#10 Grandma - Olivia

While I was home this summer, I took my sister to college and spent a couple nights at my grandparents' place.  

My mother brought up this blog and tried to explain it to my grandparents, and that scenario makes perfect blog fodder by itself.  

Imagine, my mother speaking slightly louder in a completely unconscious northern Ohio accent to my grandpa, trying to explain the internet.

"A blog is like a massive news letter that anyone can read on the internet, Dad." 

"On that computer?" my grandpa asks, looking from my mother to my grandmother for confirmation.

"Yep.  Don and Olivia post about different things every week.  Anyone can read it." 

To which my grandma supplied, without a lick of hesitation, "Well I have a topic for you - you ever tried Queen Anne's lace jelly?"

I could not craft a better summation of my grandmother if I tried.

Except perhaps that one Mexican restaurant incident.  I may have to save that for another day.

When I think of my grandmother, I think of parties.  I have definitely been to more parties at my grandmother's house than any other location, including my own house, the houses of friends, and all the public schools I have attended combined.  Every holiday is an easy excuse for food and neighbors and family and whoever is dating who.   More chairs can be found, more mashed potatoes can be made, the fridge is always stocked with every imagined variety of canned beverage, and there is more talk spilling from every spot in the house than you could hope to take in.

Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, with so many birthdays and other family functions in between for the lengths of my whole short life.

And people wonder why I am the way I am.

I've heard it said that all women turn into their mothers.  Maybe some don't.  But it's more than a mere possibility for me.  It is an eventuality.  I know this because I see my mother slowly filling the roles my grandma once kept.  Which means I'm probably going to have to step into hers soon.

Which is fine.  My mother and Grandma Pat are both shining lights of goodness and I hope to reflect a fraction of that.  But I also very much hope to be a little like my Grandma Martha too.

If my mom's mother is mashed potatoes, than my dad's mother is scalloped potatoes.

Let it be known that I love both of my grandmothers to the roots.  But if Grandma Pat cooks to feed the whole neighborhood, and it might take a while, then Grandma Martha cooked to feed the brood, and if you missed it, that was on you.

My Grandma Martha had panache.  No, more than that.  She was panache.

I remember the process of buying school clothes for probably 1st, maybe 2nd grade.  The nineties were not a boon time for children's fashion.  Adoption was not yet trendy.  Now figure the oddly shaped body of a growing kid who is probably fighting genetics and the indulgence of Schwann man deliveries.

I would try something on in some forgettable half-price retail venue in Parkersburg, WV, not particularly caring about any of the specifics of what I was trying on.  

But when I walked out, Grandma would say "Oh girl!  You look sexy!"

I would run back in the mirror to see if something had changed since I put it on.  I mean, how could I doubt that?

As far as I knew, I was sexy at age 7.  Cat shirts, stirrup pants, chubby cheeks and all.

I hope to inspire that someday.

From what I gather, being a grandparent is awesome.  You're an automatic fave and you've figured everything out that matters.

Maybe that's why my mother has hinted at grandchildren already.  She's ready for parenting retirement.

I hate to break it to you Mom, but you've got a while to go before that torch is passed if you want them from me.  You may have to be satisfied with grand-cats from Ellie.

But then again, who knows?  Adoption is so hot right now.

Don Replies:


I know the "Mexican Restaurant" incident, and I think it showed some restraint in not telling it.  I guess that's a big part of what we're doing here: weighing the good stories against what we might need to keep private.  Sometimes the pressure of wanting to write something really interesting flies in the face of maintaining our family's privacy.  


One thing for certain, however, is that no matter how they sometimes made/make us laugh (or cry), we've both had some awesome women to show us how to go through the good times and the bad times while keeping our heads up.  Your Grandma Martha would be so proud to know the woman you've become (and as long as you keep the restaurant story to yourself, I'm sure your Grandma Pat will feel the same way.)  The story I'm saving, by the way, is the complete retelling of time when I was 10 and your Grandma Martha gave me one of the finest beatings of my life for squirting some disappearing ink on her freshly-washed laundry.  The ad from the novelty store on the back of the comic made it look like such a great idea, but by the time the ink turned clear, the bruises on my behind had showed up.  Go figure.


See ya here on Sunday for some "Alien" talk.  I don't want to get the readers too excited but I'm going to go ahead and let it slip here that we've both been to Rosewell.  Nannu Nannu.