summers with mommy

I'd like to take this moment.. er, blog post, to reflect on a bundle of memories I have from when I'd spend summer weeks at my grandparents' home as a little girl.

"Mommy" is my late grandmother. She's was the most graceful, witty, classy, comforting, amazing woman I had the chance to know and love as a child/young woman.

During some weeks in the summer, I'd stay with my grandparents. Not always by necessity, but often just because I loved to be there.
As technology-dependent as I am presently, I love to remember that this was before the internet, cell phones, text messaging, ten million kid channels on television, video games (to the extent they've become), even pagers. It was my"good old days".

One memory that sticks out is sitting in my mommy's wooden, cushioned rocker while she sat on a stool behind me, braiding my long blond hair. Usually, the kitchen's window air conditioning unit was on full-blast (I always loved the smell of it). My Grandaddy would have the television up full-volume either on the local news station or one of the 'stories' (soap operas) he watched faithfully for the last 15 or so years, and still does today.
I'd sit up perfectly straight, all knees and elbows. I'd be the most peaceful and comforted I really felt so closely in those days.

Sometimes, mommy would half a grapefruit between the two of us, sprinkling it with salt. Big spoon in hand, I'd shovel bits of the tart and juicy fruit into my mouth, getting a spoonful here and there of all juice and salt -- savoring it's unique taste - savoring this unique moment in time.

After lunch some days, after we'd all eaten to our heart's content mommy's delicious southern meal, Grandaddy and I would take a short drive to the quickie store. Usually, this followed after mommy said with a smile "I want something sweet" followed by a look over at me for the "ooh me too!" grin of agreeance. Not too long after, Grandaddy and I took off in his sparkling blue Mercury. Our sweet tooth cure of choice would either be candy bars; a snickers bar for mommy, 3 musketeers for me, payday for Grandaddy. Or a pint of Kinnett ice cream each; butter pecan for mommy, chocolate for me, vanilla for grandaddy.

If we wanted something else to do, we played Rummy, Yahtzee, checkers. My Grandaddy has a checker set that looked sort of royal in a sense.
I'd look at my mommy's sewing box - full of objects colorful, small, smaller. I'd gaze through her thimble collection, taking in the words etched ontp the sides, twisting them around and around my small fingertips.
Grandaddy would sing to me in the swing on their front porch - the green grass grows all around all around, the green grass grows all around.

Some Sunday mornings, my Grandaddy walked up the small hill across from their house to go to church. He walked alone, bible in hand, in his button-up shirt. I'd watch him walk.

Mommy would speak of Patsy Cline -- where had the music gone to these days?

She told me of her father, what a hard-working, handsome and wonderful man he was. He held me when I was 6 weeks old and died shortly after.

Those long days of Summer never left my memory. I can almost hear the hum of the air conditioner, taste my mommy's buttered toast & sugary coffee just thinking about it.

I harbor a love that still pulses through my bloodstream, much like her strong features softened by a delicate smile.

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Every whisper of every waking hour. I'm choosing my confessions..

I have so, so much I want done around the house.. and painting my hallway and bathroom, ideas for decorating but no real physical motivation to do it. All ideas. Ideas make me damn feel guilty anymore. What the hell is wrong with me?!

I miss friends. That's an empty feeling.

I don't know if I'm getting anything out of therapy anymore. I wonder if I'm all therapy'd out. Like, we know your issues Heather.. embrace acceptance that you can't change anyone or anything that's happened. Get content already ya know. It's been years.

I don't know why, but I keep thinking about a time in my life when I was around 9 years old. It was after my dad was arrested then hospitalized. Well, he eventually came back home after a pathetic 2 weeks 'intensive Outpatient' in the psych ward at our local hospital. The court ordered he stay away from me for a certain amount of time.
He didn't leave, I was tossed out to live with my aunt & uncle for about a month? maybe 2 months? Can't recall. At the time, it was a fun thing for me, getting to stay with my best cousin and watch movies.. pretend like I had a normal family, playing in my cousins' camper thing, pretending we lived on our own.
But I was a kid who couldn't be near her abusive father, who was perfectly at home and living his life -- getting things back to fake perfect.
That is fucked up. And I've never felt to strongly about how hurtful and wrong that was until just here recently. I have so much resentment for so many people in my family and extended family.
Punish the girl, then punish her twice. How do you not feel undeserving after all that? Damn, it burns.

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Elementary

For months now, I've been nearly finished with this book, finding five-minutes spurts here and there to read before bed. In what may have been the first or second section of the book, Anne Lamott mentions Kindergarten as a topic to get your brain flowing. I tried this exercise myself, and couldn't believe what I still retained from my Kindergarten days.

...

I find it astounding that I still remember the way my kindergarten class smelled. All Crayola crayons and fresh construction paper, tables set up across from one another, teeny-tiny chairs.

Mrs. Anderson was my teacher- a petite black lady who wore pretty lipstick shades and twisted her hair into a cute up-do. Miss Wise was the assistant teacher, both of them motherly, caring, and helpful to us little baby ants. For some of us (me), this was the first time we'd been away from our comforting little anthills and in some other strange territory.

One of the many painfully cute things about early elementary school was the pinning-onto-shirts of important notes and such. I wonder how that straight pin wasn't too much of a poking hazard for us little ones, and if things are handled differently now. I know how rules are always forming and reforming. I recall how Mrs. Anderson's perfume-lotioned hands smelled, carefully pinning on my day's note which could not be lost and was it's safest on my shirt.

Walking in a single file line had to be learned quickly. We walked in lines for eons in grade school, careful not to stray, messing up the beauty of the child bodies in structure. Shuffling along to our next destination; the playground, restrooms, lunchroom, art trailer (personal favorite), the chorus trailer (second favorite). The walks from place to place seemed like a long, adventurous trek.

Something else still clear in my memory are those semi-frightening fire drills. I always worried that perhaps our planned evacuation destination wasn't quite far enough from the building of possible flame and disaster. I was a worried child. Were these adults sure about what they were doing? Were flames one day going to come roaring out at me on the playground? I always imagined the building bursting into flames during the drill. I wonder what that means..

After all was said and done, we'd return to our tables in single-file, safe and trained. I'd get back to my little table and felt shapes, surrounded by fresh, crisp paper and cigar style crayon boxes.
And of course, the soothing smells I think I'll always remember.

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