Contact us at: whispernthunder1@gmail.comI Didn’t Know Her
~ Orannhawk
Not long ago, someone asked about my relationship
with my grandmother. It was a surprising question
at the time, but in retrospect, I rarely mentioned her.
Honestly, I really didn’t know much about her; even
though I took care of her throughout my childhood
until I was almost twenty years old.
I have a bundle of letters she exchanged with my grandfather prior to their marriage, a few photographs of her parents and siblings, wedding portraits, hunting pictures, and a few with my dad. I have the book ofgenealogy on her side of the family, clearly defining the blood lines and ancestry.There are vague early childhood memories of her in a wheelchair and I recall seeing her once in the small kitchen with a wooden bowl in her lap, laboriously stirring with one hand as someone carefully poured boiling water in the center of stoneground cornmeal, mounded up like a volcano. Papaw took the bowl from her lap and quickly ladled generous portions into hot bacon grease to fry. Hot water cornbread is still one of my favorite comfort foods to this day.
But I never really knew her.
By the time I entered first grade, my grandmother lay confined in a hospital bed in the large bedroom, where she remained for most of her life. A large window overlooked a rock patio lined with Purple Sage bushes, with an unobstructed view of our adjoining backyards. More than once, I would scramble around the side of their house, under the trees, and through the bushes to get to the horse pens in the back, without her noticing me. Sometimes, I simply needed to hide. I memorized her medications by shapes and colors, along with the instructions for the dosages and normally, I was the one to dole out her medication.
I learned and assisted with personal medical procedures that no child should ever have to be involved with. I learned to drive a stick at nine; a necessity, for the countless times I drove Papaw home when the cheap wine mellowed out his stress levels. I listened to him cry about her inability to ever walk again, but I had no idea how to console him. Mogan David became his consolation partner. I became immune to the fact that she rarely called me by my name. Usually, she referred to me as “that little heathen,” and often, the echo of those words shrieked behind me as I ran down the dark hallway from her room. I was nine years old.
I never really knew her.
Her eyes were dark, and she had high cheekbones and lush black hair. Despite her condition and the slow deterioration of her body, her hair remained jet black, without a single silver strand until the day she left this world. There was a glass bowl on the dresser beside her bed filled with several artificial roses and topped with a domed glass lid. A second container held tiny red ampules filled with a rich rose perfume. A small straight pin at the top allowed just enough of the liquid out to drizzle on the plastic flowers. It was a nice respite from the staleness of the room. Although I enjoy the scent of fresh roses, to this day, I cannot cope with anything perfumed with rose.
I was a child, yet she was my job. Rain or shine, hot or cold, I ran back and forth multiple times a day, and into the night. I carried dinner over in the dark, checking on my grandfather, then plating her meal and setting up her tray on her bed. An average night meant at least five to seven trips over and back. I’ll spare the litany of details, but each trip included a specific question and answer summary for my dad while I struggled to eat a bite or two of my own meal. He had his own shadows with her, and rarely stepped into his childhood home. On most nights, Papaw collected me for our trip to a little mom and pop store down the street, where I could choose a snack to enjoy in the comfortable peace with him. He knew me, he understood, and he did his best to fill the emptiness that shadowed me. I was a kid. I forgot that too, and I think everyone else did as well. He didn’t. He always knew. He remembered and he told me to remember.
“Grandma, what’s your favorite color? What did you like to play with as a kid? Did you have a horse too? What’s your favorite food, I bet Momma would make it for you. Do you like this show, do you want me to change the channel on the television?” Silence or “no” was her usual reply. I already knew it was important to take care of our Elders. I struggled to not see it as a job, but that’s what it had always been.
A job.
But I never knew her.
As I grew older, she talked more. Honesty and accuracy count here. She yelled at me more. She had no interest in seeing my pet raccoon perched on my shoulder, or the Black Angus calves that followed me like puppies. Or one of the horses. One hoof on her wooden floors and her rage exploded. I laughed all the way down the hall, with their little hooves ringing joy in my head. Not a single mess either, from them or my dogs. I took my favorite books over to read to her, and showed her what I was painting or drawing, and she would ignore me or tell me to go home. As a teenager and young adult, she seemed to enjoy criticizing my long hair, my clothes, my makeup, well, everything. To her, I was both a heathen and a whore. She made sure to share that with me too.
She didn’t know me either.
The help my grandfather hired only did so much. Her sisters would stop by occasionally, for short visits but I suspect they were a blatant reminder of the kind of life she no longer had. I wasn’t equipped to help her traverse the emotions she must have carried; I was just a kid. I’ve wondered at times if I failed her, if there was something more, something I could have done to make her life more pleasant.
But I didn’t really know her.