My Grandmother

         The word grandma invokes visions of cardigan sweaters, sensible shoes and old fashioned manners.  Fond memories of visits - greeted not only with a hug but having to kiss a powdery cheek. Family homes smelling of freshly baked cookies, perfectly timed to be coming out of the oven all warm and gooey when the grandkids arrive.   

         Not so my memories of Grama Helen.  That's how we referred to her, "Grama" or sometimes "Gram". 

         Grama did have cardigans. Always on the thin side, she often complained of being cold.  She liked to tell people she kept the furnace on even during the summer. That was a lie.  Under the sweater she was apt to be wearing a homemade outfit - a long sleeved top and pants or culottes, both the same fabric,  Much of her wardrobe was either bright green, her favorite color, or a chaotic pattern.  After she pierced her own ears in the mid-seventies, she would coordinate dangly earrings with outfits.  She was vain about her appearance.  She hated painted finger nails, but her toenails always had a bright red polish.  Never any other color.  She dyed her hair back to chestnut when it started to gray and never left the house without red lipstick, a hairnet and her girdle - which, having a slim figure she did not need.  Her fashion ensemble was often completed with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was considered a 'character'.

         Standing at 5'5", she rarely weighed much over a hundred pounds.  Her tendency was to drink rather than eat - at least as I knew her - so she kept a trim figure at an age most grandmothers became soft and round.  When I was a child, she might have one meal a day, her standard line was: "I was not that hungry.  I just had half a sandwich."  Usually Eckrich baloney on white bread.  Concerned with her figure, she would fuss about not needing to eat. Eventually she shrunk into herself, becoming skeletal - clothing hung off her, pinned to stay in place. Now, in the nursing home without her memory, her favorite foods are cheese puffs and powdered donuts according to the nurses.

         I know there were good times in her company.  Documented in pictures of my sister and me smiling in Christmas dresses, bathing suits or playing on the tire swing in her backyard - we looked happy.  She sang to us - she had a lovely voice.  She taught us to dance to her 1950s record collection.  But the good memories later became tainted by the realization that most of the time spent with her she was drunk.

         When I think of her, I the smell acrid cigarette smoke which permeated her house.  She kept the windows closed, exhaled smoke formed a perpetual haze. She gave up cleaning during my teen years - so a grimy film covered everything.  I picture her in the living room, sitting in the brown rocking chair, its worn seat caved in like a fallen soufflé.  She leans forward to tap ash into the tray, the chair's coiled springs, visible in the back, creak loudly.  I remember them sounding like the rusted chains on the swings at the corner park where we played.  With smoke swirling around her head, the chair springs back into position.  This is a vivid memory of her.

         That chair, no longer brown or indented, has been in my garage for years now.  It's often in my way and still smells of cigarette smoke. I refuse to bring it into the house, but have not been able to part with it either.  I am not sure why. 

         It's a wonder she didn't burn her house down when she carelessly left lit cigarettes in the overflowing ashtray.  I use to put them out for her.  I remember blackened pockmarks on the wooden frame of the coffee table, evidence of close calls.

         The rattan top of that table was covered with a bunch of souvenir ashtrays from cliché vacation spots, but she only used a plain brown ceramic one with a handle on the side - it resembled a fry pan.

         Starting mid-afternoon next to that ashtray would be a beer.  The progression of my childhood marked by changing brands: Altas, Blatz, Pabst and then Budweiser when the old brands died out. 

         Introverted when sober, Grama energetically relived her glory days when she drank.  "Did I ever tell you about Seattle? Oh, how I loved Seattle."  Her face animated with pleasure.

         We would vaguely answer or avoid eye contact, not that it deterred her.  I think she spoke more to herself than us.  "My John was in the war and that's where he was stationed."  She always referred to my grandfather as "my John".  The war was WWII. 

         "When my John was shipped overseas, I stayed on base and got a job in the factory, same as the other army wives." She continued. Later, going through her memorabilia, I found a paystub with her name on it from the Boeing factory in Seattle, substantiating her claim. 

