LJ Idol: Topic 2 - Uphill, Both Ways, Barefoot
She died when I was 3-years-old.
I can't recall whether it was my first memory. I distinctly remember falling into our pool as a baby, my mother jumping in with the swiftness of an olympic diver to save her only child. My mother may have mentioned that she was there, which means that this wasn't my first memory. But for the most part, I don't remember her. But I do remember the day of her funeral.
Our old house was beautiful. The most prominent feature that I remember was the beautiful bay window we had in the living room that overlooked the driveway. Three panels angling off one another in 60 degrees. My grandfather had laid some tiles down on the seat to add some pizazz to it (which is something he still does today - he has the tackiest taste). I loved sitting at the window and not watching anything outside, but tracing those tiles and forming new patterns in my mind. I was the odd child who had piles and piles of Barbies and dolls but who chose to sit in the nook in the corner of the kitchen where the fridge and washing machine sat and play with the buttons on said machine, pretending they were members of my family in their own soap opera. Yeah... don't ask. Please.
I was sad. I didn't know why I was sad, but I just knew that she was gone. And on that day I sat there, staring at my feet that were kicking against said seat, fingering those tiles with my chubby little hand. There were more than a handful of faces I didn't recognize, but I came to find later that she was such a loved person. And she loved me. But in the blink of an eye, she wasn't there anymore. She wasn't going to be able to watch me grow or to tell me about how she grew up in a convent. How she took care of the 9 kids she had between two men. How she slaved over a turkey dinner the morning of Thanksgiving only to have her hungover son and his friend ravish the entire thing before dinner had even started. How she had to feed her children Nesquik sandwiches. How she had to climb uphill, both ways, barefoot. I never got those stories. I never got a grandmother.
My grandfather, on the other hand, is still around. And he is without a doubt the most important person in my life. But he's not exactly your conventional grandfather. His physical demeanor and mental strength will prove that.
Whenever I would snuggle with him on a cold night while my mother was out, I would always take notice of four things. The four tattoos he bore: one on his arm of a scowling tiger, one on his forearm of a bald eagle, and two on his pecs of little birds facing each other. He would always move the muscles in his arm to make the tiger seem as though he was growling at me, which would cause me to retreat under the covers to protect my baby body. I would sit at the kitchen table with him while he chain smoked his More Menthols and drank his Bud Lite, muttering to himself. I would look at him from the corner of my eye as he muttered, "Yeah, Jim," deep in contemplative thought. After watching him, I'd say, "Papa, are you talking to yourself!?" Out of trance he would wake, giving my arm a quick squeeze. "Yes, I was!" he would say with a pat, pat, pat of his cigarette in the ashtray. And back at it he would be.
As I got older, he was the person who would walk to my house, wake me up, and walk with me to my bus stop for school. The person who took care of me when I had the flu in the 7th grade because my single mother was working her 12 hour job to support us. Some weekends I spent at his house, hogging the TV and eating all his food. I remember performing "I Believe I Can Fly" and "Grease Lightning" for him, jumping all over his furniture in the apartment he moved into when we had to sell the house because we couldn't keep up after she died. He would watch intensely and give me a standing ovation with each song. The morning after my performances, he would take me to breakfast at Burger King down the street and we would hop on the inbound T to Fields Corner, where he would take me to Bradlee's so I could get a new Barbie. I was (and am) his world.
But despite all the experiences I have with him, I still never got those stories that I thought I had missed out on with the passing of my grandmother. I heard about the Korean War when my uncles came up from Pennsylvania and Virginia to visit and I heard tales about his carpentry as a young man, but I never heard about his hardships. Not once did he ever complain, even when things were turning to shit around us.
And here I am. Down and out, broke, jobless. I complain an awful lot about my current situation and how much it... well, sucks. Those stories that I missed out on could have really shown me that things aren't as bad as they could be. But then I stop and think again. My grandparents went through a lot of stuff in their lives and never made a peep. Maybe not hearing those stories is a good thing for me as I have learned to take what I have and work with it. Perhaps what I have is all I need. My grandparents made it work with 9 kids and no money. What's stopping me but myself?
