Summer with Grandma
Sound lame? Well, read on for my adventures in haggling, public transportation, shopping and a haunted house!
“How would you like to go to California?” My mom asked me, while exhaling a large plume of smoke from her Virginia Slim cigarette.
“Why?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
“Well to see your grandmother of course.”
Inside I groaned a little. I was looking forward to trying out my new surfboard on the small Atlantic waves of Cocoa Beach. We lived 20 minutes from the beach, so every summer my skin got darker and my hair got blonder the more time we spent at the beach.
However, my mom had just come back a couple of months ago from California visiting her mother, Elsie. I’m sure it was more of a reconnaissance mission because Elsie had her share of ups and downs in life. She was on her 4th or 5th marriage, a couple of them were extremely tumultuous and filled with abuse. She had been with Bob, her most recent beau, for a good 15 years, and from all accounts he treated her well, so there was more stability in her life.
This was the cycle we were used to with Grandma Elsie. She was a fixture in my life early on, but every time she found a new man, everyone else took a backseat to her life. There were a couple of multiyear gaps where we didn’t hear from her and then she would resurface. Then she would dote on us with gifts and affection.
I was 13 and I had not seen her since I was 8. Naturally I was apprehensive. But in the end, I had no choice. It was cheaper to send me to California than to a camp.
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My mom walked me to my exit row seat on the L 1011 jumbo jet. I had been on a plane before, but not one this well, jumbo. There were 2 seats on each side and a row of 5 in the middle. Thankfully I was on the aisle on the 2 side.
She kissed me around 100 times saying goodbye and I finally had to shoo her away. 10 minutes later my seatmate arrived, an attractive girl my exact age. The trip was starting off nicely. During that six-hour slog across the country – Orlando to Dallas for a quick layover, and then a stop in Salt Lake City for another layover, and then finally landing at San Francisco airport – we developed an instant romance that lasted about as long as that trip. No, I did not join the mile high club. I was 13, you creeps.
Walking off the plane I suddenly realized I forgot what my grandmother looked like. My fears were unfounded as this lady dressed in a neon-colored muumuu adorned with various fruits and sporting a bright red perm nearly assaulted me with hugs and kisses 10 feet outside of the jetway. Then I noticed the crutches.
“What happened Grandma?” I inquired.
“Oh, I fell when I was working at this little doughnut shop. It shattered my kneecap and until I can get my settlement, they just tied my tendons together so I can’t bend my leg and I need these crutches.”
She said this so matter-of-factly, like she was talking about the weather. I was supposed to be here for a month, now I have a 60+-year-old escort that is hobbled.
That was the last time I ever underestimated my grandmother.
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Bob was in the car, double parked and frantically looking around for traffic enforcement. We loaded in and began the drive from San Francisco to Santa Clara.
“You remember Bob, right?” Grandma asked.
While I had heard of him, I had only seen him in pictures, but I went along with her.
“Yes, of course.”
Bob was short and portly, with white wispy hair and oversized horn-rimmed glasses. His voice was thin and gravelly, due to the constant cigars he puffed on. He had a thick Chicago accent, which reminded me of the Blues Brothers.
We made small talk during the 1-hour drive. The rolling scenery was a stark contrast to the flat, boring Florida landscape. Our view was framed by mountains everywhere I looked. The highway was wide, and traffic bustled. I had never seen that many cars in one place, or mountains for that matter.
We arrived at their house and again I was pleasantly surprised. It was a typical ranch-style house, 3 bedrooms 2 baths with a screened in porch. The grass was a deep green and well-manicured. The sidewalks were pristine, no cracks. I wished I had brought my skateboard. The neighborhood was huge, much bigger than the trailer park I lived in back home. Idyllic is the word that came to mind.
When mom visited, she told me about how she went to a backyard barbecue in the neighborhood, and there was this handsome, athletic man at the party. She went over to meet him, and it was freaking Joe Montana, the quarterback of the San Francisco 49ers. Basically, at the peak of his fame. So of course, the whole trip, every time I was home and outside, I was on the lookout for number 16. No dice there.
To be honest, I didn’t have much time to be social because Grandma Elsie was about to run – or I guess, crutch? – laps around this 13-year-old.
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I’m writing this story from memory at age 51 ¾. Some memories are crystal clear, others a bit blurred and mashed together, but I do remember one thing about that trip: we were ALWAYS on the go. Nearly every day she had something planned for us.
With her janky leg, she could not have a car, so we had to rely on public transportation. Again, I let loose an inner monologue diatribe, but not to worry. Grandma had the system wired
On a typical day, we would get up around 9 (causing additional internal complaining… It’s summer, I want to sleep in). The closest bus stop was right outside the neighborhood, basically a block away. I walked out of the house the first day, took a moment to stretch and yawn while waiting for Grandma. My tiny moment of bliss was interrupted by a sound: THUMPswishTHUMPswish. It was Grandma launching her crutches in front of her, then gliding her body through. She was 20 yards down the street. I sprinted to catch up. A scene that played on repeat all summer. It was quite a sight, her Q-tip bulb of fiery red hair swaying in the breeze. Her muumuu was always loud and colorful, and she wore comically giant sunglasses. She had her purse over her shoulder, a suitcase sized leather bag, bright red as well.
She was unstoppable. She was obsessed with efficiency in the morning she would research our route on the bus map, and then figure out what it would cost exactly to take the trip. Exact change was a requirement on the buses at the time, which to me seemed a bit unreasonable. Grandma had the schedule memorized. She knew where and when to transfer and the closest stops to where we were. There was very little wasted movement.
After our daily adventure, it was back home where Grandma cooked up something delicious for dinner. Her specialty was enchiladas, but anything she cooked was amazing. I was a rail thin teenager seemingly unable to gain weight until I went to California and put on 15 pounds in about a month.