         Grama also liked to recount how her dad adored her as the only girl of three kids.  He would tell her mother that Helen didn't have to do chores because she was keeping him company.  "I would bring him beers after he'd get home from work, just sittin' there while the boys had to work." She proudly said, a smile on her face. She had a rocky relationship with her mother - my great-grandmother - I saw it often.  Although I was unable to piece this together until my adulthood, there was a theme to Helen's stories - being adored by men.

         Over the years, her recollections would take on a life of their own, memories shifting to accommodate a growing need for attention and admiration.  Every once in a while she paused mid-sentence, either to take a drink of beer or use her thumb and forefinger to pinch tobacco - deposited there from unfiltered Lucky Strikes - off her tongue.  The funny thing was that after her ramblings she had the habit of pausing - looking you squarely in the eye and saying: "Really and truly," while nodding her head.  As if that made it so.  She would change facts of even recent things and swear her version was correct.  When I got older I would sometimes argue with her about facts, but she was adamant.  It might have been humorous if not for being sad.

         Friends, cousins and other family members envied my sister and me for having the "cool" Grama.  Not only was she younger than most grandmothers - being only 45 when I was born - she cared little for traditional rules or boundaries.  I have many cavities to show for being allowed snacks and pop day or night.  She bought new toys for no reason and filled the pool with gallons and gallons of hot water so it we did not get cold.  Even as young as 7 or 8 we could stay up as late as we wanted.  In fact, we often were up well after she passed out.

           Sometimes we checked if she was breathing.  More than once we were unable to wake her - only the rise and fall of her chest prevented panic. Other times, we covered our heads with pillows to muffle her drunken snoring in the small house - at least we knew she was alive. 

         We learned self-reliance all those nights staying with her.

         The same people said we were spoiled because she bought us many things.  What they did not realize was that we spent so much time with her because our parents were too busy for us.  Before understanding her drinking problem, it was fun - we were kids after all.  By the age of 7 or so, these gifts felt like bribes.  It was as if she paid us to be doting grandkids - she always made a point to tell people what she did for us, even the things we did not ask for. At our birthday parties or family events she would say "Pam, tell them what I got you from Toys'R'Us last week." Or, make a comment about another kid's gift saying, "That's nothing, I got the girls…" filling in the blank to point out a recent purchase.  It was embarrassing. 

         I did not feel lucky to have a drunk babysitter who was needy for attention and love.  Often I felt it was my job to protect her from herself.

         One winter's night, she made us go to the frozen-over field across the alleyway to ice skate.  Well, sort of ice skating, we did not actually use skates.  It was cold, dark and we were not really interested, but when she drank she did not like to take no for an answer.  Within minutes, she fell on the ice, her arm broken at the wrist - we had to call our parents to take her to the emergency room.  I often wondered if she remembered such things the morning after.

         As I got older - and by older I mean ten or eleven - the drinking really bothered me.  Made worse by the fact that by then, beer was not enough. She kept a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey in the bottom cabinet behind the pots and pans.  During the nights we were there, every once in a while she would quietly go into the kitchen for a shot.  I could tell when I heard the click of old-fashioned twist latch on the bright yellow cupboard that she took a swig. 

         When we moved her into the nursing home and I mentioned to my Mom about the whiskey and she swore she never knew Grama drank anything other than beer.  Mom was in such denial that she when she gave Grama's medical history, she said she only drank occasionally.  By then, I had no problem correcting her.

         Things would go downhill fast with the whiskey.  One night the plan was to sleep over but she was very drunk so I told her I wanted to go home - home being only a block and a half away so I could walk there - not that she did not drive us around after she had been drinking.  She had a fit.  Going into the kitchen she grabbed a butcher's knife and tried to make me take it, all the while saying: "Why don't you just kill me, if you do not want to stay?"  That is my most vivid memory of her.

         I still can see the dining room table - with its green and white lace tablecloth that she embroidered and a hideous bowl of mummified plastic flowers she arranged long ago - as she chased me around it.  Like cartoon characters on Saturday morning TV, she pursued me, face drunkenly contorted, both of us in tears.  Me shouting "No!" while she tried to get me to take the knife.  Of course I gave in and stayed the night. I never told my parents.

