"God bless all my family, friends and everybody. And please make Mama Lottie well so she can come home from the hospital soon. Amen."
I had whispered this prayer nightly for more than two months now, ever since my father's mother had undergone surgery in late August. The need for a hysterectomy was indicated by persisting pain and problems. It was considered a fairly routine procedure; her doctors were not unduly alarmed. My grandmother had her own opinion and insisted on first things first: vacation. A black-and-white snapshot of my still-young grandparents, standing outside the newly erected space needle at the Seattle World's Fair, vividly captures the essence of this well-heeled couple at the peak of their lives. Slightly wavy, dark-brown hair flows from my grandmother's hat. Her normally tall, slim figure is even more regal in the high heels dictated by fashion. Wrapped tightly in a dress-length coat, she looks directly at the camera, her mouth pursed in a playful pout. She is 52-years young. My grandfather, a little younger and slightly shorter, was wearing his standard suit, tie and hat, complete with overcoat. They were snappy dressers when the occasion called for it.
More often, however, my grandmother wore cotton pedal pushers, a sleeveless blouse and canvas shoes. This standard summer outfit was practical for her chosen pursuit: gardening and fishing. When it was my good fortune to stay a night or two there, we often spent mornings digging in the garden, removing weeds and planting bulbs. An empty coffee can stood nearby, but not for long. Soon it was filled with earthworms and--my squeamish favorite--grub worms, white, short and squat on a multitude of creepy, crawly legs.
Now it was time to hurry. Pack the sandwiches (a '50s feast of sliced bologna, American cheese and Miracle Whip on white Wonder bread: builds strong bodies 12 ways, or so we were told then) and grab the poles--mine was cane--from the back porch corner where they leaned. Don't forget your hat, straw with a brim to alleviate the "sun grins." Let's go! The sooner we get there, the more fish we bring home for supper. Sometimes we'd pick up my grandmother's best friend and fishing buddy, Mae, to join us. Her husband was president of the local bank; my grandmother was married to the school superintendent. On the rocky banks of the local ponds, they became a pair of "fish" wives, shedding those other labels as easily and eagerly as their hose and heels. We usually had the whole pond to ourselves and were alternately silent or echoing laughter at excited efforts to lure sunfish and crappie to our baited hooks.
The sun was low in the sky when we left for the day, pulling the metal stringer from the water where our dinner hung secured. At home my grandmother would dump our catch in the kitchen sink and begin her work, cleaning fish with an ease born of habit. Then she would season the filets, roll them in cornmeal and place them side-by-side in the hot frying pan on the stove. The narrow room sizzled with sounds and smells. My grandfather came home from work to a meal prepared from the ground up, begun that morning with the collection of worms from the flower garden along the west wall. The tastiest cherry pie ever baked was often produced for dessert. (Her secret was tapioca, not flour, for thickening.) She complained her pies were ugly, but I never noticed. Who could waste time looking at them?
My grandmother could do other things besides garden and fish and cook. She could magically transform the mundane and forgotten into things of beauty. Retired white-and-orange-silk parachutes from the army surplus store became little girl's dresses. Old, discarded desks retrieved from the dump were freshly painted and cleverly disguised as a child's dressing table behind frilly skirts of stiff organza. She could hammer and saw and paint and paper with the best of them, all self taught. Such resourcefulness was learned at a hard price. She was the oldest of four when she became motherless at age nine. Young Lottie didn't have the luxury of mourning her loss; she had siblings to care for. Her father, a Baptist preacher, also ran the general store to keep food on the table. In time a new wife worked by his side, when she wasn't at home giving birth to five children of her own. So my grandmother eventually became the oldest of nine and was frequently responsible for them all.
When she married, she let her husband know up front that he could expect one child only. She had already devoted a lifetime to raising children. Lottie held her ground, and that one child grew into the man who became my father. My mom and I were a package deal; he married us both. Back in 1955, a divorcee with a two-year-old tot was not what doting parents had in mind for an only son. I was my soon-to-be dad's secret weapon. He insisted I be there when my prospective grandparents met their prospective daughter-in-law for the first time. Lottie may have raised her share of children, but a granddaughter was quite a different thing. She rose to the occasion with relish, and we quickly occupied special places in each other's hearts.
Now I was nine, the age Mama Lottie was when her mother died. And she was very sick. I said my get-well prayer for her each night and knew she'd have to be better soon. But I awoke early one dark, November morning to quiet murmurings in the hall outside my bedroom door. Something was terribly wrong. "What is it?" I quavered fearfully. My parents' hushed response roared in my ears; their tears rained in my soul. How was this possible? Didn't God hear our prayers?
I was taken to the funeral home to see her emptied body. They thought it would help me accept this awful truth. I don't remember fainting as I stood with my grandfather alongside the casket. I do remember just before, when he held my arm and sobbed in my ear how much she had loved me. All eight of her siblings and their families came to the house--my grandmother's house, their oldest sister--after the funeral. They were soon milling around, eating food provided by the church, talking and laughing and joking as though it were a family reunion or a holiday that brought us all together.
I was shocked by this seeming lack of grief. How could they be so nonchalant and uncaring? One day I, too, would learn to laugh through my tears--to store bottled feelings beside the bed, spilling them in measured doses that stain my pillow in the night. One day--but not that day. My lungs constricted in tight protest. Asthma, raging for days, fed on my weakened spirit and consumed my breath. I sat in the spare bedroom alone, leaving Mama Lottie's many nieces and nephews to play without me. My beloved grandmother was buried that day and with her, my innocence.