by Rebecca Stough
I had only one grandparent growing up-my dad’s mother, Louise. My dad’s dad, George, died in August under suspicious circumstances-the same year I was born. He was “shell shocked” after WWII and came home a different man from when he left. After her death in 1993- I found a box of letters that my grandfather had sent to my grandmother, during the war. She never shared the letters during her lifetime, so it was a wonderful glimpse into who she was as a person, and not just “my grandma”. Each one started with, “My Dearest Louise” in beautiful handwriting. It surprised me to see that my grandfather, who I always imagined to be perpetually in a foxhole in Germany, could write so beautifully.
My handwriting has always been a problem. Most of my papers in school were handed back with a bold, red note at the top to “REWRITE!” Back then, you were graded on things like handwriting, citizenship, etc. I was a straight “A” student in all of my courses, but there were notations on my report cards saying, “Becky continues to have wretched handwriting.” And “Needs to practice self-control.” The “practice self control” thing really pissed me off. It was my second grade teacher who once forced me to eat the gray peas they served for lunch in the cafeteria. I vomited- spewing forth what later reminded me of Regan in the “Exorcist”. That’s what earned me the note on my report card. Vomiting=lack of self control. You have to understand something- this was 1976. Did my parents- in their cardigans and New Balance running shoes- march into the school demanding to know why my teacher FORCED me to eat peas?? NO! They sided with her! They agreed that I lacked self control. My dad did concede that peas are awful- especially from a can-cold. But that was no excuse!
My grandfather’s letters were so loving- it felt like an invasion of privacy to read them. My vision of him being in a foxhole during the war was warranted- my grandma loved to tell the story of her sending a telegram to him, in a foxhole, to announce the birth of their twin boys. That was January 1st, 1945.
My grandma was born to Polish immigrants- on a farm in New Castle, Pennsylvania. She had 11 siblings, most of whom moved all around the country once they reached adulthood. The few that stayed, lived in the general area around northwestern Pennsylvania and grandma would often take me to visit them. Her sister, Julia and husband Joe Zajac, in particular- were favorites of mine. I always thought of them as the nursery rhyme goes, “Jack Sprat could eat no fat-his wife could eat no lean. So, betwixt themselves they licked the platter clean.” Julia was a heavy woman- with enormous, swaying arms. She always had syrupy, sweet lemonade to offer in the summer. Joe, on the other hand, was tall and thin. He had a thick Polish accent (from the Old Country) when speaking English, but often spoke to Julia in his native language. They had little, aging dog, a poodle, I think. The dog had a bed in the corner near the stove. It was always full of furry stuffed animals. Uncle Joe would warn me, “dunna touch her babies-she bite!” What amazed me was- when he spoke to her- he did so in Polish. As a kid- I thought that it must be the smartest dog ever! The damn thing understood Polish!
After the war, my grandfather worked in the steel mill. He and my grandma and their children moved frequently- slowly drifting into Ohio. In 1962, shortly after my dad graduated High school-they bought their first (and last) house in Vienna, Ohio. Vienna is pronounced “V-eye-anna” not like the one in Austria. You can always tell when someone is new to the area based on how they say, “Vienna”.
It was that house that would forever become “grandma’s house”. After my grandfather’s death- my grandma put herself through nursing school and learned to drive a car. She bought her first new car, a giant, brown Impala. She drove like a bat out of hell in that car. I would never do (put on a seatbelt?) or say anything about it, but my YOUNGER brother, Eddy once told her- “Grandma, your driving scares me!”
While she was a proud catholic- it never stopped her from saying, “Jesus Christ” or “Goddamned”. In fact, these two were (and still are) woven into the fabric of my family’s manner of speaking. It wasn’t necessarily said in an angry tone or an exclamation- it was just sometimes very matter-of-fact. The tone or inflection was what you were looking for. It could be- “Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you!?!” or it could be, “well, I’ll be Goddamned- that’s a good meatloaf.” I never heard her say any other swears. She never called someone a bitch or a bastard- no talk about “shit” and definitely never-ever used the word “fuck”.
Having her as my only grandparent- and I, as her only granddaughter-we had the most important relationship in my young life. At home, with my parents, I had chores. At grandma’s- I “helped”. She showed me how to polish her nursing shoes- which I did with pride. She would give me a cloth and the can of lemon scented Pledge- asking me to shine up her living room furniture. I made my bed after sleeping over- using “hospital corners” on the sheets- just like she’d taught me. I took great joy in pleasing her. She would praise me- and I gobbled it up! As a child, I wondered how this saintly woman could have mothered a man like my dad- who gave me the nickname “Rum-dum”. He handed me a shop broom once and told me to sweep the barn floor. After a while- he came out to the barn to check on my progress and saw me using it like a house broom. “Hey, Rum-dum- do you know WHY it’s called a PUSH BROOM?!” I have since realized that my grandma had the privilege of being my grandparent. I watched this metamorphosis take place with my parents when I had my own children. I walked in on something one day when I was picking up my son, John, after having a sleepover at my parents’ place. My dad was standing at the stove- cooking?!? My son sat in anticipation- his little head nearly level with the table. I asked, “Hey- what’s up?” My son- “Papa’s making me oatmeal. He knows that I like it with raisins and cinnamon!”
This is a man who has never gotten me a glass of water!
We often visited my grandma for birthdays, various holidays- and sometimes on the odd Sunday. On one particular Sunday the whole family was together at my grandma’s house. I was around 10 years old at the time. She never owned a dishwasher, microwave, or coffee maker. She drank instant Sanka. She always had a Corelle coffee pot on the stove top matching her set of dishes. They were white with orange and brown mushrooms for decoration. In the eighties I think everything was brown, orange, or beige. She asked if I would “put the water on” and make her a cup of coffee.
I made the coffee just the way she liked it- no sugar and mostly 2% milk. I carefully carried her cup to her- remembering her advice “if you don’t look at the cup while you’re walking with it- it won’t spill.” She thanked me and took a sip. She pulled the cup away from her making a screwed up face.
“What did you put in this?”
“Just milk. Why?”
“It’s TERRIBLE! (to my aunt) Taste this!”
(my aunt taking a sip)” Oh my god!”
My dad-“ oh, it can’t be that bad…” (tastes it)
Finally after everyone in the fucking room confirmed that it was just awful- I almost wanted to ask if they all didn’t want to try it again- just to be SURE!
My grandma asked- “Did you use the water that was in the pot or did you put water in it?
There was already water in it- why would I dump it out and refill?
“Jesus christ! She’s trying to POISON me!”
It turns out that she was soaking the pot with Red Out to clean out the stains. She ran to get the box- to read the warnings about what to do in the event some idiot served it to as a beverage. I can’t recall what it said- but I didn’t kill anyone that day.
Rebecca Stough has been writing her short stories since she could hold a pencil. She has written nonfiction short stories that became the foundation of her one woman show, “Pancakes and a Lobster Tank; Living with Autism, Loving Alex”. She has performed stand up comedy as well in cities from Youngstown to Cleveland around NE Ohio.