         Later when she moved to a senior apartment that dining room set also found its way into my garage, but I had no problem donating it to the Salvation Army.

         Other times if we refused to sleep over or visit, Grama would not talk to us for days - even when she was sober.  She did not always remember events that happened when she drank, but grudges she did.  She was good at guilt trips, reminding us of what she bought and did for us.  I see now she was very childish, grasping for praise.  I felt I could never win with her.  Either I had to make her or myself happy, it could not be both.  Somehow she felt more needy.

           It's hard for me to see her other than as this collection of painful memories, but I have come to understand her better in recent years.
          In 2006 she fell and broke her hip.  My mother - her only child - decided against her wishes that she would move to a senior apartment.  It look us over a week and a big dumpster to clean out her house, sorting out decades of memories.  Looking at documents, pictures and saved treasures, I felt like an archeologist discovering bits and pieces of who she used to be. I think her life was good until my grandfather - whom I never met - died in a boating accident.  Then her world fell apart.

         It appears her life up to his death was an American success story.  Born in Wyandotte, MI in 1921, she was the first generation of her Polish family to be born American.  There are few pictures of Helen as a child, but some as a young woman.  Her face, too angular to be a classic beauty, was still striking.  With dark hair and deep-set eyes which were neither blue or green, she had that smoky 1940s look.  Sepia pictures show her creamy, flawless skin, a far cry from the road map that her face became after years of drinking and smoking.  In most early pictures, her wide smile with a pouty lower lip usually looked on the verge of laughter. 

                   At nineteen, she married John Slusne, a good friend of her brother Chuck.  They were married at a civil ceremony in 1941.  John wore a pinstripe suit, she a simple dark skirt and jacket.  The large white gardenia corsage - her favorite flower - pinned to her lapel and a festive bonnet with a loopy bow tied under her chin seemed the only indications that it was a special occasion.  The photograph - there is only one that I have ever found - from that day shows another couple standing up with them, but no family members.  All four faces look determined, but not really happy. She never spoke of the wedding so I do not know why it happened that way.

         The first four years of the marriage - often relived in her drunken ramblings - seemed to have been the best time of her life even with John being drafted into WWII. 

         In 1945 my mother was born.  It was a difficult birth with a long recovery.  The timing was just after the official end of the war, but it would be months before John came back home.  From her stories, I sensed she would have been happier if it remained just her and John.  It was clear in her words she worshiped him and felt she did not need anyone else.  After his death I believe she tried to fill the void with drinking.

         In contrast to my childhood when her house was unkempt and in disrepair, during my mom's youth, Helen was the epitome of the 1950s housewife and a very disciplined mother.  John was a laborer but worked hard and they bought a house and settled down.  She sewed almost all the family clothing, bedding and curtains.  She crocheted afghans, knitted sweaters, did flower arrangements - including the one I disliked on the dining room table - canned her own foods and decorated homemade cakes so good that people commissioned them for special occasions.  Her banana cakes were legendary.  She was creative, busy and by all accounts very happy.

         Cleaning out her desk, I was surprised to find old newspaper clippings with Helen's name listed in the Wyandotte newspaper social announcements hosting bridge games or other women's circle activities.  A testament to a side of her I never knew.

         A big part of her life with my grandfather was fishing.  Before my grandfather passed away, Helen had a local artist paint a fishing mural directly on the living room wall.  It represented John standing in a stream casting a line, ironically memorializing him not long before his death. She loved to talk about that picture and spent many hours looking at it. From stories I think she enjoyed fishing because it was private time, just the two of them.

         Late in October of 1963, John and Helen went out on Lake Erie for what would probably have been the last trip of that season. Only Helen returned.  In pulling up fishing lines, John fell overboard into the icy waters.  Weighted down by heavy clothing and fishing waders, he did not stand a chance.  Helen was helpless to pull him from the water.  A week later his body was found - it was the same day John F. Kennedy was assassinated. 

         Clearly a profound event, Helen's life changed rapidly.  Within two years my mother married my dad and moved a couple of streets away.  Helen needed to work, getting a job in the kitchen of Riverside Hospital in Trenton.  In many ways she became an independent woman, but she had an undercurrent of need.  There was always an emptiness left by John's death.  Not even drinking could erase that.

