Toodles

My grandmother had many names throughout her 82 years on this earth.  Her given name was Rose Marie, and she was quick to tell you that the name was TWO words, with a space in-between, instead of one big long Rosemarie.  She was called Rose, Rosie, Rosie Posey, Ree, and Ree-Ree.  “Po” was the nickname that finally stood apart from all of the rest, short for Posey.  Her two daughters simply called her Mom, and her son affectionately dubbed her his “large fat Mama” (in all fairness it certainly was an accurate name).  Of course, my brother and I - along with our first cousins - knew her as our Grandma Po.   Out of all of those names, I've managed to convince myself that “grandma” was the name she cherished the most.

Now if you never had the pleasure of meeting her, you may be picturing a gentle, gray-haired, and soft-spoken octogenarian.  Certainly not so!  In her grandmotherly prime (as I knew her to be in her 70’s) she was indeed large, quite forceful, and she would never dream of letting her hair go gray.  She was an Italian grandmother, so what she lacked in height she made up for in voice.  She would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, her brown eyes peering in at her reflection through her big glasses…armed with a comb in hand as it expertly coiffed her light brown, almost reddish, pompadour into a high circle around her head before putting on the finishing touches of hair spray.  “Rouge” and lipstick were always applied before leaving the house with the latter properly blotted on a tissue, and then both would get placed somewhere in her abundant bosom for safe-keeping and later use.  Having lived through the Depression like many others of her generation, the woman was practical to a fault and she couldn’t discard a tissue until it was not only used thrice, but literally, grossly, falling apart.  Tissue manufacturers hated how this one woman diminished their profit margins but rejoiced when her Texan relatives came to visit, and she would bemoan the rapidity with which they would deplete her paper products.  She scoffed at their naive single use idealogies.  She would sprinkle baby powder into her decades old black slip-on shoes, turn off her constant companion TV with the plunger (more on this later), and grab her garage door opener along with her purse.  The last ritual before going out was to kiss her hand and place it on top of her black Bible while whispering a prayer.  So that's how she made it safely down her steep basement stairs all those years!! 

The aforementioned purse was anything but a dainty accessory.  This thing was heavy and it was a workhorse.  What would this looks-like-a-purse-but-functions-like-a-small-piece-of-luggage haul?  Oh, just some things any ole’ gal might need:  more lipstick, pens, her wallet, keys, more tissues just in case, lots of gum for the grandkids (this is how my addiction started), Necco wafers, and Tums.  Except Po wasn’t just any ole’ gal, which was proven by the fact that she also carried: pliers, sandpaper, a hammer, a mason jar full of coins, and clean "bloomers".  The woman loved tools, she used the sandpaper to “clean” her pencil erasers, almost never spent change unless absolutely necessary, and well, you just never knew when a clean pair of bloomers would come in handy.   Do you know anyone who actually cleans the lead off the eraser?  Even though I knew its contents, I would still marvel at the weight of her purse when she asked me to hold it for her; no wonder the woman was so strong.  I should really rethink my gym membership.  There was a brief period of time when she was tempted by the latest wallet-on-a-string fad and traded everything in for the self-described “cute” very long strap that she would wear diagonally across her chest.  Not having to use your hands or half of your body strength to lug around most of your possessions?  Very convenient!  Not having all of your tools when you want them and not being able to make exact change for a purchase?  Luckily the fad fizzled as those things typically do and life went back to normal.  Whew.

She openly made fun of everyone and yet she also loved everyone too.  Stealing one of her favorite phrases, she was “bad but good”.  This was the way she described her late husband, my grandfather, who passed away before I was born.  Together they raised three wonderful people who I love very much.  I could not possibly have a better mom and I thank God for her every day.  Grandma certainly teased and scolded plenty, but then she would also save all of the table scraps “for the animals” and place it outside, realizing that every living creature had the same basic needs.   At times the woman seemed to be such a contradiction and those surprising inconsistencies are part of what made her lovable.  Her jokes were hilarious and oftentimes were bawdy and not politically correct, but you had to laugh despite trying not to do so.  She would lower her voice so as not to get caught by my mom when she told borderline age-inappropriate jokes to her grandkids with a conspiratory smile.  Because of this and her hollering ways, she was… bad but good.

Some memories about her that I don’t want to forget:

I remember – the way she said hello when she answered the phone... she drawled out the word, slow on the first syllable and short on the second, yet still taking much longer to say the word than most people.  We have all tried to imitate it but it has never been successfully done.

I remember – the way her eyes shone as she stood clapping for me, smiling through happy tears as I stood triumphant on a stage.  My parents and my brother were there too, but the memory of her presence is what I remember the most, seeking her face out of the crowd.  I was thirteen at the time.

I remember – her booming voice and how she could yell so much when she frequently got mad, usually until she coughed (and then you’d get in trouble for making her cough).

