The following story will appear in Poetica Grandmatica, an anthology about the grandmothers in the history of the Chippewa Valley. It would have been my grandmother’s 97th birthday this Monday. For me, this time of year brings about special memories of her.
My sweet memories of Grandma are really just scattered slices of life. But together they make up an important part of my heritage.
When I was young, Grandma lived on Delbert Road on the north side of Eau Claire and my house was on Anderson Drive. Sometimes she had a garage sale and I brought my saved quarters to buy trinkets she’d display. It seems crazy now, but I remember riding my bike across Hwy 53 in the summer to visit her. Of course, now this four-lane highway is three-times as wide — and ten-times as dangerous.
I don’t recall much about what we did together, but I do remember her kitchen. Sometimes she made blackberry wine from the sweet morsels Grandpa picked. She’d keep it under the sink with a balloon on the top to ferment the liquor. And she used to vacuum her linoleum kitchen floor. I thought this was funny because I had only seen people sweep hard surfaces. Her house was always neat as a pin, as was she.
Grandma was pretty, and a sharp dresser even in her 80’s. She was a petite woman, and clothes never fit her off the rack. She’d buy something brand-new and take it right to her sewing machine. Her years altering garments at Bartosh Cleaners ensured she always looked like a classy lady.
But she tended to pick on herself — that was just her personality. We all came to expect that she would never quite be satisfied with anything she did. The scrumptious Thanksgiving turkey she baked was met with a worried, “I hope it’s not too dry.” And she’d grumble that her pumpkin pie always cracked. But this never seemed to bother the hungry children and grandchildren that wolfed it down.
She considered herself “homely” and remarked that her perm was too curly or, “this lipstick is so awful.” She’d complain about her “turkey neck” and for pictures she’d stretch her chin as high as she could, trying to pull the skin tighter. I never heard her direct criticism at others, though — only herself. Maybe she was fishing for compliments. If so, it worked, because everyone else always thought she looked great.
Grandma had a sense of humor, but it’s not like she told jokes. She learned funny expressions from her dad. When she had extra gravy on her plate, she’d say, “Pass me some of that bread — I’m not coming out right here.” And sometimes she’d break into song when the conversation fit one of her preferred stanzas. “He’s the rock that I lean on,” she’d sing in reference to Grandpa. Willie Nelson lyrics were another favorite — especially, “Nothin’ I can do about it now…”
Her fixed income in retirement didn’t allow for extravagances, but she and Grandpa kept a nice home and did some traveling. When we’d see each other, she’d bring me little candies or small gifts. And every Christmas, she’d give me a money envelope — the kind shaped exactly like a dollar bill. The card had a hole in it for the President’s face. Each year, I was so excited to open her gift because I knew it would be money and I was always saving for something. I don’t remember anymore which president was on the bill, but without fail, the message would be the same: “Wish it could have been more. Merry Christmas. Love, Grandma.”
It’s been years, now, since she died the winter before my wedding. We reserved a rocking chair for her at the ceremony with a satin ribbon across it. I believe in some way, she was sitting there.
I still think of her often — especially during holiday traditions. We all laugh when my mom or aunt or cousins use one of Grandma’s “isms” — it’s a fun way to keep her with us. And every Christmas, when my kids dig through our stored decorations, I pull out that last money envelope she gave me, tell my children stories about their great-grandmother, and set it on the tree.
