Granny

Before I returned from Florida, I took this picture of my grandmother the week after Thanksgiving. I guess I wasn’t checking what I was doing since the shot was really over exposed. After using this program or that, I was able to get this with its horrible color and unnatural hues. I’m not sure why I took the picture, since she didn’t want to do it, other than she’s 92 and everyday you hear people younger than her dropping off. Plus 2 or 3 days before, I was watching TV and looked over at her, only to see her spooning out of a Vaseline jar.

 

“What are you eating?" I asked not really looking for an answer.

“Jean told me to use this,” I think she replied.

I’m not quite sure because all I was doing was looking at the white tasteless gooey stuff stick to her tongue and the edge of her dentures and thinking of how I’d have to find something to scrape that off with and if I should call 911 or poison control.

It’s funny, was this the same woman that I would terrorize each time she came back to my parents home after living with uncle So and So,  and uncle This and That? It wasn’t until I was 17 or 18 that I realized that perhaps those men weren’t uncles of mine since my mother was an only child.

I remembered then that she had been complaining about having dry skin and I decided to wait and see what would happen. 

Nothing really did happen. She had the runs of course a few hours later but by that time my mother was back from wherever she had gone and was able to take care of that. And I was left to think, was this what I have to look forward to if I follow my mother’s gene pool instead of my father’s?

Just One More Story, Perhaps

Ego is not one of the reasons that I started doing a blog. I have kept a diary or journal before, but for one reason or another I had stopped making entries and I wanted to leave some sort of record behind of the experiences that I had had and the way that I had felt about them. It’s not that any of them are really important but I wanted to do something similar to the great diarists like Samuel Pepys and others and leave an impression of the age that I lived in.
There is also I believe an African tradition of leaving an oral history behind, a custom of telling stories that are passed on down through the ages in order for those who come after us to learn. I don’t know if it’s still in operation but I had heard that a group of people had set up a box in Grand Central in New York where people could go for about an hour and have themselves interviewed and their stories recorded for posterity. This, in a small way is what I am trying to do.

My grandmother has been ill for about 3 or 4 years. She is not a handsome woman, in fact she looks a little like Mandela, Nelson not Winnie and I have decided that I should try and get her story before it’s too late for either one of us. I am not sure what it is that I want her to tell me, I already know much of her life. I know how her father forced the man who impregnated her at 16 to marry her at 17. How some years later she and Oscar Greene had been sitting down to breakfast when they heard on the radio “Love is a many Splendored Thing” dedicated to Oscar from Eileen and of how he packed his bags and left without a word; granny’s name is Winifred. I have heard the stories of how she would then send my mother to her father for some money so they could both eat.

I have even heard the stories of how when we first met, when I would run up to her, spit in her face and scratch her. All of this while I was bow legged with a nose so flat that she would have to mold it with her hands in order for me to breathe. I have heard her tell the story of how she saw JFK get shot on the TV and of how she heard Jackie scream “Oh no!” It took me a while to figure that they didn’t have live TV in ’63 and even now when they show the Super-8 movie of the assassination, there is no sound, but then it’s not important.

What is important is that I get her story what ever it is. It may be of no use to anyone but herself and I probably wont even put it down. But still, I will have it and as long as she doesn’t start to tell me about how she ran dawn patrol with Hillary in Bosnia, then I will be happy.

All I want is just one more story.

A Tale of Grannies

I don’t know when Barak (Barry) Obama first met his grandmother. I don’t know how they have developed a relationship on two different continents separated by a vast ocean, but I am sure that she is proud of him. Any grandmother would be proud of any one of her grandchildren who were able to pursue their dreams. Whether that dream was to be the most powerful person in the free world or be the first one in the family to complete a high school education; pride is never very far from a grandmother’s heart.

I have always called my grandmothers granny and I have often wondered how they felt about me. Granny, my mother’s mother is proud of me just because I can walk straight. When I was younger I was bow legged and pigeon toed, a combination of deformities that she remembers fondly of helping me overcome. Although, I get the feeling that if my legs hadn’t of straightened out in time, she might have persuaded my mother leave me out back at night and let the elements have their way. Granny has lived with my family since I was two, but my earliest memories are of Granny Muriel, my father’s mother. I don’t know how I came to call her using her first name, I think I’m the only grandson who does that, but that’s how I refer to her, even thirty-one years after her death.

