Broken Mommies

This week Auntie Joyce (aka one of the crazy aunties, by my childhood and Colby friends) sent me a story written by her mom, my granny. According to Joyce the story was written over 40 years ago. I am guessing it was written about events that happened at least 50 years ago. I decided to share the story with you. I realize that two generations later I am doing exactly as my granny did. I write to record the events of my life with my young family. Like my granny, I am amazed, amused and baffled by my children and their interpretation and encounters with the world as they grow.

I am fascinated and treasure any photos, memories and stories about my maternal grandparents. To me, they are shadowy, almost mythical, members of my family. My granny passed away when I was four and my grandpa followed her by the time I was six, I believe. My sister was a newborn when my granny died and my brother was not born when my grandfather died. I feel lucky because I am the only sibling that knew my granny.

All I have left is a series of floating images, like a drawer loosely filled with miscellaneous old photos. What I remember most clearly is my grandparents laughing in their long narrow kitchen. They always seemed to be laughing. I remember a bottom draw in that kitchen full of forbidden sweets. I can feel the weight of that drawer as I pulled on the handle and peered inside looking for an icing covered cookie or a Twinkie. I remember a red and white checked facecloth hanging at eye-level in the bathroom. I can see a big closet near this bathroom full of Granny’s clothes. I remember going for walks to Petruzzi’s vegetable stand and to the store by the lake that seemed to sell everything, including ice cream. I remember being in my crib in the room with pink, or maybe yellow, walls. I can feel my fingernails scraping animal stickers off that pink wall behind the crib. I can see Granny peaking around the door at me in my crib. I remember the big party the day of Granny’s funeral and I stayed the day with my other grandma. I am not sure whether or not all my memories are of actual events. I suspect some are stolen from photo albums or were actually heard on audiotapes sent by my grandparents after my family moved to California. I know without doubt that my grandpa made me the safest-scared you could be. I definitely remember waiting in his chair in front of his T.V. for him to return home from work, listening for the door to open, trembling with nervous excitement for him to discover me in his chair and then tickle-attack me until I relinquished the seat. I would get that same feeling when I bobbed in my life jacket next to my grandparents’ sailboat and Grandpa Shark would come from the deep and pull me under the surface.

My mom shares many stories of her parents with me and my siblings. My aunties and great-aunt add even more color and detail to my memories of Granny and Grandpa. Great-aunt Eleanor wrote me long letters and each one had a story about her sister, my granny. My favorite is the story of when my grandparents returned home from their honeymoon to find they had lost their jobs. Instead of looking for new jobs, they promptly left on a second honeymoon. This type of story adds to the mythical, romantic images of my grandparents that I conjure up in my imagination.

In a dream, I brought Doug to my grandparents’ house. We drove to East Brookfield, Massachusetts and I somehow found the house. The house looked long ago abandoned. It was worn and in need of paint. We entered and I led Doug straight upstairs. I opened Granny’s clothes’ closet door. Strangely it was still full of her clothes. For some reason I walked right into the closet and pulled Doug in behind me. I realized I had never noticed that the closet was actually quite large and there was an area rug below a big window. The window was too dirty to see out to the world, but the light that filtered through it the filled the room with yellowy, hazy glow. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I could see a chair in the corner. Granny was in the chair. I couldn’t believe it. I was overwhelmed. Finally my granny could meet Doug. She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t brought Doug to meet her sooner. It didn’t make sense to me either. All these years we’d missed and she here in her home in the closet all along.

She said, “Wait a minute.”

Then she disappeared between the clothes into another room in the closet. She came back with Grandpa. He was there too! He too met Doug. I knew they would love him. Then Doug and I had to leave. I didn’t want to go. We still had so much to share. The closet just seemed to fade back and away. I couldn’t keep up as the closet retreated.

I was so sad to realize I was dreaming. Never had a dream felt so real to me. And despite the introduction being only a dream, I felt a true sense of calm and completeness that Doug had finally met my grandparents and that they knew him.

Last night I printed out the copy of “Broken Mommies” that Auntie Joyce emailed to me. I read the story to Colin and Liam. After the boys went to bed, I sat and examined my copy of “Broken Mommies.” I want to understand each word and scribble. At the bottom of the second page, Granny wrote, “Good Cooker, Good Looker – See Good” The last word is crossed out. What do these words mean? What was that last word she crossed out? I try to decide whose handwriting looks like Granny’s handwriting, one of my aunt's or my mom's? I still have so many questions.

Slowly, I run my finger across the words that Granny wrote.