Grandma always cooked a big dinner because Bob could put his share of grub away, and there was his daughter Karen, who was no slouch in the food consumption department. Karen was just big and loud all around. Standing 6 feet, with a frizzy, feathered mop of brown hair, she had a big frame, big voice, big breasts, and a big personality that got on everyone’s nerves. Good thing she was also lazy, so she never joined Grandma and I because she didn’t “do that nasty public transportation.”
In the evening, Grandma and I would hang out in her room watching TV on the bed. She introduced me to Corn Nuts, a popular gas station snack, made of toasted corn that is rock-hard. We would polish off a whole bag together every night. These were my favorite times, those small intimate moments where we caught up on all the years where she had been away.
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Our first “big” trip was to the Winchester Mansion in San Jose. I had seen it on the great 80s show That’s Incredible a few weeks before the trip and she was more than happy to take me. The story is, it’s a giant Victorian mansion owned by the wife of the guy who invented the Winchester rifles. After he died, she believed the house was haunted with all the ghosts that were killed by Winchester guns. So, she kept building and building and building. There was no plan, just add a random staircase here that leads into a wall. I believe it was supposed to fool the ghosts so they couldn’t find her.
Grandma balked at the admission price, which was something that continually happened on my trip. She would haggle with anybody, anytime, over any price. Grandma could have held her own in any Middle Eastern market. She started off nice with a semi-fake falsetto voice saying something to the effect of, “Well, that is more that I wanted to spend. Are there any specials or discounts?”
Most of the time they answered no, and then the kind of façade would start to slowly drop away. Her tone changed and her breathing increased. In the end she would always drop the “Look, I’m on a fixed income and disabled” card. Inside I would roll my eyes because she was the farthest thing from disabled that I’ve ever seen.
The only time she didn’t haggle is when Bob was there to pay. He had Elsie on a small allowance, but she had tucked away some money from her settlement from another injury and dipped into that account during my time there.
She loved to buy me gifts, but many times her taste and my taste were at the opposite end of the spectrum. For example, she bought me a Sergio Tacchini gold nugget watch. It looked like something a “Made” man would wear, not a 13-year-old surfer from Florida. The capper was this pair of powder blue Levi’s bell bottom jeans. Keep in mind, this is 1983, and when were bellbottoms in style? That’s right, the early 70s. She reassured me they were fashionable, and of course I couldn’t say no and break her heart.
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Our great adventure was the day we went to San Francisco. It was a stunning vista of concrete hills, towering buildings, and the deep cerulean of the Pacific. I really wanted to go see Alcatraz, but the trips sold out well ahead of time. So instead, we took a bus (for something different) to a couple of parts of the city. I bought my mom this giant waterfall candle. The thing must’ve weighed 20 pounds, but these were the days where they didn’t weigh luggage, so you could pack a body if you wanted to.
On the way home we took a detour to a giant Chinese restaurant. This was a big deal, according to Grandma, because this restaurant was one of only 5 locations in the world. It was a beautiful two-story structure with a mezzanine and a large fountain in the middle of the restaurant. Seating capacity was 500, and it was every bit as busy as that.
I was a complete novice to Chinese food, except for the canned LaChoy products we routinely had.
“What are you going to order, sweetie?” Grandma asked.
“I think I will go with the chicken chow mein,” I confidently stated.
Grandma’s face fell immediately. She narrowed her eyes, leaned in close and nearly growled, “I didn’t bring you to a world-famous Chinese restaurant so you can order chicken chow mein.”
I ended up ordering beef and broccoli, which looking back, wasn’t much better. The entire time we were eating, Grandma told me that under no circumstance could I tell Bob that we came here. Apparently, she was using her secret money to pay for this. I don’t recall the food, but I did enjoy the adventure.
One week later, as my trip was ending, Bob piled everyone into the car for a big surprise. We started heading south on the interstate, and Grandma, in the backseat, whispered to me that she thought Bob was taking us back to that Chinese restaurant. I gave her a confident look that I would be the best actor in the world.
And of course, that’s where we went. At least I knew to order something different. Karen also came along, and she ordered the most intricate and expensive item on the menu, Paper Chicken. It came cooked in this wax paper bag. Problem was that this meal took a long time to cook so we all had to wait. Karen may have been the first “Karen.”
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Summer wound down and it was time to put me on the plane back home. I was heading home with a new appreciation for my grandmother. Her energy was impressive. For a summer vacation, I feel like I accomplished quite a bit and grew up a little bit (and grew out thanks to Grandma’s home cooking).
We said goodbye with the promise to see each other more frequently, a promise she kept. She also sent Christmas ornaments every year as well as her “unique” gifts. One of them was this gaudy peach and pink artificial flower arrangement that she gifted my parents. My dad took one look at that monstrosity, and promptly shoved it in a closet.
“We’ll get it out if she ever visits,” he said.
The last time I saw her was Christmas about 10 years later. We had opened presents and had dinner, and Grandma and I found ourselves on the couch reading the latest Far Side book, which I had received for Christmas. We sat there together laughing until we cried over the brilliance of Gary Larson.
Grandma died about 10 years later from heart failure. I was unable to get to see her before she passed, but I did talk to her on the phone. Her voice was weak, and she sounded tired. I closed my eyes and thought about that summer, how able she was for being disabled, how nothing could slow her down, and of course I thought of all the love we shared during that trip and our lives. That’s the way I choose to remember her.
But she was dead wrong about those damn bell bottom pants. I wore them to school after much deliberation, and I was nearly laughed out of the class. In desperation I ran down to my gym locker and changed into my shorts for the day. I happily donated them to Goodwill so maybe some short hippie found them and put them to good use.