(the) home
Music: For Against: In the Marshes (1985-1987/2007)
When I was about eight years old I decided I didn't much care for day care at La Petite Ecole. My favorite "teacher," Ms. Nancy, had left after being brought to tears by Ms. Linda---the woman who drank Tab, smoked Virginia Slims, and tanned herself in baby oil. Ms. "Perky" Pat started wearing a bra because she noticed we noticed she didn't wear one. And because I was always "different" the bullying was taking its toll; the girl who kept biting me was starting to draw blood. My best---ok, "better"---friends there had graduated to after school programs. As the end of grade school heralded the return of summer (and thus all-day day care) my parents decided to give me a choice: either I could stay with Granny over the summer, or I could go back to day care. I don’t remember the decision or what factors went into it, but I chose Granny over all the Ms. So-and-sos who babysat me through their "dramas" that they thought children were oblivious to but were not. Little did I know Granny had her dramas too, but they were televised and titled Days of Our Lives and General Hospital, and that I would be made to watch them.
Granny's place was a small, white-with-red-trim, two-bedroom bungalow on Zoar Church Road. The house was settled in three acres of grass and separated by a narrow swath of trees from Zoar Church, a tiny Methodist postcard of a church. Across the road was a modest cemetery and then farm pasture as far as the eye could see. Down the road in the opposite direction from the church were other parts of the Gresham and Freeman clan: my cousins and great aunts and uncles, lots of them within a two mile radius. Uncle Tink and Aunt Marie were about a mile down the road, closer in were Uncle Morris and Aunt Molly (Tink, Morris and Molly are still there). All this land belonged to my great grandfather, who was a cotton farmer. That's why all my great uncles, aunts, and Granny have skin cancers removed all the time: they picked cotton in the hot sun as kids.
It wasn't two days into my first summer with Granny until I realized I had sailed directly into the center of that Dark Continent: the Heart of Boredom. With no brothers or sisters to play with I was marooned with Granny and her soap operas and visits with friends and relatives talking about the weather and gardening. I was put to work mowing grass. She showed me where the small animal traps were stored so that I could trap things (one summer it was a squirrel; another, a baby opossum which I raised all summer until the smell got so bad I let him go). She showed me how to plant and grow squash (yuck). She made me Johnny Cakes with Karo Syrup. I soon succumbed to watching soaps with her, when I wasn't building a tree house. I learned to love Club Crackers with Colby cheese and Vidalia onion (with Diet Coke). She told me countless stories about her life. Rarely did I hear stories about my grandfather (the drunk). I made her life a pain in the arse by declaring "I'm booooorrrreeeedddd" a thousand times a month. I broke stuff. I scratched her Floyd Cramer records. And I was surprised to learn Gomer Pile also sang under a pseudonym Mr. Rogers would love: Jim Nabors!
Over the summers with Granny she and I become close and have been so ever since. I remember when I was old enough to stay by myself (I think I was twelve or thirteen) I soon missed her company. I would have sleep-overs with her periodically. Granny would play some board games with me, so that was always a plus (my parents never would; just imagine the only child life with parents who wouldn't play games---that was my life, and I loved Battleship more than cookies). And she loved jigsaw puzzles, and so did I, so we would do them for hours in front of the television on the floor.
As a latch key kid freed from boredom at Granny's, I remember finally realizing that I shared my Granny, that my cousins also called her Granny and I was not "the only one." Sharing Granny was probably the closest thing in my life to knowing what it was like to have a sibling.
Even so, I felt (and still feel) special: only I lived with Granny in the summers.
In the summer of 2004, though, I was dutifully employed in Baton Rouge, all grown up, and Granny had a fall, likely caused by a stroke, and started changing mentally, sort of regressing. She was still the same Granny, just a less virulent strain or something. A strong woman who lived a hard, hard life, Granny has always been fiercely independent, and I think coming to terms with a lack of mobility was not easy. Shortly after the fall she moved in with my parents, then lived periodically with my aunt and uncle, back and forth, back and forth over the years. On the phone she's always confided in me complaints she didn't like to mention to my folks---mainly, about not being able to drive her car. Every time I visited home I was always struck by how my mom and aunt talked to her as if she was a child, and equally surprised at how bitterly Granny complained about her "wheels" being taken from her.
There were more falls. A car accident with my aunt. Another stroke. And then, after this past Christmas, a fateful visit to a physical rehab facility that was negligent. Granny slipped into a semi-mute state, stopped moving. Unable to care for her, my aunt and mother moved her into a home. I saw her for the first time since she was "homed" today.
"Now, don't be surprised if she doesn’t recognize you," my mother warned me. "She's not always there, inside."
"She'll know me," I replied. I was confident with that. And I was right.
It was a difficult sight for me to handle: Granny in a room shared with another, seemingly motionless. My aunt and cousin were already visiting when me and mom walked in, and I noticed Granny's feet began to twitch. She could hardly move her head, but her black eyes fixed on me and didn't leave. "Hey Granny!" I said in as cheerful a voice as I could fake, which is hard to do when your voice quivers uncontrollably.
"Look who's here," said my aunt. "It's Josh. You know Josh, don't you?"
Granny made as big of a smile as she could muster, her eyes got real big. "Of course she does," I said. Granny muttered something that was not English, but it was obviously a "yes." I could feel my mother and aunt were excited, because apparently Granny is frequently unresponsive to people. I told Granny about my travels. I figured they had not told her that Richard died yet, so I pretended I was in town because of a cheap fare.
During the visit I worked very hard not to lose it, because I didn't want Granny to see that. And it was clear to me that, although she's lost the ability to speak, she was very much present and understood everything we said. My mother and aunt left to talk with nurses, leaving my cousin Kathy and me in the room.
I had to share Granny, again. Since that last summer with her, I have rarely had one-on-one time. For years when I visited home from out of town, she and I would go for lunch at the Waffle House. Two years ago I said that Granny and I were going for breakfast, but the whole family came. No one trusted I would be able to handle her if something happened.
Kathy and I ended up "talking for her" as Granny bounced her eyes back and forth between us as we spoke. She may not be there all the time, but she was following every word during my visit today.
My mother returned and clipped her fingernails, brushed her sweaty hair from her forehead. We talked about the weather and squirrels chasing each other just outside the window. I complained she didn't have a television to watch her soaps. I vowed (to myself) that before I leave on Sunday Granny is going to have a television in that room, I don't care what the facility says.
Motions were made it was time to go, so I told Granny I loved her, kissed her on the check (she held her hand up to my face, again, signaling she was all there and not gone in the least) and told her I would see her tomorrow.
Everyday life---the things that all of us face---is difficult. I know if you're reading this, you've encountered something similar. If you haven't, it's coming soon.
After we left her room, walking in the hot sun toward the car, I completely lost it.