I remember when I was four, my sister had not been born yet so those were the happy days when I received all the attention, at least from my parents and I was out with Granny Muriel and at least one of my aunts somewhere. There was a cup in a store window that had a picture of a naked woman in relief on one side. Attached to the cup by a thin wire were boobs that swung separately and provocatively. They were large with nipples that were perky and pointed upwards like how you would see on a sixteen year girl or a woman who has had a successful relationship with her plastic surgeon. They made me laugh and this pleased Granny Muriel. She bought the cup for me.

Over the years, even through her illnesses, she would buy other things for me, usually clothes that I grew out of. However, after I while I became less sure that she knew my name. I was always Victor’s boy. But then I think I was somewhere around the tenth grandchild out of thirty-two or five at the time she passed on so it was really forgivable. So when she died, I stayed in my room for about two days and I said to myself that I would hold onto that cup, because it was the last thing that I had to remind me of her. But eventually, that too went.

I still remember the cup falling in slow motion, just like in the movies; it shattered into a hundred pieces. However, at that moment I realized I didn’t need cheap porcelain crap to remind me of her. I still had pictures that my father hoarded somewhere, one day I will have them transferred digitally somewhere, and I still had my memories of her that can be triggered just by a passing thought, a faint resemblance to someone or a sense familiarity that brings me back to her.

I say all of this because Torrance Stephens, the author of the blog Raw Dawg Buffalo has been one of the authors who has revealed to me what a blog can be capable of. By his own example he has shown me that writing can be an avenue for exploration and not just an excuse for personal diatribe or petty discourse. I read his blog whenever I can and I am never, not rewarded for doing so. He also calls his grandmother, granny which was a surprise to me, since I had never known anyone else to use that term. Unfortunately I learned it by finding out that his granny had passed away recently.

Now I am not a religious person, I’m C of E (Church of England) that should explain everything, but I wanted to let Torrance know that the hurt and the pain will go away eventually but the memories of her will last forever and maybe one day, not soon, the fact that you have those memories will be privilege enough.

As for you others, check out Torrance’s blog. Although, he has more than his fair share of readers and there maybe something that you wont agree with, there's lots there for you to think about, pro and or con. Stay awhile put your feet up, relax and enjoy the ride.

Life without Father

I went to Tampa for two of the last three major holidays, which is a lot for me. When my parents first moved down there I didn’t go there for the two or three years. Due to our family squabbles, it was not my sort of place to go and have a good time. Actually my family fights all the time. I’m not sure if we exist in spite of, or maybe because of our fights. We have child molesters, thieves, pimps, pushers and priests. We have all kinds. You know the old joke; in our family tree I would fall into the fruit section. Just don't let me hear some family member say that cause there would be hell. There are some who work for the State, while others are serving time for the State. So we have disagreements all the time. Anyway, for a long time, it was so long God bless and maybe I’ll see you on the other side.


You see most of the men on my father’s side die young. The women on my mother’s side seem to live forever. My mother still lives. She is basically looking after her mother who is getting close to ninety. Although, it’s even money that she may or may not make that number, but who knows. That being said, “Mommie Dearest” has passed the seventy year old mark herself and even though she is strong and relatively healthy, she may come to that point where things start to get too much for her. She has said that after my grandmother passes, she may sell the house and get something smaller, but that would require some sort of financial acumen and as Kurtz said in the Heart of Darkness or Apocalypse Now, “The horror! The horror!”

It’s not that I don’t have any trust in her financial savvy. For instance, I remember when she would she would buy clothing for me when I was younger. There was no Woolworth’s bin or bargain basement store that was too good for her first and only son. Every penny spent would be prized and accounted for no matter how I felt about the situation. I would only hope afterward that no one I knew would see me, or at least question me.

Take the time when I was eleven. She bought me a burgundy colored cardigan for school. It matched the colors that we were allowed to wear in class, but the length came down to just over my knees. “This is for women,” I told her. “No,” she said, and went on to tell me that she found it in the men’s section and that it was the latest fashion and everyone one would be wearing it. If they were, then all I can say is that I never went to drag shows at that age so I never saw them. There I was, the only fool in school wearing this long nightmare of a thing, clinging to both cheeks of my backside. Making me look like Mrs. Simms the assistant Headmistress who’s biggest attributes, I am sure anyone can ever remember, were the size of her tits and behind. I wonder if that’s when I first started to change my sexual interests.