Papa and Grandma
I can't recall whether it was my first memory. I distinctly remember falling into our pool as a baby, my mother jumping in with the swiftness of an olympic diver to save her only child. My mother may have mentioned that she was there, which means that this wasn't my first memory. But for the most part, I don't remember her. But I do remember the day of her funeral.
Our old house was beautiful. The most prominent feature that I remember was the beautiful bay window we had in the living room that overlooked the driveway. Three panels angling off one another in 60 degrees. My grandfather had laid some tiles down on the seat to add some pizazz to it (which is something he still does today - he has the tackiest taste). I loved sitting at the window and not watching anything outside, but tracing those tiles and forming new patterns in my mind. I was the odd child who had piles and piles of Barbies and dolls but who chose to sit in the nook in the corner of the kitchen where the fridge and washing machine sat and play with the buttons on said machine, pretending they were members of my family in their own soap opera. Yeah... don't ask. Please.
I was sad. I didn't know why I was sad, but I just knew that she was gone. And on that day I sat there, staring at my feet that were kicking against said seat, fingering those tiles with my chubby little hand. There were more than a handful of faces I didn't recognize, but I came to find later that she was such a loved person. And she loved me. But in the blink of an eye, she wasn't there anymore. She wasn't going to be able to watch me grow or to tell me about how she grew up in a convent. How she took care of the 9 kids she had between two men. How she slaved over a turkey dinner the morning of Thanksgiving only to have her hungover son and his friend ravish the entire thing before dinner had even started. How she had to feed her children Nesquik sandwiches. How she had to climb uphill, both ways, barefoot. I never got those stories. I never got a grandmother.
My grandfather, on the other hand, is still around. And he is without a doubt the most important person in my life. But he's not exactly your conventional grandfather. His physical demeanor and mental strength will prove that.
Whenever I would snuggle with him on a cold night while my mother was out, I would always take notice of four things. The four tattoos he bore: one on his arm of a scowling tiger, one on his forearm of a bald eagle, and two on his pecs of little birds facing each other. He would always move the muscles in his arm to make the tiger seem as though he was growling at me, which would cause me to retreat under the covers to protect my baby body. I would sit at the kitchen table with him while he chain smoked his More Menthols and drank his Bud Lite, muttering to himself. I would look at him from the corner of my eye as he muttered, "Yeah, Jim," deep in contemplative thought. After watching him, I'd say, "Papa, are you talking to yourself!?" Out of trance he would wake, giving my arm a quick squeeze. "Yes, I was!" he would say with a pat, pat, pat of his cigarette in the ashtray. And back at it he would be.
As I got older, he was the person who would walk to my house, wake me up, and walk with me to my bus stop for school. The person who took care of me when I had the flu in the 7th grade because my single mother was working her 12 hour job to support us. Some weekends I spent at his house, hogging the TV and eating all his food. I remember performing "I Believe I Can Fly" and "Grease Lightning" for him, jumping all over his furniture in the apartment he moved into when we had to sell the house because we couldn't keep up after she died. He would watch intensely and give me a standing ovation with each song. The morning after my performances, he would take me to breakfast at Burger King down the street and we would hop on the inbound T to Fields Corner, where he would take me to Bradlee's so I could get a new Barbie. I was (and am) his world.
But despite all the experiences I have with him, I still never got those stories that I thought I had missed out on with the passing of my grandmother. I heard about the Korean War when my uncles came up from Pennsylvania and Virginia to visit and I heard tales about his carpentry as a young man, but I never heard about his hardships. Not once did he ever complain, even when things were turning to shit around us.
And here I am. Down and out, broke, jobless. I complain an awful lot about my current situation and how much it... well, sucks. Those stories that I missed out on could have really shown me that things aren't as bad as they could be. But then I stop and think again. My grandparents went through a lot of stuff in their lives and never made a peep. Maybe not hearing those stories is a good thing for me as I have learned to take what I have and work with it. Perhaps what I have is all I need. My grandparents made it work with 9 kids and no money. What's stopping me but myself?
Papa and Grandma