An Anniversary, Of Sorts

My grandma was born in Modesto, California in 1917. She was born on July 4. The last child born to a woman in her fifties, her mother hadn't even picked out names for the baby in her belly. The doctor named her Grace Liberty.

By the time my grandma came into the world her father had managed to gamble away most of the family's money. There were five children to support and the Depression was effecting folks on the west coast in the same way as the rest of the country. The house my grandma grew up in was a house in name only. It was actually a cook house. It was a one room shack with no sink, no bathroom, no running water. There was a bed and a stove. My grandma was wrapped in blankets and placed in the stove during the winter so she would stay warm. Rather than a bathroom, my grandma used an outhouse. During high school the bus drove right by the house to pick up my grandma for school. She would try to time her visits to the outhouse so that she wouldn't be coming out of it as the bus drove by.

My grandma had two dresses growing up. Her family was poor, that's how it was. She had two older sisters, so she was supplied with hand-me-downs throughout her life. But probably because she wanted her own clothes, she learned how to sew. Her first job was as a seamstress where she earned 33 1/3 cents an hour. She used the money to buy fabric to make clothes.

My grandma grew into an exquisitely beautiful woman. She was teased horribly when she was a child. There were people in her neighborhood who wouldn't allow their kids to play with her because she appeared to be "ethnic". Born with black hair, brown eyes and olive skin that would tan to a deep brown in the summer, she was often mistaken as Mexican. While we have no proof that anything untoward happened between my great-grandmother and someone other than her husband, there have always been rumors that my grandma was illegitimate. She never learned to see her beauty. Her strong, high cheekbones, her long slender fingers, soft, glowing skin, and a smile that would knock you over were all embarrassments to her. In her entire life I don't know that she ever had a positive thought about herself.

She was married at some point to my real grandfather, Morgan. (I say real because he died when my mom was 10, and my grandma remarried to the only grandpa I knew, Rocky.) They were not married in a church, there was no elaborate ceremony. They were married by a judge in the courthouse, she in a smart blue suit, he in his Air Force uniform. Morgan was a flight instructor in World War II, teaching young pilots to fly Mustang bombers. Because he was in the Air Force they moved around a lot, but always stayed in California. After the war was over, my grandma had her two children, my aunt then my mom. (If you're interested, here's the story of why my aunt doesn't talk to us anymore.) She had one miscarriage, a boy, between the two girls.

My grandma and I had a very special relationship. She would never say it aloud, but she favored me over her three other grandchildren. She loved us all equally and treated us all equally, this was very important to her. But we had a special connection, a bond that none of the other grand kids had with her. In my eyes she saw what she wanted to be. She saw nothing but love and awe and wonder and a woman who was perfect and could do no wrong. I loved my grandma more than any person on this earth.

As she got older I began to do things for her, just as a favor, not because she wasn't capable. I cleaned her house, ran errands for her, that sort of thing. I saw her every week, at least once sometimes more often. She came to almost every one of my soccer games for the nine years I played. And even after I went away to college we remained very close. We talked every Wednesday night.

A Wednesday night came when things went horribly wrong. I made my usual call to my grandma. See, how it worked was I would call her and then she would call me right back so I wouldn't have long distance charges. I had just moved into a new house with a new roommate after getting out of the miserable situation with The Bitches.

When my grandma picked up the phone she sounded distant, sick even. It took her an especially long time to call me back. When she finally did, her voice was frail and weak sounding. I asked her what was wrong and she said she was tired.

"So how is the new house?"

"It's good grandma. I like it. It's close to campus so I can walk to school."

"That's good sweetie. So you're happy. "

"Yeah grandma, I'm happy."

"Good sweetie. I love you very much."

"I love you too Grandma."

When we hung up the phone I called my mom. I told her that she needed to check on Grandma because she didn't sound right.

The next morning I was awakened by a too-early phone call from my dad. I could tell; I knew the second I heard his voice that my grandma was gone. She had died the night before.

I already had tickets to go home because Spring Break was starting in a couple of days. I packed my bag, called a taxi and prayed that people would leave me alone as I boarded the plane to fly home. I cried silently during the flight as I tried to emblazon every memory of my grandma in my brain.

That was the worst day of my life.