November 3, 2018 by Amy

Granny

When I was a child, fewer things made me happier than when my parents announced, “We’re going to the country.” Going to the country meant visiting my granny and gramps, and the idyllic setting they had created for their retirement. I always had a good time in the country, and I loved spending time with my grandparents.

Betty and Red were happy in the country. Their marriage was the second for both of them and they were kindred spirits, both striving to retreat to land and water that was their own…quiet and contemplative, but not too far from friendly neighbors or the town tavern. They had a little cabin in the woods, and across the gravel road and a meadow, two lakes stocked with catfish and bluegill. Granny ran the house, and Gramps tinkered in his shed and took care of the fish. They would drive into town to enjoy a beer at Smitty’s, where they’d catch up with Eleanor and Gus, and a friend called Algie whose name never failed to crack us up after we took biology. They were happy.

I don’t know much about Granny’s life before I came along. I know that her first husband, my biological grandfather Curran, died when my mother was 13, and that Gran had a rough go as a single mom left with debt.

By the time she married Gramps, all three kids were out of the house. Granny and Gramps lived and worked in St. Louis, saving money and making plans to buy land and dig a couple of lakes in Rosebud, Missouri. Finally, they couldn’t wait, and they moved down there to start their country life early. Gramps commuted back to St. Louis for years.

Much later, after Gramps got sick and they had to give up their cabin in the woods and move into town, she learned an entirely new way of cooking to accommodate his health needs. Eventually they moved back to St. Louis, closer to doctors and family. I know it was hard for them to leave what they had dreamed of for so long. After Gramps passed away, Granny moved in with my parents, where she enjoyed a nightly beer with the neighbors and spending more time with her youngest granddaughter who frequently came to visit, and her son-in-law whom she adored. I know she enjoyed this new phase of her life, relaxing and letting others handle the drudgery of daily tasks.

I also know that Granny struggled with family relationships nearly her whole life, first with her sisters and then with her children. She could hold a grudge like a pit bull, and I’m sure glad I was never on the outs.

In the middle of all that, though, what she created for me, for my cousin, and for my little sister, was a refuge during our childhoods. A place where we could run around like banshees, swing on a tire hanging from a big oak tree, swim in the murky waters of the lake, and feed the fish with Gramps. Her beloved dogs, Tippy and Coco, felt like they were our dogs, too. At night, with crickets chirping and leaves rustling, we could see the Milky Way in the clear black skies, a treat for the city dwellers. Gran would let us play outside for hours, cleaning up the scrapes and soothing the bruises when we’d return crying to the cabin, having wiped out on the gravel road or fallen out of a tree. She was the embodiment of home-cooked meals and little sweet treats and true patriotism. She loved her country, displaying bicentennial knick-knacks and a portrait of George Washington by the wood stove. Summers spent with her and Gramps in the country are some of the highlights of my childhood.

I remember Granny standing in her kitchen, patiently cutting hot dogs into small, even pieces perfect for baiting a hook on the end of a fishing line tied to a bamboo rod. That was all we kids needed to pluck bluegill out the lake, one after the other. It set an unrealistic expectation of what fishing is actually like, but it sure was fun.

Before heading to the lake with Gramps, I stood next to her, bouncing on the balls of my feet, anxious to go fishing, while she admonished me to hold my horses. I loved watching her hands, for they told a million stories in their fine lines and wrinkles, age spots, and gnarled knuckles. Many of her fingers were crooked at the end, so when she pointed at me she was actually pointing at someone else. The kitchen always smelled of delicious food and the air always crackled with the static of KMOX, which she listened to every waking hour. That kitchen felt like heaven on earth.

A glass jar sat on the counter near her rangetop, full of cheerful lemon drops. If I was behaving she’d let me have more than one a day. Because of their proximity to heat, they’d get a little melty and sometimes, when I was really lucky, two would stick together when I went to pull out the one I’d been approved to take. She winked at me and giggled, replacing the lid on the jar and shooing me from the kitchen. Years later, when I graduated from college, she gave me my own glass jar full of lemon drops and told me to keep it on my desk, because then people would like me. I remember laughing, and saying, “I hope they like me for more than just the lemon drops.” I didn’t risk it, though. I have always had the jar on my desk, and I’ve bought more lemon drops than I can count. Granny has touched so many people.

Gran was an avid reader, a trait she passed down to her granddaughters. She always had books around, and frequently gave books as gifts. My giant Webster’s New Twentieth Century Unabridged Dictionary, almost four and a half inches thick, came during the 1985-86 school year, when I was 13. I know this only because of her inscription inside the front cover. “I watch my P’s & Q’s,” she wrote, “but I want you to know your A’s to Z’s!” I carted that thing to three universities plus grad school, and I still use it.

Granny was also an avid gardener. She could make anything grow anywhere, and frequently when we’d ask her where a new plant came from she’d say, “Oh, that’s a snitch plant.” Snitch plants were scavenged from all over, including the Missouri Botanical Garden which I think might actually be illegal. If she saw a plant she fancied, she’d “snitch it,” knowing instinctively where to snap off a stem to take home to root, while never harming the donor plant. No one ever caught her, or if they did, they didn’t have the heart to bawl out a tiny woman with fire in her eyes.

As an adult now, reflecting on those idyllic summers of my childhood in the country, I’m not sure that time was the highlight of Granny’s life, given how much trouble we grandkids gave her. From using firecrackers to blow up her blooming roses, and her mailbox, to stealing onions off the counter while she was cooking dinner, to hiding milk duds in her powdered laundry detergent, we kept her busy. Sure, she’d holler at us, but always with a twinkle in her eye that betrayed just how tickled she was by our antics.

She gave us, Jen, Katie, and I, a little slice of heaven in the midst of childhoods that were bumpy with the problems of adults. She invited us into her little cabin in the woods, and shared the magic she discovered there. For that, and for everything else, for my Granny, I will be forever grateful.

(Today’s header image is from a bucket of beer that my family shared in honor of Granny, at one of her favorite taverns, after her funeral. She loved crap beer, and you know, it’s not half bad. Cheers, Gran!)