Sketches of My Grandma

My paternal grandma, Marion Cole, passed away earlier this week. When I heard my dad’s voice on the other end of the line, late in the evening, whisper, “Hi Mitchy”, I knew.  My heart sank a little and then I said to myself, “Well, she’ll be telling her dirty jokes in heaven.”  That might seem to you to be an odd first response to this kind of news, however, if you knew my Grandma, its a highly appropriate one.  

You see, Grandma always had some sort of low-brow, bathroom humour joke ready for delivery.  So that she wouldn’t forget it, she’d have it written down on a scrap piece of paper in her impeccable cursive writing and stored safely and easily accessible in her purse.  She’d sort of corner you and tell you she had a joke for you.  As she told it, even before she had finished with the punch line, she would giggle - it would literally crack her up, she would snicker and then snort in delight at it (a snort, that I must mention, I inherited).  It doesn’t matter how often she had already told it - the act of telling such a joke (whether in polite company or not) was enough to get her going.  And I loved to watch her tell these jokes it was both a source of embarrassment and of pride.  I would, at seven, marvel at just how cool it was to have a grandma who had made a “cock” joke.  She had a true sense of humour.  She loved to joke around, prank (yes she had a whoopee cushion and wasn’t afraid to use it) and to use double entendres or to make puns.

Its taken me a few days now to reflect on her passing.  Her life.  Her mommy-ness to my father and Uncle and her grandma-ness to myself and my sister.  Oh yeah, and her mother-in-law-ness to my mom - more on that...well...probably never.

Grandma Cole, as we called her, was a true one-of-a-kind.  She had so many eccentricities to me and yet to others she was startlingly normal.  I don’t really know a lot about her in terms of her life prior to being my Grandma.  I know she lived in Vegreville, was a mom, had a passionate (both love and anger-filled) marriage that ultimately ended in divorce, but still an odd friendship with my Grandpa Terry and his wife, my second Grandma Madeline after they had moved on (I think he took care of her investments and tax matters, they exchanged Christmas cards, were quite civil).

I didn’t know many of her friends, but she had an active social life and was involved in some causes, volunteering and donating money after working for years for Alberta Healthcare - though I’m ashamed to say I don’t know what role she had there.  She had a good friend Ollie that she’d always get together with and was very close with her sister Doreen.  She visited her Parents, Mae and Hiram Burgar often when they were still alive.  These are just shady biographical details about her that have little to no relevance to you.  What my memories contain, though, are nuggets of joy.  I will focus on these memories because they are extremely vivid.  My memory is able to recall sensory details of our times together.

First and foremost - she loved dogs.  It didn’t matter what breed - or whether or not she was dressed for it - she’d get down on the ground in her silk pant suit and frolic with the pups.  Its amazing she still had all of her appendages at 84.  Despite not knowing whether they were friendly or not, she’d let them lick her face and mouth.  She loved them.  I think my sister inherited this love - and I know my dad did.  She also loved the outdoors and being active.  She was a great golfer and clogger and line dancer.  She always had ants in her pants (unless she was focusing on a crossword puzzle - one of the only times in her day where she’d be sitting still).

As young school girls, my sister Kelly and I would go to grandma’s apartment near the river valley just off Jasper Avenue in Edmonton every few months for a sleep over.  We’d arrive after lunch, and the first thing we would request to do was to go for a swim in her building’s pool. She was always happy to oblige. We’d go down in our suits with our towels wrapped around us. I remember thinking how weird it was to be taking an elevator ride barefoot and wrapped in towels, but she only lived on the second floor so the ride wasn't that long.  “What if we get warts, Grandma?” I wondered, “Well, that’d be fitting because you’re a worrywart and your sister is a warthog.” she replied.  We’d swim with her and she’d be doing laps the whole time it seemed.  Then she’d walk us to the shower and scrub our hair extremely vigorously with Finesse 2-in-1 and scalding hot water.  I was always slightly afraid in these moments that chunks of my scalp were washing down the drain.  Her pearlized talons made our heads tingle.  Atleast I’d rest-assured that there would be no traces of chlorine in my hair.

We would go back to her suite to have our hair combed (again, vigorously) and for some dinner and dessert (ice cream was always in abundance in her deep freeze).  We’d watch some PBS (Laurence Welk was a perennial favourite and she’d square dance with us on her ivory high-pile carpet infront of her wood-encased rear projection tv which sat on the floor).  Then we would sleep on her shit brindle coloured hide-a-bed under her series of woven paintings of a Native brother and Sister.

I remember that we’d awake in the morning to her eating a grapefruit with her special spoon.  She’d be sitting quietly in her easy chair, with her feet up on her plush, burnt orange toadstool footstool, reading the paper.  She read the thing front to back and used those special zig zag scrapbooking scissors to cut out articles.  She loved to brag about her son’s accomplishments to strangers - one time, in line to get famous curler Randy Ferbey’s autograph, she told him she was my dad’s mother and that they share a startling physical resemblance.  She even deigned to get a photo taken of the occasion.   She kept a copy of the enlarged photo in a clear report cover and brought it with her to many occasions.  She also did this with comics and articles.  I’m pretty sure she scrapbooked all most all of my father’s newspaper articles.

If she wasn’t reading the paper, she’d be doing a crossword puzzle.  The woman had a stellar vocabulary and loved puzzles - she also do jigsaw puzzles, the smaller the pieces the better and if one was in progress on the coffee table or dining room table we were absolutely forbidden to mess with it or even go near it - she could have had hazard tape up - she was that intense about the integrity of her puzzles..  My father now does both of these things, by the way.  One thing he never picked up from her was her love of cigarettes.  She kept them in the side table drawer beside her easy chair, hidden underneath a magnifying glass, ballpoint pens, nail file,  and lighter.  She smoked a lot.  When we were little we’d watch her take out her pack, open it, select a smoke, light it carefully and take her first puff.  It seemed pretty cool.  She really seemed to enjoy it.  If we watched her or asked about it she’d simply say, “I wish I never started.  Don’t smoke girls, its a filthy habit.”  I was still mesmerized by it - it seemed mysterious and graceful.  Everything about it - her lighters, in a rainbow of colours, her package with the Rothman’s regal, lion emblem, her cigarette butts with their pink lipstick marks on them - even her ashtray seemed classy.  Angular, amber tinted glass, that could easily work as a murder weapon should an intruder need a blow to the head.

For breakfast she would always make bacon and eggs.  She used a heavy cast iron frying pan and would blacken the bacon.  I don’t think the thing ever got washed.  I recall her covering it in paper towels and putting it back in its place on top of the fridge.  Once the bacon was charred, she’d cook over easy eggs on the carcinogens remaining in the pan.  The eggs never broke and were always speckled with black.  One was never sure if it was burned bacon or iron flakes, but it was sure delicious.

After breakfast, we would usually take a long walk down the river valley sidewalk and then return to look at photo albums, play some Euchre, Cribbage, Uno or Aggravation and snack on some Hawkin’s Cheezies in her crystal candy dish.  If we tired of that we’d venture down to the game’s room - shuffleboard was where it was at!  I’ll expand now on our walks because they are the most vivid of my memories.  They were, to put it mildly, epic.  More like exploration treks.  You literally wore your shoes out on those walks - uphill both ways.  It didn't matter if it was seasonly appropriate to take a 7 year old and a 4 year old for a 10 mile walk in 25 below weather - we were hardy prairie girls who needed our exercise for goodness sake! We’d get outside and she’d say - “Oh its so fresh - girls: take a big deep breath - can you feel it in your lungs?!”  It was on these walks that she would snicker and warn us not to eat any yellow snow (apple juice) or chocolate bars (dog poop) despite how hungry we might become on our journey.  Its a good thing she kept reminding us to abstain from roadside goodies because it was just the thing we were tempted to consume!  

Near the door above the phone table, mounted high up on the wall was Grandma’s prized spoon collection.  All the spoons were housed in their own spot and all had a story.  There was one spoon, which from faraway appeared to be a complete dud.  Now I was small and of shorter stature at the time, plus I have poor vision, so these factors paired with my lack of collector’s item knowledge played a factor here.  I remember always noticing this “dud” of a spoon and wondering why on earth Grandama would give it a slot on her spoon display stand.  It was tarnished and small and the ladle was dinged and not very smooth.  Plus the handle appeared to have some green hockey tape wrapped around the end of it.  I recall asking her about it one time, saying something along the lines of, “Grams, what’s the deal with that spoon there with the dirt on it?”  She took it down and carefully handed it to me - its from Mexico honey and that’s not hockey tape its Greenstone a type of river stone.  Its very old and the Mayan’s probably used it.”  I was completely floored by this that Grandma would have been able to get her hands on something legitimately from Mexico.  I had no clue that she’d even been out of Alberta.  She did have a real orange tree in her apartment near the balcony sliding door.  I took this to be proof she’d been to Florida.

Grandma was “pert near” always perfectly coiffed.  I think she slept in curlers, but we never saw them.  Nor did we see her ever sleep.  She stayed up after we went to bed and rose before we did and all was ever saw of her bedroom (you didn’t horse around in there) was a perfectly made bed with hospital corners.  But back to her appearance.  She kept her silvery white hair sporty and short, but she never had a hair out of place (thanks to Aquanet).  She wore bright lipstick, but not much else in the way of makeup and had her non-existent eyebrows tattooed on.  When she told me this I think I was ten.  I was sitting on her lap and asked why her eyebrows were purplish.  At the time I thought only pirates and bikers got tattoos.  She was pretty cool after this.  Grandma was always very put together.  Matching pant suits, pressed and dry cleaned, unique broaches and earrings. Her accessories always matched (shoes and hand bags) and she wore sockettes which I’m not sure I’ve seen very often.   She dressed quite “smart and spiffy” as she would say and I don’t recall meeting another woman who brought ballet-style slippers in her purse with her to other people’s places which she would be sure to put on at the door upon arrival. 

Sometimes I would go into the bathroom and run the tap so that she’d think I was “widdling” (her word).  But instead I’d kneel on the closed toilet and slide open her olive green metal medicine cabinet cupboards and unscrew all of her creams, lotions, powders and potions.  I smelled them.  Deeply inhaling the smell of my Grandma and trying to locate the one that she used everyday so that I knew, officially, what made her smell the way she did when she pulled you in for one of her boa constrictor, squeeze of death, vice grip bear hugs. She would clutch you to her generous bosom and say “Love ya!” in a jaunty tone and always with a bit of a baby voice.  She got a lot of mileage out of that baby voice.  Especially if she wanted something.  Whenever we’d call over for a chat she’d say, “It’d sure be nice to see you more often.  Sheesh you know I only have 2 grand children!” It was a bit of a whiny voice, but it had its intended effect!

My last memory of Grandma was, no, not her gravity-defying tomato aspic with green onions and peas suspended in vodka-flavoured tomato jelly, but her kisses which were very abrasive, but you were certain you were very loved as you emerged from her embrace with lipstick marks and sometimes bruises on your upper torso.  I'll miss you Grandma.  Your legacy lives on every time I get a scalp massage at the salon or when I hear polka music or eat a cheezee.