A unique Grandma

A irreverent and totally true story of my maternal Grandma

Jesus was a drug addict. I was shocked, but all the tell-tale signs were there: scraggly, unkempt hair, jaundiced skin, and that awful toothy smile. (Who had ever seen a Jesus with teeth?). The eyes, however, were the most conclusive evidence: two sunken marbles with blobs of acrylic-looking paint on them. “Can you feel them?” Grandma ask breathlessly, “Can you feel his eyes following you, anywhere in the room?” Uneasily I looked again at the painting, then gazed nervously back at Grandma.
    With an imperialistic wave of her plump, bejeweled hand she explained. “Yes, that’s how he really looks! Last night as I lay listening to Oral Roberts, a vision unfolded on my ceiling. First, a man’s face appeared - I thought it was Grandpa Bill - but Bill never wore a beard. Next, he spoke. He said, ‘Goldie, I have a mission for you! I have blessed you with artist’s hands. You must paint the REAL me. No one has done me justice! Study me carefully’, and then he was gone!” Grandma concluded.
    “I think I will donate it to the church! They will want to hang it in the foyer for all to enjoy.” She sounded confident. Doubtfully I stared at the painting again. I noticed she had monogrammed Jesus’ robe with her name in large black letters. I stifled a huge sigh of relief; it didn’t matter. The picture was leaving the family. It could never frighten me again.
    “Well, I’d better get this paint mess off your Mother’s table, so I can fix lunch.” Goldie stated. Sweeping easels, brushes, oil paints and all into a huge orange crocheted gunny sack with handles, she busied out the door. An encompassing cloud of turpentine and Tigress cologne went with her. She waddled down the driveway towards her large motorhome. It was parked out front.
    When Grandma was feeling magnanimous, she would invite us into her motorhome. Grandma has redecorated the interior to better reflect her personality. Every seat was covered with red crushed velvet. Faux leopard skin throw pillows were tossed about with abandon. A smorgasborg of face creams and lotions were arranged next to the sink.        
    When we went in, she would point to one of us, “Climb up into my bed and get the candy orange slices from under my pillow,” she would order. We had to be careful to only grab the orange slices and not the ivory handled .22 pistol that also resided under Grandma’s pillow.  If we accidentally withdrew the gun, Goldie would grab it quickly from us, tap the barrel meaningfully in the palm of her other hand and state emphatically, “This is not a toy! It’ll kill ya! Yeah, Grandma don’t take no crap! If anyone messes with me , I’ll shoot ‘em!” We didn’t doubt it. We were never sure if this speech applied to strangers...or grandchildren..or both.
    The orange slices were always stale. You had to bite hard to get a the gummy orange middle that stuck to your teeth. The were definitely not our favorites, but they were free. Remembering Grandma Goldie’s oft quoted, favorite advice, “Love your friends and USE your enemies!” we ate them. We were never quite sure which category Grandma fit in. She had shared her orange slices though, and food was the most important thing in her life.
    In 1986, Grandma had gone on a tour of China with her senior citizen’s group. It had been a dream of hers ever since she had taken a class on “Finding your past lives.” Goldie had discovered - much to her delight- that she had been a Chinese princess several lives ago. It was with much interest that we looked forward to her first letter home. Her letter finally arrived with a Chinese dragon stamp in the right corner. An avid audience waited for my Mom to read it to us. (We had to wait; none of us could decipher her handwriting.) The letter started, “Dearest Caroline and all, The food on the plane was terrible! It tasted like cardboard. For what they charge they could do better than that! The food here is great! For breakfast we had a huge pile of eggs, melon, and bacon; so much I couldn’t eat it all. Lunch was Chinese chicken, tons of fluffy white rice, snow peas in sauce...” the rest of the letter went on to outline every meal she’d eaten since take off. That was the focus of Grandma’s “Chinese experience.”
    Other grandmas bought instant Polaroid cameras to capture grandchildren’s endearing antics, but not Goldie. She didn’t like children. She liked fish. She had bought a Kodak and taken pictures of fish; hundreds of fish. She had albums filled with pictures of fish. With Ted, her fourth husband, she had ample opportunities to fish.
    Each summer they set off from their home in Riverside, California, to work their way throughout the west. Driving their motorhome, and pulling their boat behind them, Ted would stop and sell his line of auto parts to retailers. They would then fish for several days before moving on.
    Lake Powell was one of their favorite stops. One summer my Mother had driven all of us to Lake Powell to meet Goldie and Ted. The beach on which we found them was a large gray peninsula.  The wind was blowing, and gritty sand whipped our faces. We struggled together to set up our tent. We had pitched our tent near a large rock a good distance from the motorhome. This was at Grandma’s insistence, “Make sure you’re far enough away so that if those kids cry, they won’t disturb us.” Grandma had said.
    The wind blew in a storm that rain down cold all night. The next morning was chilly and bleak. The smell of rain was heavy in the air. An overcast sky dampened everyone’s hope of catching any fish. We were cheered, however, by the prospect of a ride in Grandma’s boat. It would be our first. As Grandma and Ted readied the boat and checked fishing poles, our anticipation soared. Grandma finished with the boat. She shuffled towards us in her plastic beach sandals. Sparse glimpses of sun highlighted her dyed blonde hair as she announced shrilly, “Only room for grown-ups this trip. Kids will have to fish from shore.” We all gazed quickly at our mother.
    “I’ll stay on shore too.” She quickly volunteered.
    “The grown-ups will go on the boat!” Grandma re-stated firmly. She always got her own way, and this time was no different.
    We anxiously awaited the boats return that afternoon. Jimmy, my five year old brother, had caught a five pound fish. Upon discovering this fact, Grandma broke her own sacred rule. Digging her Kodak out of her motorhome, she insisted on pictures of Jim with his fish from every angle. It was the only time any of us ever got into any of Goldie’s photo albums.
    The photo albums, and soap operas, filled her days after Ted died. She kept his ashes on her night stand in a Chinese urn and talked to them often. They never responded.
    The ravages of diabetes took its toll despite Grandma’s innovative diet discovery. She was adamant in insisting that you could eat anything you wanted as long as you followed it up with a diet coke. The coke, she explained, cut the fat and washed away the calories.
    My mother found her dead, October 19th, 1990, on her small apartment floor. The diet coke had failed her and so had her heart. The spring tour to Mexico that Grandma and her had planned to pay their deposit on that morning never materialized. “Only room for Grandma this trip.”
                                   

Reviews

[TNT]

MY stars!! What a little life you must have led sweetie!

[Pink Poison]

Somehow funny despite the fact that I'm horribly aware that every word is true. I would say you're going to hell but clearly even God would be shocked by that picture of His son. I remember those terrifying eyes following me around until she finally "donated" the picture. I still have nightmares about that picture. What the HELL was wrong with that woman (aside from the turban, the t***y pockets, and the gun)? Remember when she thought Stewart was Jesus? LMAO.