Anyhow, dearest papa keels over a few years ago and I realize this woman, my mother that is not Mrs. Simms, does not have a clue about what she has, where it is and what it’s supposed to do there for her. After all these years of me thinking that she was today’s woman, emancipated and in control of her own life; I find out, as it happens in many households, that all money matters were handled by the man of the house and she just signed papers and followed orders.

My father had left things tied up in so many knots that I think that was partly what killed him. In fact that the day after he received a letter from the IRS telling him that he owed over 37K in taxes, was the day he moved on to glory.

“Tell them you’ve been recently widowed and knew nothing about the finances. Then offer them 10%. They will settle for 35. That money is just peanuts to the IRS. They’ll be glad to get anything. It’s just a number for somebody’s quota,” I told mother before I left Florida. But she didn’t listen, I was not my father.

One week after the funeral and two days after I left, mother decided to pay off the entire tax bill leaving me with yet, another regret to add to the list of regrets in my life. I had not taken care of things for her when she was vulnerable.

Mother, like so many of the elderly today would be happy just to get the 2% interest from Wachovia and wherever else she has her retirement accounts. My fear is that she will believe that she is not entitled to more until some slick bastard comes along, smiles and tells her that he can give her the world for just a small investment with no risk involved. Will I be able to protect her?

It’s true, I do have a rather large extended family, most of them live in New York, but some of them live in Florida. However, for the most part, they are as old as she is and whatever schemes that would fool her would probably fool them. There is Andre, a cousin of mine a year older than me who lives about fifteen to twenty miles away from her but I think he must have smoked too much ganja when he was younger or suffered a head injury that I haven’t heard about. I don’t think he would be much help.

Well, maybe I’m just worrying too much. After all when my mother took me to lunch the last time I was in Tampa, she decided it would be her treat. She took me to Romano’s Macaroni, a restaurant between the mall and the local highway. As long as we got there before 3pm the value of the coupon she received from the senior center would be doubled. As I looked around and noticed the chachki that you can only find in fine highway dining establishments located in the suburbs and the other grey and blue haired ladies that surrounded us, I thought two things, “look at the ladies who lunch – Central Florida style. God save me,” was one of them, and the other one was that some things never change. And you know what, maybe they don’t need to.


My mother has been living her life her way for the longest now. Pinching pennies when she could and throwing away money needlessly because she could. Bending when she has to and stiffening up when it was necessary. She can make her own mistakes and recover from them. She can make her own choices and be happy or not happy, because that’s what people do. We learn or we don’t learn but we keep going. And I’m sure she will, maybe even long after I’m gone.

Why this Title?

It would seem that a title like "Limited Means" would be dour and self defeating. Indeed, it is not the kind of statement that makes you run, singing and dancing into the middle of the street proclaiming how, "God is in his Heaven and all's right with the world," because we all know that in a world of global warming, uncertain national economies and political instabilities, that is not true. But it also is not a statement telling you of how sad my life has been or will be.

The title is simply just two words telling you that here is where I am and like so many institutions, like so many people doing what I can with what I have. So what am I doing? Well, primarily, I don't know.

I am reminded of my maternal grandmother when she went to Florida to live with my parents who had moved there earlier when they retired, isn't that such a cliche? Well anyway, she was telling me about how she was getting along there, living in a suburb outside of Tampa, and how nothing ever happened there. After her neighbors had left for work in the morning, the streets were empty and everyone else who was left was locked up in the air conditioned homes or they went to the air conditioned malls to spend the day. She had never driven a day in her life and now she was alone, not knowing anyone and unable to get do anything beyond a certain boundary. She told me, "there is nothing left for me to do but die." That was the last she ever spoke about the subject. That was seven years ago and she is still not dead, but I doubt that she has become any happier.

Well I don't want to just wait for death without saying a few things like grandmother, so this will be my effort. There will be no difined direction in which I will go, but will be about me and my goals and aspirations. It will be about the people I have met, friends and others. It will be about where some of us are heading or how some of us will affect the outcomes of those around us.

Of course all of this will done from my own perspective, without the help of other people or institutions. There will be no "think tank" to help me focus my thoughts or head me in the right direction. It will all be done by me. Using my sources of reasoning. Using my experiences. Using my thoughts. Using my limited means.