When classmates shared their stories of cooking with Grandma, learning to sew with Mamaw, and listening to old stories from Nona, I pretended to understand but only chimed in when the conversation finally shifted to something less abstract; because for me, a loving grandmother was an oxymoron. My biological grandmother died when my mom was only twelve-years-old, leaving my mother’s stepmom as my version; she was far from Monday-morning-share-time worthy. Even now what comes to mind is of her is: cadaverously wan and purely wicked. Wanda’s small, emaciated frame hung with skin like grease melting from candlesticks and her wolf-gray hair speared into the heavens as almost a mockery of God’s goodness. At a very young age I was sure that she was the awful wolf in the Little Red Riding Hood story and my real grandmother would soon be home to reclaim her rightful spot. The nickname lovingly bestowed upon her by the step-grandkids was “Wicked Wanda,” although when the parents were in ear-shot we called her Granny. The day she refused me a peach became the last day I spoke to her. I was only ten years old.
My mother gave me the choice this day to stay home or go shopping. The only condition was that if I went shopping I had to stop by Granny and Papaw’s house on the way home – this meant that at the end of our extremely awkward meeting I would be expected to hug Wicked Wanda. Her bony arms would wrap around my small body and I was often afraid I would be suffocated in her sham love. I usually made it around this cursed expectation by having an untimely stomach ache, an unstoppable sneezing fit, or some other feigned disorder that I knew would keep her icy, overpowering hands far away from me. She had too often before hurt my tender feelings with the common events of hiding the Christmas candy from the step-grandkids until her real grandchildren arrived to consume it all in front of us; allowing them to jump on her bed while our bottoms were to remain rooted on her bedroom floor; yelling at me for putting my shoe on her couch the day I was trying to show her I’d learned to tie my own shoe, and so many others. And, I was a creative child. As much as I knew she and I should love each other, her age and position in our family allowed her to hold the cards to this love and she wasn’t a very good sharer.
Although my mother said she just didn’t know how to love well, I didn’t think these were great starts and I long-ago decided that one more awkward hug would really get us no closer to love than any of the previous. However, I decided to go with my mother on her shopping expedition and I would try again to gain my Granny’s love like one of her real grandchildren. I would try because I was a young, obedient child and I knew that this was not a normal grandmother-granddaughter relationship. I wanted to have stories of my wonderful granny to share at school. I wanted to give her another shot because, before life jaded me, I wanted to love and be loved in return.
I walked through her kitchen after we arrived and there were two bushels of peaches on the kitchen cabinet. Partly because I love peaches and partly thinking it would be a compliment to her and perhaps a nice segue into a normal grandmother-granddaughter conversation, I asked if I might have one. All before-mentioned experiences with this woman flooded my mind with her nasty, hateful, hasty response which held more with her tone of voice, flash of eyes, and movement of hand than simply her words, but they were: “No. I’m going to use those peaches to make a pie.” She swigged down another gulp of her tequila and stared at me. Her sharp, disapproving eyes pierced my heart and I once again couldn’t understand what I had done to cause this woman to hate me. “Well, I guess if you have to have one, then go ahead!”
God, no, I didn’t want one of her damn peaches anymore. There’s nothing that could have persuaded me then, and I bit my tongue and stifled my feelings as I calmly asked my mother for the car keys so I could go sit outside.
Wicked Wanda later came outside to again begrudgingly offer me a peach (at my mother’s persuasion I’m sure) but I was much too hard-headed for that even then and she’d hurt me too many times in the past. I smiled and said no thank-you. I didn’t want to be rude or disrespectful, but I wouldn’t allow her to treat me like a step-child any longer and, so, there was still no way in hell I’d accept her peach now. If I’d been more capable – if life were only a Disney movie or a fairy-tale and I could be the bad person for just a moment – I would have cursed her pies and peaches, but I just stayed outside and listened to the car radio – heartbroken that a woman who should love me, just didn’t and just never would.
We drove away that day and I cried to my understanding mother who assured me I wouldn’t have to go back there. I had escaped a hug on this day when I hadn’t even thought of a plan; maybe she’d had the plan to escape mine, too – if so, she won.
Sitting on the lake, I watched the sun set behind the great Kentucky hills. The sheer beauty of it always draws my thoughts to just how quickly the most precious and perfect things in life fade away from us.
