"What have you been up to, boy?"
My grandmother passed away a few days ago. She had made it clear that she was only holding on to see a few relations before she went. The last was my mother. I've known Gran for my entire life. 'Grandog,' we once called her. She had that kind of cantankerous vitality that made one think she would last forever, if only to warn you that she would.
Though I knew her for a long time, I never really knew her. Not her history, or the personality she shows her friends. I knew things ABOUT her, but nothing deeper. In fact, I've only two strong memories of her.
The first was a stay at her house when I was eight, maybe nine. I can't recall the age. But it was meant to be a day at Gran's. For the first half of the day I watched a video, and then had to sit in the loungeroom doing nothing for an hour or two. Eventually, Gran left to go to bingo and didn't return for a long time. Thankfully my eldest brother Mark lived just next door. I toddled over to see if I could find company. We played a game of Test Match and he invited me to dinner. Lucky me, since Gran didn't return until much later in the evening. I got in trouble for leaving the house, and especially for having dinner at Mark's.
It's not a complicated string of events. Not over the top, or indicative of my every experience with Gran. But it was that evening that shaped my lasting impression of her. A woman willing to leave a child hungry and alone to sate her desire for games.
But the odd thing is that before that evening, I liked Gran. I enjoyed visiting her. Even if she could be a little cranky, I just... cared for her. The reason why comes from the second memory.
When I was five, maybe six, I was bundled off to my grandmothers. Tim, Rebecca, and I all living in a house with Grandog and our uber-strict Uncle Peter. I remember being a little scared of it all. The only explanation I had received was that Mum had to go to hospital, and that we would be staying over until she recovered. I thought it strange, seeing as how I never recalled Mum having an accident, and that we never went to visit her. The very first night, I woke up alone and in the darkness of Gran's house. The hall was long. The furniture black and leathery and old. It was foreign and strange and I wanted my mother. So I tried to find her. I unlocked the front door very quietly so as not to be discovered. I walked down the street. And I followed the road that lead in the direction of the only hospital I knew about.
It was a comfortably chilly night. I walked, barefoot, through the streets of Mayfield and eventually Tighes Hill, a little enamoured at how nice the world looked in the dark. Bright lights, calm streets, and utter silence. Then I encountered the roadblock of the Tighes Hill bridge. The cement footpath gave way to a rocky asphalted bridge. It hurt my feet to walk across the stones. I managed maybe ten steps before the pain was too much. I was crying, partly from the unshakable stabbing in the soles of my feet, partly because I knew I wasn't going to make it back to Mum. It was then that a police car parked next to me, bundled me in the backseat, and drove me back to Gran's.
When the officers brought me back to her, I thought I was going to receive the greatest flogging of my life. That Gran was going to blow her top and spit fire and fury until I could no longer stand. Instead, she brought me inside, sat down on a chair in the loungeroom, and hugged me. She stroked my hair until I stopped crying. It felt like things were going to be okay. I slept.
Even though our time at Gran's was harder and stricter than with Mum, I felt that things would be alright. That Gran was safe to be with, and that she would care about us until Mum came back from wherever it was she went. Tim tells me that it wasn't as alright as I remember, but hey. I was little. My needs were few and they were satisfied.
Every now and then in the last few years I had bumped into Gran as she made her way around the city. Sometimes at a shopping center, sometimes on a bus. And I'd stop, and we'd chat, and it would seem like such light, convivial conversation. Despite my adult perspective, I still couldn't get rid of the image of her being an indomitable authority figure. A fact of nature. A physical law. I hadn't the courage or capacity to open up to her, or provide the chance for her to open up to me. I kept thinking that, one day, I might talk with her the way I'd always wanted to. Find out who she was.
On review, this is a very selfish entry. There is so little about gran here. But that's the point, isn't it. I never knew her as well as I wanted to.
Though I knew her for a long time, I never really knew her. Not her history, or the personality she shows her friends. I knew things ABOUT her, but nothing deeper. In fact, I've only two strong memories of her.
The first was a stay at her house when I was eight, maybe nine. I can't recall the age. But it was meant to be a day at Gran's. For the first half of the day I watched a video, and then had to sit in the loungeroom doing nothing for an hour or two. Eventually, Gran left to go to bingo and didn't return for a long time. Thankfully my eldest brother Mark lived just next door. I toddled over to see if I could find company. We played a game of Test Match and he invited me to dinner. Lucky me, since Gran didn't return until much later in the evening. I got in trouble for leaving the house, and especially for having dinner at Mark's.
It's not a complicated string of events. Not over the top, or indicative of my every experience with Gran. But it was that evening that shaped my lasting impression of her. A woman willing to leave a child hungry and alone to sate her desire for games.
But the odd thing is that before that evening, I liked Gran. I enjoyed visiting her. Even if she could be a little cranky, I just... cared for her. The reason why comes from the second memory.
When I was five, maybe six, I was bundled off to my grandmothers. Tim, Rebecca, and I all living in a house with Grandog and our uber-strict Uncle Peter. I remember being a little scared of it all. The only explanation I had received was that Mum had to go to hospital, and that we would be staying over until she recovered. I thought it strange, seeing as how I never recalled Mum having an accident, and that we never went to visit her. The very first night, I woke up alone and in the darkness of Gran's house. The hall was long. The furniture black and leathery and old. It was foreign and strange and I wanted my mother. So I tried to find her. I unlocked the front door very quietly so as not to be discovered. I walked down the street. And I followed the road that lead in the direction of the only hospital I knew about.
It was a comfortably chilly night. I walked, barefoot, through the streets of Mayfield and eventually Tighes Hill, a little enamoured at how nice the world looked in the dark. Bright lights, calm streets, and utter silence. Then I encountered the roadblock of the Tighes Hill bridge. The cement footpath gave way to a rocky asphalted bridge. It hurt my feet to walk across the stones. I managed maybe ten steps before the pain was too much. I was crying, partly from the unshakable stabbing in the soles of my feet, partly because I knew I wasn't going to make it back to Mum. It was then that a police car parked next to me, bundled me in the backseat, and drove me back to Gran's.
When the officers brought me back to her, I thought I was going to receive the greatest flogging of my life. That Gran was going to blow her top and spit fire and fury until I could no longer stand. Instead, she brought me inside, sat down on a chair in the loungeroom, and hugged me. She stroked my hair until I stopped crying. It felt like things were going to be okay. I slept.
Even though our time at Gran's was harder and stricter than with Mum, I felt that things would be alright. That Gran was safe to be with, and that she would care about us until Mum came back from wherever it was she went. Tim tells me that it wasn't as alright as I remember, but hey. I was little. My needs were few and they were satisfied.
Every now and then in the last few years I had bumped into Gran as she made her way around the city. Sometimes at a shopping center, sometimes on a bus. And I'd stop, and we'd chat, and it would seem like such light, convivial conversation. Despite my adult perspective, I still couldn't get rid of the image of her being an indomitable authority figure. A fact of nature. A physical law. I hadn't the courage or capacity to open up to her, or provide the chance for her to open up to me. I kept thinking that, one day, I might talk with her the way I'd always wanted to. Find out who she was.
On review, this is a very selfish entry. There is so little about gran here. But that's the point, isn't it. I never knew her as well as I wanted to.