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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Fat Grandmas Are Nicer
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It’s a story my great-grandmother was fond of telling, I think because it emphasized our common history, and she was always in need of more connections in this world. But as a child I was far too literal, and as a great-grandmother she was perhaps too ornery, but she told me, “Oh, go play in the street.” I was just old enough to understand how dangerous that was- though nowhere near old enough to recognize the sarcasm- and took offense. And I concluded, “Fat grandmas are nicer.”
To my great-grandmother’s credit, she laughed, and I don’t think she took the slight too much to heart. I think it helped that she’d met my grandmother on my mother’s side, Virginia, who was as plump and as jolly as Santa Claus, and indeed they were very fond of one another. I don’t remember specific events with Grandma Virginia, because she was always the same; I’m sure there were times when she was angry, maybe even mean, but to me and around me she was always just my grandmother, pleasant and warm; though it wasn’t until the last few years I started to realize that the bubbly persona wasn’t the end of her depth or understanding- just who she was happiest being. I remember sleeping over at her place, and being woken violently by her snoring. I’ve never heard, before or since, such a noise come from another human being. It was like an electric chainsaw cutting through a gristly steak, and had it not drowned out my raucous reaction my laughter surely would have woken her. I remember staying up later than I ought to watching black and white Nick at Nite, developing my longstanding love of Mister Ed, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, even Green Acres every once in a while. I remember being spoiled by candy dishes- yes, plural- with a variety of gummy this and sugar-coated that; she’s the only relative whose ever been able to keep up with my snacking habits. But I came to regret the story my great-grandmother told, because it always felt like I was paying tribute to the one at the expense of the other. But I loved both grandmothers, though it comes as a surprise (to me, at least) that I did not love them differently. Grandma Virginia was in the hospital for the better part of a week, and I like to think she held on til Thanksgiving, perhaps to enjoy the smells of the food we all brought into her hospital room, but also to hear us all move past our mourning, if only in spurts, and to be with us for one last holiday. I’m thankful she stayed as long as she did. It reminds me of the oft-told (and rarely funny) joke about there being more of a heavy person to love, but as her kindness seemed proportional to her, it means there’s also more of her to miss. |
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