Inspiration for new drawings

I want to tell you about my grandma, may she rest in peace.

My dad, may he rest in peace, was married once to a very unstable woman. During this marriage I had gotten to know her mother as "grandma". 

Grandma lived in a suburb of St. Paul, maybe 10 miles from where I grew up. She lived near an old drive-in movie theater that rarely played movies anymore. Often grandma and I would walk through the drive-in lot during the day and look for pennies. My grandma had a thing about finding pennies made before 1950. Not just at the drive-in theater, anywhere. It was our own little scavenger hunt. Kind of fun actually.

My grandma didn't talk much. I honestly cannot recall a single conversation with her. We spoke to one another but in language you would find mid conversation. A sentence here. A sentence there. She would say random things like, "Mary said paint was on sale but I like the color of my living room walls just the way they are." And that was it. That's all she would say about it.

My grandma drove a giant white old Lincoln Continental, type car. Perhaps a Cadillac. That might have actually been the car. Cadillac. White exterior. Red interior. Grandma was a pimp! No. Of course she wasn't. Grandma was a very proper lady who always wore gloves when she drove. She wore a dress, hat, and gloves, complete with matching accessories whenever she left the house. "I hate the way my daughter dresses you." Grandma would always say just before taking me shopping. The ONLY person I wore a dress for when I was a little girl, was for my grandma. She had a way of saying things, doing things, which were very simple and suitable.

The reason I started spending my young childhood weekends, school breaks, and summers with my grandma when I was a little girl was because of (what my grandma calls) a religious experience I had when I was about 7 or 8 years old. I was suddenly awakened in the middle middle of the night. Alone. I looked around my room and saw two small yet piercing bright lights on my bedroom wall, up high towards the ceiling. Diamond shaped lights, radiant, the way light hits diamonds in the sun. I sat up in bed to get a better look. Strangely, the lights didn't illuminate my entire room. It was like a pair of eyes shaped like diamonds shining in the sun, but in the dark. --Anyway. Back to grandma. She believed it was God, blessing me.

The following morning after my "visitation" I walked into the kitchen, saw my dad and his wife, and for no apparent reason in particular, rather angrily demanded to know why we didn't go to church. 

My grandma, a devout Lutheran, was a musician. She played the organ piano and was the organ player at her church. After my young childhood "Godly" experience, my grandma was convinced I had been blessed by God's presence. Afterwards I attended my grandma's church Sunday school, bible camp, and church services. I had both children's bibles and adult bible. I was very content. Over the years that followed I read them both, repeatedly. I still have a bible in my home today. Four of them. And while I'm not religious anymore, contrary to the grief I gave my dad for becoming born-again, I DO have a lingering respect for those who believe. Biblical stories are fascinating. Ridiculous but fascinating. 

Back to grandma. 

She had two organ pianos. One was very nice. Expensive looking. The other was a practice organ. It had a switch that could be turned on, and each individual key lit up with the note that key represents. A beginner could learn how to play and learn how to read sheet music at the same time. Turns out my grandma was only the only real musician in the family.

"You have nice hands." Grandma once told me. "Lean fingers" -- Lean fingers just not meant for playing the piano. I was awful at it. No independent limb dexterity. But grandma was determined to find out what my hands could make. Through trial and error, I didn't like sewing, or cooking, or playing the piano. I did however love being outside, and I loved to read. But grandma would say things like, "You're better than that." I didn't understand what she meant. What was better than being outside reading??

My grandma had a beautiful rose garden. It was gorgeous. She loved that garden all year around. Even in the blistering Minnesota winter during the month of January, my grandma and I would shovel a path through a foot of snow, all through the garden so grandma could visualize where she wanted to plant seeds the moment the ground thawed.

In the spring, grandma would have her garden bonnet on, gloves, bucket of gardening tools and just lose herself in the garden for hours. I would occupy myself on her porch with books, and play with her tiny dog, Taffy. "Those hands were meant to do something, child!" She would yell while ascending into her garden. --Apparently my hands weren't meant for gardening either. I was horrible at that too.

My grandma had one of those old Barbie dolls. The one where Barbie is wearing a black and white one piece bathing suit. Blue eyeshadow. 1950's hairdo. I think it's a collectors item now. She had the Barbie doll on a stand. The stand probably came with the doll. I used to wonder: who invented this doll? Was it made after someone? Why the name Barbie? --Because kids, when I was your age there was no internet. 

"You can play with the doll if you want." My grandma would offer. But I had no interest in dolls. Just books. I was merely curious as to the birth of Barbie's existence. Women in Minnesota didn't look like this Barbie.

One weekend I went to my grandma's house and there waiting for me were paints, paintbrushes, watercolor books, and paint by number canvases. I was maybe 10 or 11 years old. My grandma was determined to see what these hands could do. Prior to this day I had the typical children's art supplies, crayons, street chalk, play-doh. My oldest brother was a teenager and already becoming a brilliant painter. Some people just have it. Back then I idolized my oldest brother. He was very independent. Very talented. 

