Mary Lou was my grandmother.
Hers had been a hard life, from what I witnessed. Years of alcoholism and heavy smoking had left her in very poor health; she spent her last five years living with her daughter’s family (my parents).
I spent a lot of time with my Grandma and Grandpa (Warren, but everybody called him Shorty) when I was a young boy. They were a lot of fun, to my way of thinking. We spent most of our time together in taverns in small-town Kansas. It might make a parent shudder to think about it, but I loved it. There were always interesting things going on, and my grandpa would always let me reach in his pocket for a quarter whenever I wanted. I was quite the pinball wizard, provided I could find a chair to stand on so I could see.
Grampa got throat cancer in 1975, and was dead by 1976. I was seven. It was hard for everybody to go through, but it hit my grandma especially hard. She lost a husband, a friend, a drinking partner; Shorty was the focal point of her life for many years.
Eventually, she moved back to Topeka to live in an apartment of her own, and to be closer to her job. I remember, even though I was only 10 or so, feeling how strange it was for a woman that age to be getting her own apartment. It was the first time I remember understanding what it must mean to be lonely.
Despite having what I would call a good relationship with my grandma, I can’t say we ever had a substantive conversation about anything, at least that I can recall. I’ve always tended to be superficial and aloof, even with family members. Never by design; it was just my way. It’s something I would like to change.
As I got later into my 20’s, I started to wonder about my grandmother’s life, and why I wasn’t more connected to it. Why had we never talked about her childhood, or my grampa? Probably because I never asked, and never gave the impression that I gave a damn about any of that.
Even when she was living with my parents, I never approached her about anything, never asked questions about the past. Barely said anything at all, really.
"Hi, Grandma."
"Bye, Grandma."
And then, she died. I knew it was going to happen that way. The more I realized that I wanted to talk to her, the more I knew I wasn’t going to do it. As we sat at the funeral, I listened to someone give her eulogy, a well-meaning, obligatory representative of whichever denomination my grandmother had been. The problem was, I don’t think this person had ever met my grandmother; she hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time in church. It was the dreaded Generic Eulogy.
As I thought about her life, there wasn’t a lot to celebrate, in my mind. She had lost her husband years ago, had bad health, and generally hadn’t had a lot of good things happen to her the last few decades. And now, someone who didn’t even know her was giving her eulogy. It was a bad way to end a life.
I never spoke about this with my mother (so she’s surely going to be surprised to read about it). There wasn’t much to say, I figured. Grandma had grown up in Whiting, Kansas, moved to Topeka, met my Grandfather, lived very modestly, had two daughters, and lived harder than her body would tolerate. Obviously, there was more to it than that: Shorty and Mary Lou had surely had romantic moments under the moonlight, or the thrill of buying a first house, of seeing their daughters grow up; all the things that make up a life. But her last years weren’t easy, and I really didn’t know what to say or feel about her death other than be sad that I hadn’t spoken to her, or that her life wasn’t happier.
And then, a couple years ago, I was looking at some old pictures with my mom. There was a photo of my grandmother as a very young girl, sitting in an elaborate chair, with a prim and proper dress on. It was recognizably my grandmother, but the picture didn’t seem to fit with what I knew about her life. I expressed surprise at the photo, and my mom told me this story:
When Mary Lou was a young girl (Three? Five?) my great-grandmother had given her away to a family she knew in Oregon, because she feared that she wouldn’t be able to care for her. Times were hard, in a way I think is hard to understand for most people today. My grandmother’s new family was somewhat well to do, and there were brothers and sisters. She became one of their children, for a number of years.
And then, my great-grandmother had a change of heart, or perhaps a change of means, and retrieved Mary Lou from the family in Oregon. Back to Whiting, KS.
I’m not suggesting that being in Oregon was better than being in Kansas, or vice-versa. I’m not suggesting being with a wealthy family would have changed her life at all. I’ll never know that. And I certainly don’t blame my great-grandmother for either giving her up or bringing her back. I never had to walk in those shoes, thankfully. I thought back to my Grandma’s eulogy; there was no mention then of Oregon.
Had she loved the people in Oregon? Was she old enough to understand that she had been given away? (Certainly, she understood it when she was older.) Did she ever think about Oregon late in her life, and wonder if things might have turned out differently for her? What was it like to be taken away from your family not once, but twice?
My regret for not engaging her grew more deeply, and my sadness about her life grew more profound. Who knows how our relationship might have grown, had I been willing to invest some time? These are the regrets that build up over a lifetime.
Most of all, I wish I had told her that I enjoyed spending time with her and Grandpa when I was a kid. Whenever I’m in a small town, or a tavern with regulars, I think of being with them. The thoughts aren’t all positive; you see people with problems, people down on their luck. But you also see people who care about each other, people trying to have a good time in the face of other problems that may exist in their lives.
I can still picture being in Paxico, Kansas: Playing pool with the old-timers, Grandma and Grandpa showing me off to anybody and everybody in the bar, and Boston on the jukebox. Good times.
