Grandpa died from lung cancer six months after I was born. Mom remembers the smell of cherry blend tobacco stuffed in his pipe. I don’t. Instead, his absence created my memories. I was his widow’s buddy, filling the position he vacated after forty years. As the youngest of eight grandchildren, I had ranking rights to Granny every weekend.
Her chain-smoking allured me. Mom and Dad didn’t smoke or drink or do anything with a naughty reputation in my preadolescent eyes. The smell of a cigarette was gross, but I loved a good rule-breaker.
She lived in a yellow duplex down the street. A meandering walk would get me there in 10 minutes. When chased by a huge, black dog, I made it in four.
We sat at her kitchen table for most of the weekend, all of it, if the Indiana weather kept us indoors. Her television sat on a cart across from me in between the refrigerator and a metal cupboard full of her snacks and canned goods. Behind her chair was the stove, the front right burner served as a lighter. The washer and dryer, window and sink, framed my back.
Friday nights often began with a mayonnaise-smeared bologna sandwich, cut diagonally, Cheetos on the side. Purchased at the same time and location as Mom’s, Granny’s Cheetos always tasted better. Later, we might eat green beans and onion cooked with bacon grease, followed by other bits and bobs throughout the evening. Slices cut off a block of Cracker Barrel Sharp Cheddar Cheese were a favorite.
Country Music Television (CMT) aired. A deck of cards for 500 Rummy, a pad of paper, a pencil, an ashtray, and our books cluttered the table. Butter knives served as bookmarks. Granny always scored 500 first, but I managed to score enough to avoid embarrassing myself. She was a pro at holding her points until her last play. Me, too impatient for that strategy.
Dwight Yoakam strutted across the screen, blue jeans so tight he must have had help pulling them up. At least that’s what Granny said. She paused and watched. He was one of “her boys.” Dwight finished, she smiled, took a drag, shuffled and dealt. The smoke curled out of her nostrils.
Cigarette resting in the ashtray’s notch, she’d leave for a restroom break. I blew the cherry although I didn’t know what it was called at the time. I felt a sense of achievement if it burned to the butt before she returned. However, she always had one more cigarette in her pack, another pack in her box, a spare box in her carton and what seemed an endless supply of cartons in her closet. Did she want lung cancer because it’d get her to heaven sooner? I never asked.
She cooked, I read, followed by more cards, more smoke, more country music, more snacks. Granny poured cold Pepsi from the 2-liter into small juice glasses for each of us. Mom’s was never as refreshing.
If we weren’t tired when the score reached 500, we switched to Chinese Rummy, subtracting our scores from 500. The first to hit zero won.
Some nights I would tucker out before Granny. I made sure the curtain separating the kitchen and bedroom was slightly cracked. Drowsily, I peeked at her. At the table reading a Harlequin, she tracked each line with her butter knife, playing Solitaire at the end of a chapter. CMT on, cigarette perched between her fingers.
Most nights we retired together. Carrying the flashlight, I followed as she locked up. The porch door received an extra blockade. She propped the head rest of a chair under the knob, angling the back two feet up in the air. I figured the purpose was to trip an uninvited guest, giving us time to make a run for it.
The oscillating, three-blade fan was turned on just before climbing into bed. Its breeze reached around the bedroom – rustling papers on the chest-of-drawers, billowing the curtain, moving sacks on her sewing machine. After my hair fluttered, the pattern reversed.
Granny’s exhales were the word “key,” the long ‘e’ drawn out on the end. Keenly aware she was six decades older, I nudged her with an elbow if “keeeeeee” wasn’t soon followed by an inhale. “What?!” Her agitated tone forced me to fake sleep until real sleep came.
Come morning, bacon sizzled. Granny talked, her phone’s spiral cord stretching as she moved about. In cooperating weather, we’d head outdoors after breakfast, plastic bags in hand to collect weeds and grass pulled from her sidewalks. When friends or family visited, they moseyed to Granny’s flower beds, admiring all the colorful blossoms, or anticipating them, depending on the season. Described by others as the Gates of Heaven, the plants along the sides of her graveled driveway were pretty enough. The manicured sidewalks deserved more appreciation, in my opinion.
Saturday nights were a replica of Friday: CMT, 500 Rummy and intermittent nibbles. Mom or Dad usually pulled into the driveway late Sunday evening. My visits with Granny gradually became fewer.
The first great-grandson joined the family. In time, he filled the spot I vacated. As is the circle of life.
Granny met my first son just a few months before she passed of ovarian cancer. As a new mom, I’d discovered Granny’s genius behind white noise during sleep.
I’ve now learned about Love Languages. Like my sons, quality time fills my heart. Growing up in a house of six, there was always hustle and bustle. Granny was my quiet reprieve. Country music filled the air instead of our voices. We didn’t need to talk. We could just be.
When my grown kids ask to play Mario Kart before I head to bed, I comply. They don’t need to talk. They just want to be, while in my presence.
I found I had inherited Granny’s resilience during my two divorces. Trash, lawn, bills … life in general isn’t easy to maneuver alone, but it can be done. Granny proved holding the title of wife isn’t obligatory. Life goes on.
I’ve rediscovered how I cherish quiet time at home. An evening walk with my dog in the warmth of the sun, alone in our own little world. Hello, Granny. Simple, peaceful.
Eventually, an opportunity to exercise my 500 Rummy skills organically surfaced. Snowed in for a day, Friends on loop instead of CMT, I won every single hand for eight straight hours against a poor soul. He hadn’t known of my training.
Not all of Granny’s lessons stuck. My unkempt driveway couldn’t hold a candle to her sidewalks. I’m not addicted to nicotine, though my time in her smoky kitchen can’t take the credit for that. Mostly, I just didn’t like cigarettes when I gave them a whirl. My grazing is now on vegan options. I’ve yet to find dairy-free Cheetos.
Granny didn’t play the typical role of grandma, but I never noticed. Our quality time together made me feel unconditionally loved. A tattoo-drenched arm may indicate my future deviation from typical grandma, if God calls me to the role. With the single intention of ensuring my grandchildren feel unconditionally loved, I will do Granny proud.