Together, grandma and I learned about water colors, oils, and brushes. Soon after when grandma was in her rose garden, I was on her porch, painting. Taffy, sleeping by my feet.

Everything my grandma did for me, my dad matched and mirrored. Quite possibly dad felt I was getting a female role model best suited for me. My dad's wife on the other hand, grew increasingly bitter that I had grown close to her mother and not her. Funny thing about that is, and very typical of crazy people, my dad's wife didn't want anything to do with me, therefor she (definitely) did not want HER mother to have anything to do with me either.

My grandma had two daughters. One married my dad. Not bad. The other daughter however married "well". There's marrying a good man, my dad, and then there's marrying "well" an abbreviation for "well off" aka wealthy. My dad made GOOD  money but my grandma's other daughter married wealthy. 

My grandma's other daughter was the pretty daughter, the popular daughter, the favored daughter. --In my house I was the favored daughter, the only daughter, but more than that, I was clearly my dad's kid. My brothers belonged to their mom. I was my dad's. And I was also my grandma's grandchild. I never saw my cousins at grandma's house unless it was a holiday. 

Favoritism in families are unavoidable. We're people regardless of our relations. Some people you get along with, some you don't, Including parents and their children.

My grandma, however, had three children. Two daughters and a son. My grandma never spoke about her son. I didn't know of his existence, not entirely until I was in my 20's.

Hanging on the bedroom wall across from my grandma's bed was a large photo of a boy. He was maybe 10 or 12 years old. He was at the beach. Swim trunks. Wet. Tussled hair. Smiling at the camera. Happy. An afternoon at the lake. And while I was always curious about the photo, I didn't know until years later that was my uncle Michael. As I mentioned earlier my grandma and I never had actual (real) conversations. Things back then aren't what they are today. Back then kids didn't speak unless they were spoken to. Propriety. "Yes. Please. Thank you. Mrs Smith. Mr Smith." Parents made all the decisions back then. Not like today where parents want their 7 year olds to make all their own life decisions. 

Years later, I kind of assumed my grandma never spoke about my uncle Michael, due in part to grief having lost her husband at an early age. The only time I ever saw my grandpa, I was very young and he was hooked up to life support machines at home. I never saw my grandpa as he was. I only saw him dying. And then one day he was gone. My grandma never remarried. She never dated. She never took off her wedding ring. And I never saw her cry. My grandma was a tough woman. Not mean. Tough. Strong. "A tough broad."

My dad's (then) wife had real emotional problems. My dad, my grandma, and my grandma's other daughter had secret meetings regarding my young well being. My grandma and her other daughter (my aunt) both wanted to raise me as their own. When my dad's (then) wife learned of their plans she threaten to kill herself. That became her threat. If we didn't do what my dad's wife wanted she threatened to kill herself. And then she ordered my grandma and my aunt to never see me, or speak to me ever again or she would kill herself. 

I was about 14 years old last time I saw my grandma. We were never allowed to see or speak to each other ever again. Not for holidays. Not for birthdays. Not ever.

My dad had enough. He threw his crazy wife out of the house. --And that's when things really got messy. The woman has a severe uncontrollable temper. She gets worked up over nothing and spirals out of control.

My grandma died when I was in my mid-20's. By this time I was living in Los Angeles. Not speaking to my dad, my aunt told me when grandma died. We had reconnected. She told me about the fights over who should have had custody of me when I was little. She told me why I was sent to live elsewhere and attend private school. My grandma and aunt didn't think my dad's wife would kill herself, they worried she'd kill me, my dad, or them if they tried to take me. I was sent away because they thought that was best for everyone. That's how things were done back then, behind closed doors. If someone in the family had a drinking problem, a drug problem, extra marital affairs, child abuse, rape, dodging the cops, you took care of your business behind closed doors. No matter what.

"Who was the little boy in the photo in grandma's bedroom?" I asked my aunt.

"Your uncle Michael." She replied. 

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"He died." She said. "He died the same day that picture was taken. That same afternoon in fact. Michael drowned in the lake."

"How??" I asked. "Did he know how to swim?"

"He sure did." My aunt replied. "He was a great swimmer." 

But that's all my aunt would say about it. My aunt insisted she didn't know how Michael drowned. One minute Michael was swimming in the lake, playing, and the next thing they knew he was face down in the water, unable to be revived.

My grandma blew up the photo of uncle Michael at the lake, framed it, and hung it on her bedroom wall. She saw that picture every morning when she woke up, and every night just before she went to bed. Her little boy. My grandma lost her husband to illness, and her son to a swimming accident at the lake. (Accident?)

My grandma had a crystal whisky decanter set, on a silver tray. She kept it on the living room credenza. The decanter was always filled 1/4 way full of whisky. Grandma didn't drink alcohol. It was my grandpa's. And when the sun shined in the living just right, you could see cuts of light echo off the decanter set, like little diamonds.

I wish my grandma was still alive. 

It's funny what things we remember about our grandparents. Things I'm remembering still. Things I've been remembering for the past two days. Pianos. Dolls. Pennies. Roses. Art. Taffy. Whisky decanters. Cadillac. Michael.