         Many of her old habits - and friends - were cast away.  She still made some of her own clothes, funky green outfits that she wore with pride but which embarrassed us.  But, having less time to sew, she bought ready-made items more often.  The house became messy.  Dishes in the sink.  A layer of dust over everything.  Roses and lilac bushes growing untamed in the garden.  There was no one to play the housewife role for.  Cooking for one did not seem worth the trouble, so she ate less and drank more. 

         Helen's social life resumed, but not the same circle.  Working afternoons, she would go to bars with coworkers when the shift ended.  At one of those bars she met Jim, a coarse, abrasive man with a Southern drawl and apparently some charm.  She never married him, but they spent almost twenty years together until his death in 1989.  In the early years, Jim was a heavy drinker - not the best influence for her.  My impression was that Jim helped Helen become an alcoholic - enabling her if nothing else. After a while, there were not enough nights out, so she would also drink at home after work. 

         It became a running joke between people who knew Helen, that she would not be seen without a beer or go where beer was not served.  It was not funny to me.  When I was around 6, she chaperoned our Brownies' camping trip with my mom, Grama smuggled in a cooler of beer for the night.  Our girl scout career lasted only one year.

         In 1980 my dad's work was transferred out-of-state and it was a relief for me to get away from her.  The first couple of years I would return during the summer, mostly to see old friends, but I had to stay with her.  Slowly I saw my grandmother becoming more introverted, except with Jim - who was her world after we left.  Her daily routine was black Maxwell House coffee for breakfast, warm Diet Pepsi during the day - at least half a two liter bottle - while re-reading the same mystery novels - Nora Lofts was her favorite - or crocheting until evening when it was time to switch to beer and watch programs on TV. 

         By the 1990s, Jim had passed on and she was retired.  With her eyesight failing even with thick round glasses, driving was impossible and her isolation became complete.  Cable television and VHS tapes took the place of novels.  Instead of reading about murder mysteries, she watched them - Sherlock Holmes, Murder She Wrote, reality investigative shows - she loved them all, plus a collection of PBS shows like Masterpiece Theater and Upstairs/Downstairs.

         Her arthritic hands needed the constant movement of crocheting so they did not seize up - she never gave that up.  After becoming legally blind, afghans were made of clashing colors she could not decipher. 

         Once when visiting her at the nursing home, she sat in the wheelchair with vacant eyes staring off into nothing, oblivious to my presence, no knowing who I was, but her hands moved in the distinct movement of making another afghan without the benefit of yarn.  Movements I had seen her do hundreds of times - looping the yarn around the hook, pulling it through the other side.  I almost cried.  How can hands remember what the mind does not?

         The move to the senior apartment was the start of her downward spiral.  She needed a walker and never gained full mobility after breaking her hip.  Moving away from the house she lived in almost 60 years further isolated her from others and she was not interested in making new friends.  She resented being infirm, but life continued. Except for swapping VHS tapes for DVDs and shots of Canadian Club whiskey for Popkov vodka once she realized she could mix it with tomato juice and drink in front of people without them knowing it, her routine was the same. 

         A couple of years after moving to the senior complex, she wandered out of her apartment one night and fell down the stairwell between the 3rd and 2nd floor.  She was found by another tenant and taken to the hospital.  She never returned to the apartment, from the hospital she went to the nursing home.  That was it for her.  No bones broken that time, just a broken mind.  Like her body which had shrunk into itself, she sunk back into the past and to relive the highlights - sometimes real, sometimes made up. 

         Except for the grime from the smoke and the numerous spills on the carpets, it was much easier to clear out the apartment than it had been the house.          

         That was four years ago. Grama Helen is a now very old woman, 91 as of last October.  She has outlived her memory, her money and her most of the people she knows.  She does not recognize any family, nor does she ask for us, but she remembers smoking and drinking - coyly asking anyone who will listen to bring her cigarettes and a drink. Sometimes she sings to the nurses.  They say she has a good voice.  I am not sure why she is still holding on - just as I am not sure why I keep her rocking chair in the garage.