I remember – her own made-up vocabulary.  The “F” word was NOT permitted and God help you if you said it.  My cousin would say it purposefully to get a reaction out of her and I was always amazed at his unflinching courage beyond his years.  He was younger than me!  I sat stoic, mute with fear.  Jarret:  “It’s not a swear word, it’s just Fart”.  He’d say this casually as if it were any other F word, like saying “food” or “football”.  Grandma Po, wide-eyed: (Gasp!  Thundering fist striking the table!) “How DARE you say such a thing in my house!  I don’t ever want to hear you say that again!  I mean it!”  Her tirade continued.  Her preferred word for the term, which no one could explain or defend, not even her, was “Tommy”.  Seriously, Grammy Po, where did that COME from?? Growing up I never understood why anyone would name their child Thomas until I eventually realized that was a made-up term on her part.  She also called the remote control the “plunger” and she called the plunger the ….?  That remains one of life's many mysteries.

I remember – the way she’d wave goodbye from the living room picture window every single time we drove away.

I remember – her mean streak sense of humor to us kids - how she would talk about her “demise” and suddenly shut her eyes and drop her head on her chest, taunting us to look.  This absolutely horrified us as children and made us laugh as teenagers, protesting her to please stop! because deep down we didn’t want to believe it would ever happen.

I remember – spending the night at her house as a child and how she would tuck me in – so different from the way my parents did it yet still just as comforting.

I remember – how she came to every dance recital of mine and my cousin’s, even in the sweltering summer heat before every single building in America decided to create an artificial season known as the AC-induced-winter-in-summer, with her tiny hand-held fan as she cheered us on, always telling us afterwards that we were “the best ones”, even if we weren't.  (I just added that last part to be nice ... of course we were the best!!  At least we had the best fans.)

I remember – the chinny-chin-chin goodbyes that my brother and I enjoyed and my mother disapproved.

I remember – coming home from Kansas City after her first of many big surgeries, when she was allowed back in her home for a brief period.  I had never lived so far away from home and was fearful that the world was turning in the wrong direction since she became ill.  So many people do not get similar second chances with loved ones and we were all lucky to have many of them with her.  When I saw her that day, we both cried because she knew how scared I was…  I knelt down by her chair as I usually did and buried my face in her arms, taking in her familiar scent while she stroked my hair, and we spent the afternoon together talking out on the front porch.  I was twenty-three at the time.

I remember – a breakfast feast of cinnamon sugar atop buttered toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice.   Yes, 12 slices of cinnamon toast and that was just my breakfast on one Saturday.  My brother probably ate 2 loaves that particular day.  Grandma Po probably rested afterwards.  She was the ultimate chef in the fine cuisine of toasting… with many people denying such a skill even existed, secretly trying to hone their own skills, and making fun of us grandkids for even suggesting this notion.  They changed their opinion when they were fortunate enough for her to graciously make them a slice…this was if she had any bread in her home after her grandchildren left.

I remember – her holding court in her chair, entertaining young and old alike with stories of her “making a man”… using perfect comedic timing and feigning innocence just as we were all gathered to eat one of her delicious meals.

I remember – playing cards with her, and even the cards weren’t exempt from taking orders.  Canasta was our favorite game to play together.  “Nnnyyeah BE THERE!” she’d shout at the deck as she whipped up the top card, fully expecting to see the one she needed most in her hand through sheer will.  This action was also frequently mimicked and usually brought on fits of giggles.

I remember – the only time I ever, and I mean EVER, that I saw her listen to someone else.  It was the weekend and we were visiting my great-grandmother.  My Grandma Helen and my Grandma Po started bickering over something, while my mom and I watched silently.  I had a friend who was with us for the day’s adventures, and she stood silent as well.  She didn’t come from an Italian family so even then I knew this was shocking for her.  Finally my great-grandmother had heard enough, and she shouted “SIT! DOWN! and SHUT! UP!”.  My friend and I were incredulous.  First, back then kids listened to adults and therefore we listened to my mom.  Second, a grandma is even older so naturally we had to listen to her too.  But a great-grandmother who can make my Grandma Po sink silently in slow-motion and tight-lipped into a chair?  That took some power.  I lost touch with that friend, but I am positive that she still remembers it too.  I need to find her on this high-tech thing that is the book of many faces and find out.  I was twelve years old at the time.

I remember – her kind eyes.  I have known many people with lovely eyes, but only hers and one other person that I’ve ever met have had eyes that would make me describe them as “kind”.  It’s like you can see the pure goodness of the soul and the emotion behind them.  I could only see this in her in rare flashes, but when it was there it was unmistakable.  (In case you are wondering, the only other person was one of her very favorite people, her nephew Bobby.)

I remember - the game shows, the stories, sitting on the front porch swing, picking up sticks and buckeyes, the lemon and chocolate bundt cakes, blast-offs, people watching at the mall, the spaghetti (omg, the spaghetti!!), puzzles, green beans, the big hats and strip teases that were a staple of every family reunion (I guarantee it was all PG.  Maybe PG-13.), New Years' Eves, my basketball games, her love of pigs, shopping at Big Lots and WOW, the way she took her coffee with overdoses of cream and sugar, the clean & crisp smell of her linen closet, the high school float flowers even though it was a beautiful waste of tissues, her soulful off-key renditions of Christmas songs and popular Elvis and Vince Gill songs.

I remember – all the things she did for her family – the big sacrifices, the frequent prayers, the little things that usually go unnoticed, and I am very thankful and blessed that I knew such a remarkable woman, my Grandma Po, for 27 years of her 82 on this earth.

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P.S.  If you knew my Grammy Po, please share a memory with me!  Thank you!  :)