My grandmother passed away, and I'm not quite sure how to feel about it. She was never the warm archetype that the position implies. Very WASPY, even. Not to say she didn't care, or wasn't pleasant, or didn't go out of her way for her grandchildren. She was a lovely person and the very definition of an introvert. Not a cactus, but definitely a succulent of some sort.
The thing I remember most of her (and my grandfather) was their lawn. They were plant folk, without a doubt. Lovely flowers throughout the house, a few on the porch, and an impressive garden behind the house. But their lawn was everything a seven or eight year old could hope for. Big, and by God, softer than you could imagine. Weeds? Please. That thing was immaculate.
Me, my siblings, cousins, and whatever kids in the social circle put a lot of good barefoot miles up and down and sideways on the yard. Sure, there was a truck depot on one side and the ass-end of a huge skating rink dominating the rear of the lot. It's no matter, when you're a bit shorter and the fence looms a bit taller, the tickle of pristine grass is just enough to suspend disbelief. Our own little summer movie. I remember Grandma sitting in a lawn chair on that back patio, watching us be propelled around by our little limitless wells of energy.
One summer there were three or five of us running relays from the patio to the fence line. You know, the only kind of activity you can do when you couldn't afford a Nintendo and the internet sounded like a strangling a digital cat. Well, that's not entirely true - one of those summer vacations we were all psyched up to pick up the latest Commander Keen game to bring home. Except my uncle had brought along his work laptop. My Dad commandeered the whole thing and wouldn't let us touch it until he had made it through from start to finish. It was one of those neat little windows to see the inner kid lurking inside your parents.
Anyways, relays. Back and forth with staggered starts and teams and handicaps. The most serious business a kid can have in bare feet. There was a point one evening where I was poking around the closets upstairs and found a pair of tight white leather gloves with a Velcro strap. The very next day I strapped those suckers on and away I went. You're damn well sure that a set of sleek, well-fitting gloves made a small kid run faster. Some times you need that extra little something, you know?
I think it was my dad that saw them first. Apparently they were Grandma's curling gloves, and I had better go get permission to use them. I was sure I was about to lose my competitive edge. But I went and found her playing a little Solitaire handheld in her big recliner in the orange-on-brown living room. Shag carpet, grandfather clock, the works. I doubt it had ever been updated from when it was first built. I asked about the gloves, and instead of being turned down, I got, "Of course, go have fun." She wasn't big with the words, but she had this lovely way of lighting up her whole face to to make up the difference.
A few days later at the end of our stay, I managed to sneak those gloves into my bag. I knew I really ought to have asked for permission to take them home. I guess I was afraid and too shy to take those little pieces of magic with me. It's almost as if I learned nothing but approaching Grandma in the first place.
I just took a 45 minute detour away from writing this to tear through my shelves and boxes of memories. I cannot for the life of me figure out where those damn gloves went. I remember keeping them, even after my hands grew too large. They were pretty intimate things for me, like an unvarnished piece of her.
And she had to do a lot of varnishing in her life. Only in the last couple years as she started to slow down did we begin hearing her stories of a wild youth. She went through a version of the world much less kind and understanding than we're used to, and paid the price for it. So she covered it up and carried on, because that's just what you do. I don't know what her inner kid would've been like, but it's clear that it was left behind in some unfortunate circumstances.
That big smile, though. Wrinkles and all. Apparently she chose my brother and I to be pallbearers. We're the only ones of our generation, the others are her sons. Is it because we were the oldest, and in a structured family that's simply how those things work? I don't know. Were we closer than I thought, more than my memory lets on?
It hurts that I can't find those gloves.
-Cril
I tried talking to Jesus,
He just put me on hold
Said he'd been swamped with calls this weekend,
Could not shake his cold
And still this emptiness persists
Perhaps this is as good as it gets
You've given up the drink and those nasty cigarettes
Now leave the party early, at least with no regrets
I watch the sun as it comes up, I watch it as it sets
Yeah, this is as good as it gets
My, my, my it's a beautiful world
Colin Hay - Beautiful World
