My Grandma

I hope you have memories of a grandmother. One of mine died before I was born, but I’ve been thinking about the one I remember...my mother’s mother. We called her Nanny. She was one of 11 children. Her dad died when she was very young and her family was dirt poor. They lived in a tiny shack and some of the older kids helped keep the family going...some of them just took off. One of her jobs when she was growing up was to walk along the train tracks near her house and pick up pieces of coal that had fallen out of the coal cars as the trains went past. Her family used the coal to cook and heat their house in the winter. (Note: She told me that story when I was very young. Worried our house would get too cold, I got a bucket and did the same thing--picked up coal along the train tracks. I didn’t know we had an oil furnace and no way to use coal. Haha!)

As a teenager, my grandma worked as a maid in the local mansion. Her older brother worked in the stables and helped her get the job. She had lots of stories about the family she worked for and the house. She swore it was haunted. The biggest story involved the couple's son--it happened in New York, not in the mansion where my grandma worked. One night he came home late and his wife shot him, thinking he was a burglar. I think Ann-Margret played the shooter in the movie.

My grandma married the son of a farmer. She loved the land...and she loved grandpa (Pop)! The farm was successful. My grandfather and his brother were in business with their father--Pop Steve. Pop Steve was a widower and a heavy drinker. One Friday he took the train to Baltimore to tie one on. He came home on Sunday married to the lady who owned his favorite bar. The family didn’t like her, but they made the best of it. Six months into the marriage, “that woman” (as Nanny called her) said she needed go into Baltimore one afternoon. She fixed Pop Steve’s dinner and then got on the train. My grandma warmed up the dinner for him and then she went home to get dinner for her family. The next day Pop Steve was dead and “that woman” owned the family farm and the business’ bank account. She cleaned out the account, sold the farm and moved back to Baltimore. My grandparents (and my grandfather’s brother and sister) were left with about 8 acres each and not much money.

My grandmother took it harder than my grandfather did. He wanted to be a carpenter, not a farmer. But Nanny was so mad she never allowed “that woman’s” name to cross her lips for the rest of her life. I don’t even know the woman’s name. My grandparent’s built a small house at the corner of their property where the train tracks crossed the county road. Next they built a tiny store right next door. They did well enough to survive, but never made any real money with the store. As each of their children got married, my grandparents offered them an acre of land behind their store and my grandfather helped them build a house. We had a homemade subdivision. My great-uncle built a house on his land next to the store and his sister built a house next to his. Later my uncle sold the rest of his land to a nice family--the family I helped rake leaves until the mom took away my rake.

Before I was born, Nanny made Pop build a small apartment on the back of their store for them to live in. She gave their house to her baby boy--the man couldn’t hold a job. He rewarded his parent’s by selling the house and blowing the money on booze. Starting after Pop died (I was 7 or 8), on Sunday evenings that uncle would come to the store to get his groceries for the week. My grandma had a “credit board.” Some of the regulars had their own nail (yes, a nail ) sticking out of the board where we would stick the adding machine tape for their purchases. They could pick up stuff during the week and pay on Saturday. My folks had the nail in the upper right-hand corner. My uncle had a nail too. I guess I could be a bit of a punk, because I used to follow my uncle out into the closed store to watch what he took and make sure he rang it up and put the tape on the nail. I knew he wasn’t going to pay, but I wanted him to know how much he was taking and that I knew how much he was taking.

But I’m getting off track, this is about Nanny. She cared about people, but she wasn’t soft about it--except with that one son of hers. She expected people to do the best they could for themselves and for others. She saw right and wrong clearly and didn’t have much patience for people who tried to take advantage of other people. She could be a character too. She had many ghost stories, but refused to discuss whether aliens had visited earth--she even got nervous if other people talked about it. I asked her what happened to make her feel that way, but of course she wouldn’t talk about it--and told me I shouldn’t. That weirdness aside, she was also a good actress. She and I would be talking and laughing--she felt great. But if the phone rang it was someone she had not heard from in a while, she would go into her “old lady” routine. “Oh, I don’t know how much longer I’ll make it. I thought the Lord was going to take me last night, but I prayed he would let me stay a little longer so I could have a chance to see {insert name of person on the phone} one more time.” I would have to go out into the store to keep from laughing in the background and ruining her performance. She was really something. She ran the store until she was 85 and then “retired” to a small apartment next door to one of her daughters. She lived there, pretty much independent and taking care of herself, until she was 95. The fellow who bought the store from her failed miserably. By that time there were too many grocery stores and 7-11’s near by. Her customers were just coming in to the store to see her the last 5 or 10 years she was there.

I only remember her getting mad at me one time. I was in the second grade and living with her. I had a dime and decided to buy 10 fireballs from her to sell in school. I started selling them at 2 cents, but the last one went for a nickel. I rolled the profits back into the business and started buying more fireballs and selling them to my classmates. One morning Nanny noticed the 2nd bag in my hand as I left for school (the other was lunch) and wanted to know what was in it. I told her what I was doing and she put a stop to it. She felt if I was selling fireballs at school, the kids wouldn’t come to her store. I explained I was helping her sell more fireballs by taking them to school. Guess who lost that discussion? Haha! She made me empty the bag back into her box of fireballs…I don’t think I got my money back either. She was mad. But that was a small thing. I don’t think I can explain how great it was living with her. In addition to spending time with her, there were some pretty cool perks. How many elementary school kids get to select and slice whatever lunch meat they want to have for lunch at school the next day? Or learn about rotating stock? Or get to keep whatever money they find on the floor while sweeping up after closing? For some reason there was always more money under the potato chip rack than the bread rack. There was an old buffalo nickel stuck under the ice cream box that I worked on getting for years. One day I was finally strong enough to lift the box and get the nickel. That was the start of my very lame coin collection. But the coins have meaning to me--especially that one.

I learned a lot from Nanny. She had me help older customers and stressed moms get their bags to the car. She sent me to shovel snow off widows sidewalks and driveways. She had me look after clumsy cousins who were targets of bullies in school. I wouldn’t have learned that as well at home. My dad helped people out of a sense of obligation and complained about it every time. I was so lucky to have had the chance to live with Nanny and have her live nearby so that I could spend time with her and help her in the store even when I was living at home. I feel like I had two mothers.

My wife has always said that when we met I was 15-going-on-40. I think my grandmother was responsible for that.