So my mom was the queen of darkness; a witch on wheels!
Well, not exactly. Here's the rest of the story as Paul Harvey like to say. My mom was the product of an alcoholic father and a mother who was some kind of a mess. What was wrong with Grandma? Well, I'm told that when I was born, she was so mad at me that she pretty much ignored me for a couple of years. My sin? My mom and dad already had a son. I was supposed to be a girl. Well, nobody told me about it. You can't fulfill these expectations if someone doesn't yell at your mother's stomach while you are in the womb and explain to you what gender you are supposed to be!
I don't remember grandma ever being mean to me. I think she got over it by the time I was old enough to notice. But how bent do you have to be not to go crazy about the birth of a grandchild, even if she turns out to be a little stud-muffin such as myself?
And grandpa? I don't know where to start. Apparently, he was omniscient. He knew everything. He was never wrong. And he was ready to argue about it to the point of death. I remember visiting him back during the Arab oil embargo in the early 70's. He had it all figured out. All of the refineries in Chicago were connected by secret tunnels. The whole oil shortage thing was a plot to drive up the price of gas. The federal inspectors would go to the Standard Oil refinery, and they wouldn't find any oil there. Do you know why? Because the Standard Oil people saw them coming and opened up their secret valves and sent all the oil to the Shell Oil Refinery. Then the federal inspectors would go to the Shell Oil Refinery and they would find no oil there! Can you guess where they sent the oil? Can you?
He really believed whatever came out of his mouth and he was willing to argue about it, loudly and angrily, at the drop of a hat. Visits with grandpa largely consisted of biting your tongue.
Here's a great story. Mom was a "latch key" kid. That meant both her parents worked and she had to let herself into the house when she came home. This was very unusual back then, unless your dad was a drunk who was liable to blow the whole paycheck before he ever made it home. Under those circumstances, the mother had better go out and find a job.
So here is my mom as a little girl arriving home after school. Only she doesn't have to unlock the door. The door is already unlocked. There are strangers in her house. They are measuring the windows for new curtains. Grandpa lost the house the night before in a poker game.
My grandma died when I was in the fourth grade. A few years later grandpa called. He wanted the money. Grandma had saved up some money. $20,000 as I remember it. That would be worth about $100,000 today. Mom had the money. Her instructions from her mother were simple. See that her dad got the interest from the money, but never let him touch the principle. My mom was the only surviving child, and my grandmother meant for her to have that money.
But Grandpa wanted it. And my mom had to make a decision. She could keep the money or she could keep the relationship with her father. This was way before my dad started earning big money. We weren't poor, but we definitely weren't rich.
They sent him a check. Things like that make a big impression on a little boy.
Fast forward a few years into the future. Grandpa is remarried, and he is starting to drink again. He is being a tad abusive to the new wife. The new wife calls mom. Grandpa had been put in a sanitarium when he was young because he had TB. He had horrible memories about the place. So mom, doing what she thought was right, told her dad that he had to get back on the wagon or they would put him somewhere until he got dried out. He got back on the wagon. But he never forgot.
Fast forward a few more years. Grandpa is dying of cancer. His wife is my mother's step mom. There are things in the trailer they lived in that belonged to my grandmother that she would like to have. And there was the little matter of $20,000. Grandfather, on his death bed, tells mom that he has made on of his wife's sons the executor of the estate. After he is dead, she is to so see him and he will tell her about all the arrangements.
So she hangs around for a couple of days after the funeral, only no one is contacting her or talking to her about a will. So she goes to see the guy who grandpa said was the executor and the guy looks at her like she's from Mars. He has no idea about Grandfather's will. No one has ever talked to him about it.
She finally finds the attorney. There is no mention of her in the will. She will never get into the trailer to get her mother's things. Her father, as he departed this life, set her up to be humiliated. He rejected her after she had faithfully gone to visit him and put up with him year after year. In his dying moments, he reached out to leave a permanent emotional scar on the only child he ever had.
I preached at my grandfather's funeral. I didn't know about the little poison pill he had left for my mom, or I maybe wouldn't have been willing to do it. At the visitation, whenever I would wander by my Grandfather's friends, they would hush up, like they weren't that comfortable being that close to me. Then I finally figured it out, from a few words I managed to overhear. These were the men who had worked with my grandfather on the railroad for years. Drinking buddies, probably. And all they wanted to do was tell "Ceil was a moron stories" and laugh at the dear departed. That was grandpas name, Cecil. And his cronies came together at his visitation to mock him.
So maybe this gives us a little perspective on my mommy?
To be continued . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment