conversation in Dutch. At ninety, she still beat nearly everyone at Scrabble. At ninety-five, furious, she phoned my mother with a list of words: Internet, cyberspace, modem . My mother defined them one by one, but my grandmother wasnât appeased. âThey shouldnât be allowed to have words that arenât in the dictionary,â she said.
I see her now as she pulls a steaming pan of chicken from the oven. She strides impatiently into the center of the thickest raspberry patch, ignoring the thorns that tug and tear at the loose skin on her arms. Winters, she walks out to the barn through the drifts wearing only a short-sleeved dress, ladiesâ shoes from J C Penneyâs, hose striped with runs. If one of the geese forgets itself and hisses, she snatches it up by the neck and swings it forward and back.
âMind your manners,â she says, then lets it sail.
She never raises her voice to her grandchildren. She doesnât have to. When my brother refuses to eat his liver and onions, she offers to fix him a ground glass sandwich instead. We know she isnât joking. My brother cleans his plate. I take a second helping, just to be safe.
My father calls her Big Mama âbut never to her face.
Even the bull knows enough to leave her alone.
She tells us the story of going to get her tonsils yanked . It was 1908. Her father hitched the horses to the wagon and took her into âtown,â which would have meant Random Lake. A nurse held her mouth open as Doctor reached down her throat with a long-handled scissors. There was no anesthetic, not even a piece of ice to suck. Her father paid the bill, then drove her back home.
âDid you cry?â I want to know.
âWhat good would that have done?â she says, and sheâs right.
Sundays after Mass, we cross the street to the cemetery, where she tidies my grandfatherâs grave. I long to know more about his death, but my grandmother deflects my questions, pretends she doesnât hear. I have only the facts from my mother, who was too young to remember him,who knows no more than this: that he lost his balance and fell off a wagon, landing on a pitchfork. That he didnât die right away. That the night of his wake, the aurora borealis appeared, and no one could remember having ever seen it so bright. People believed it was my grandfatherâs message from heaven, his good-bye.
Walking back to the car, my grandmother spots a thistle growing in the lawn. Without warning, she jackknifes at the waist, jerks it up. âToss this in the field,â she says. I accept it like a crown of thorns. Her own hands are so callused that the prickers donât stick. She brushes them off like flour.
Â
There is strength in my family, and then there is weakness.
My other grandmother, my fatherâs mother, doesnât like me any better than she did when I was five, though sheâs awfully fond of my brother. My mother says I shouldnât take it personally. Grandma Ansay, she says, is old-fashioned , and old-fashioned people like boys better than girls. It isnât fair, but it canât be helped.
Grandma Ansay tries to wheedle my brother away from my mother whenever she can. Sometimes she pulls him aside and gives him a gift. It could be a quarter, or a brand-new watch, or a savings bond. By now, sheâs had her stroke âthatâs what we call it, as if itâs something sheâs selected for herself, like a peculiar hatâand she walks witha cane, dragging one leg. Her speech is slurred. She often cries. But then, sheâs been sickly all her life, always complaining: this ache, that pain. My father doesnât call her Big Mama or Mom or Ma or anything else, although he says Mother when heâs speaking about her in the third person, as in Mother never came with us to the fields and Pa always said that Mother bought shoes to fit her head and not her feet .
Twice a month, we have dinner at this
I see her now as she pulls a steaming pan of chicken from the oven. She strides impatiently into the center of the thickest raspberry patch, ignoring the thorns that tug and tear at the loose skin on her arms. Winters, she walks out to the barn through the drifts wearing only a short-sleeved dress, ladiesâ shoes from J C Penneyâs, hose striped with runs. If one of the geese forgets itself and hisses, she snatches it up by the neck and swings it forward and back.
âMind your manners,â she says, then lets it sail.
She never raises her voice to her grandchildren. She doesnât have to. When my brother refuses to eat his liver and onions, she offers to fix him a ground glass sandwich instead. We know she isnât joking. My brother cleans his plate. I take a second helping, just to be safe.
My father calls her Big Mama âbut never to her face.
Even the bull knows enough to leave her alone.
She tells us the story of going to get her tonsils yanked . It was 1908. Her father hitched the horses to the wagon and took her into âtown,â which would have meant Random Lake. A nurse held her mouth open as Doctor reached down her throat with a long-handled scissors. There was no anesthetic, not even a piece of ice to suck. Her father paid the bill, then drove her back home.
âDid you cry?â I want to know.
âWhat good would that have done?â she says, and sheâs right.
Sundays after Mass, we cross the street to the cemetery, where she tidies my grandfatherâs grave. I long to know more about his death, but my grandmother deflects my questions, pretends she doesnât hear. I have only the facts from my mother, who was too young to remember him,who knows no more than this: that he lost his balance and fell off a wagon, landing on a pitchfork. That he didnât die right away. That the night of his wake, the aurora borealis appeared, and no one could remember having ever seen it so bright. People believed it was my grandfatherâs message from heaven, his good-bye.
Walking back to the car, my grandmother spots a thistle growing in the lawn. Without warning, she jackknifes at the waist, jerks it up. âToss this in the field,â she says. I accept it like a crown of thorns. Her own hands are so callused that the prickers donât stick. She brushes them off like flour.
Â
There is strength in my family, and then there is weakness.
My other grandmother, my fatherâs mother, doesnât like me any better than she did when I was five, though sheâs awfully fond of my brother. My mother says I shouldnât take it personally. Grandma Ansay, she says, is old-fashioned , and old-fashioned people like boys better than girls. It isnât fair, but it canât be helped.
Grandma Ansay tries to wheedle my brother away from my mother whenever she can. Sometimes she pulls him aside and gives him a gift. It could be a quarter, or a brand-new watch, or a savings bond. By now, sheâs had her stroke âthatâs what we call it, as if itâs something sheâs selected for herself, like a peculiar hatâand she walks witha cane, dragging one leg. Her speech is slurred. She often cries. But then, sheâs been sickly all her life, always complaining: this ache, that pain. My father doesnât call her Big Mama or Mom or Ma or anything else, although he says Mother when heâs speaking about her in the third person, as in Mother never came with us to the fields and Pa always said that Mother bought shoes to fit her head and not her feet .
Twice a month, we have dinner at this
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