure I've said them right here. One is I was named after them both, my name being taken from both their middle names. And the other is that they were as different as night and day, and both loved each other like sisters.

My mom's mom was Muriel Elizabeth Johnson Fowler Knoy Grasso. She came into being for me as Mamaw Knoy. Her husband Everett Fowler, my mom's dad, died when he was 55 years old. He was walking to catch the bus home and had a heart attack. (It was the night he was to meet my dad for the first time. They never got to meet.) Then Muriel married Mr Knoy, who I also never met (as you can tell, I don't even know his first name), they were married in Indianapolis in 1958 by a young reverend named Jim Jones. My mom and I have mused many many times if this was the same Indianapolis reverend Jim Jones who orchestrated the mass suicide/genocide in Guyana. We asked her at the time. She looked at the TV and said, "Well, it could have been. My Lord." After Knoy, she then married Angelo Grasso. Angie was a Washington, DC cab driver.

By the way, Mamaw's name was Muriel, but it was pronounced "Merle." She had a relative, a cousin or neice, I can't remember, named Arabella. It was pronounced it "Arbelle." Oh, us crazy mountain people....

Mamaw Grasso was my "city grandmother." She lived in DC for many years and worked at an upscale women's clothing store there. When my sister and I, or my sister, mom, and I, would go visit (sans Dad), we always went by train. That was excitement beyond belief. When when we got into the city, Mamaw would take us to coffee shops and museums. Angie would drive us to all the monuments in his cab. My sister got as many clothes as she could carry from the shop Mamaw worked in, and since I was just a kid, I got taken to Toys R Us for a spree or two. That was Heaven on Earth for me; there were no such stores anywhere near us at home, so it was like a wonderland. I bought my favorite Skipper I've ever owned on one of those sprees - she had red hair, rooted eyelashes, and bendable legs.

Mamaw Grasso used to tell us about living in Washington, DC when President Kennedy was killed. How it was like a dark cloud was cast over the city. The endless lines of limousines carrying foreign dignitaries blocking every street - and the endless lines of people waiting patiently to pay their respects. People walking the streets in tears, looking lost, with nowhere to go.

Angie was a sweetheart, but he was a hot-head as well. One night, as a storm of hurricane proportions swept through DC, uprooting trees and knocking down power lines, I saw him pull a knife on my uncle Larry; they despised each other for some reason. Being from a family where there was barely an argument, this was an horrifically scary sight. (I was pulling for Angie, though; Larry really got up my nose.) Later that night, running up to Mamaw's apartment in the storm, I slipped and fell, and ended up covered in tree branches, leaves, mud, rain, and debris blown from 100 blocks away. That wasn't a particularly good night.

After Angie died, Mamaw came back here to live for good. (And after he died, I got to meet his two grown children from a previous marriage. What lovely, lovely people they were; I just remembered that.) She moved in with her family, her father, my great-grandfather, who died at age 91 after being hit by a car, and with her sister, my great-aunt, who lived in the house beside. This caused me no small amount of upset. I didn't know why at the time - I loved being around my grandmother, why wouldn't I want her back near me? I thought it was just because I didn't like her family, and that was partly true. What it took me till much later to realize was that, although she never really talked about it, I always think Mamaw Grasso lived a pretty thankless existence with her family growing up. She was put upon. She was used. And I knew her as the cool, independent Mamaw who lived in the big city. Coming back home would be a step backwards into that life before. I wish I hadn't been so right.

Mamaw Grasso had Parkinson's Disease the last 15 years of her life. I wish everyone could know what Parkinson's does to a person, and at the same time I hope no one ever has to know. We used to joke about Mamaw and how she ate. She didn't, really. She just pushed her food around on the plate, and lined her peas up with each other, and nibbled a bit here and there. After Parkinsons, she didn't eat because the food shook off her fork.

I would hold Mamaw's arm while she was walking, or sit on the couch with her and hold her hand. After 20 minutes of holding her arm, my arm would...and there's no way I can describe this to make it really understood...my arm would ache. Just ache, down into the bone. Can you even imagine what the pain of the person doing the shaking must be like? I can't.

After she was stricken, the family that she came home to live with deserted her. Every time she had a bad patch and got sick, whether she was with her father, her sister in town, or her sister in Roanoke, they'd call us. "Muriel's sick, and we just can't take care of her, it's too much, we can't handle her." And someone from our family would go get Mamaw and bring her back to Mom and Dad's. Sure, they could handle her when she was on her feet, taking care of their sorry asses. And we never minded bringing her home; we just minded knowing what she felt like, being sent away because she was "trouble" for someone else, someone else she loved (whether they deserved that love or not).

Finally, we convinced her to stay with Mom for good. She lived there till she died, in October of 1986. She had a heart attack one afternoon, the Parkinsons had just weakened her till there was no more. My dad discovered her when he went home for lunch. That was very hard on him.

It was also hard on Mamaw Bowles. Mamaw Bowles, who'd been totally mortified because the first night Mom and Dad brought Mamaw Grasso to meet his family, she was on the couch in her nightgown and my grandfather was cutting her toenails. And she thought, "My Lord, this prim and proper woman, what is she going to think of us here in our bare feet and night clothes?" All through the "mourning period," the only thing I can remember Mamaw Bowles saying, to anyone who was sitting with her, was "I loved her so much and she loved me so much. I just feel like I've lost my sister." And I think she did.

About 8 years or so before Mamaw Grasso died, she started "promising" us things. You know, designating belongings to her granddaughters. She'd picked out a ring for me, and one for my sister, and two for my cousins who still lived up in DC. And things to her grandchildren out west with my Uncle Carl. She promised my youngest cousin a huge bank she had that she kept pennies in, probably $200 or so in pennies. The ring she designated for me had no stone in it, it was just plain gold - she new that I wasn't into fancy things. She'd point to it while I was holding her hand and say, "That's the ring I want for you."

After she died and Mom and Dad went to her father's old house to sort through her things, guess what. Yep, and it was no surprise to us, either. Mamaw's sisters and their clans, who'd used her to their own good during her lifetime, had raped and pillaged everything she owned that they thought might have the least bit of value. Even the damn bank of pennies. They stole pennies.

And so none of Mamaw's grandkids have any keepsakes of her. And somehow I tell myself, whether it's true or not, that I wouldn't even care about that had these people loved her and cared for when she was alive. And to those people, some of whom are still alive, I say this. I hate you, and I wish nothing for you but misfortune and unhappiness. And if that makes me a shitty person, so be it. It's how I feel. If I see them now in public, I turn and walk in the opposite direction.

What did I get from Mamaw Grasso? My worrying, that's for sure. My dad used to say she'd worry about the fact that she didn't have anything to worry about. She worried about everything, and everybody. I got that in spades from her. And I think I inherited her kindness, even though the above paragraph might make you think twice. I think what I mean by that is, there are people out there in the world who are tender hearts. They see something and it breaks their hearts in two, whether it's a homeless person, or a child in a wheelchair, or a stray dog. Mamaw had the kindest heart of anyone I know. I'm not in her league. But my heart breaks for people in need. My mom's a kind person. As is Taytie. So there's three generations she passed it down to.

That's better than a ring, anyway.