falling off a turnip truck
Whenever my Grammie thought someone was not giving her enough credit, or treating her as if she were stupid or naive she would say "I didn't just fall off the turnip truck." For some reason, this always made me laugh, maybe because it didn't make tons of sense to me. Since she's died, I find myself using this phrase; it's my personal tribute to her memory I suppose.
My Gram died a year ago today. Her presence in the family is missed. I still find myself thinking "I need to call and ask Grammie about that" or "I bet Gram would love that!" I usually called her at least once a week, on Sunday. I think she was really touched by the fact that she had such an active relationship with her grandkids, that she was part of our daily lives even when she was far away.
It's hard to write about my Grammie without sounding either idealist or like an ogre. My maternal grandmother was a loving woman, but she was also very difficult at times. Things had to pretty much be her way or you would hear about it. And hear about it. And hear about it. She talked non-stop, and could be kind of nasty at times in her opinions of issues and others. She was devoted to her church, and she was a die-hard Republican, but she could tell a dirty joke and drink martinis with the best of them. She used to send my kids tie-dye tshirts from this little shop in Helena. One time she told me that they had all these cool glass sculptures in this shop, and was thinking of buying one when she discovered they were pipes! AND she thinks that they were probably used for marijuana. She told me she almost bought one anyway, it was really pretty, but she was worried the guy at the counter would have a heart attack selling to a little old white haired lady.
One of the family stories about my grandmother is that one year she was working in her garden and she found this strange, fern-looking plant growing in the flower beds. She thought it would look pretty in her dried flower arrangements and picked some. When my uncle was at her house he asked why on earth she had marijuana downstairs! She asked a police friend and sure enough - my gram had pot growing in her flower beds! Of course my Uncle #1 blamed Uncle #2 and vice versa, and we never knew how on earth it got there, but my gram always thought that story was pretty funny.
Grammie couldn't hear very well, unless you were talking about something you didn't want her to know. Then she could hear you even from a different floor of the house. She would fall asleep in her chair at night, and then insist she wasn't sleeping and be grouchy when I turned the TV off. She would surprise me at times, when I told her we bought a house with a water tank so we'd have to conserve water, my 70+ grandmother told me with a lilt to her voice, "I guess you and Bob will just have to shower together, huh?" GRAM! What a thing to say!
There's no way I can really describe her here; I think part of it is that I'm still trying to process through her not being here. I'm so grateful I got to know her, to have my son know her, to hear some of her stories, and to love and be loved. Her passing was hard; for a religious woman she sure fought heading off to glory. I just figure that she was going to go on her own damn time and not on some medical time line.
Some day I'm going to have to be serious and sit down and try to write about Dee King. If anyone has an idea about how to describe the smell of Camay soap, the clink of silver miraculous medals, and the bustling oneriness of a 5'2" white haired tornado, please let me know.
My Gram died a year ago today. Her presence in the family is missed. I still find myself thinking "I need to call and ask Grammie about that" or "I bet Gram would love that!" I usually called her at least once a week, on Sunday. I think she was really touched by the fact that she had such an active relationship with her grandkids, that she was part of our daily lives even when she was far away.
It's hard to write about my Grammie without sounding either idealist or like an ogre. My maternal grandmother was a loving woman, but she was also very difficult at times. Things had to pretty much be her way or you would hear about it. And hear about it. And hear about it. She talked non-stop, and could be kind of nasty at times in her opinions of issues and others. She was devoted to her church, and she was a die-hard Republican, but she could tell a dirty joke and drink martinis with the best of them. She used to send my kids tie-dye tshirts from this little shop in Helena. One time she told me that they had all these cool glass sculptures in this shop, and was thinking of buying one when she discovered they were pipes! AND she thinks that they were probably used for marijuana. She told me she almost bought one anyway, it was really pretty, but she was worried the guy at the counter would have a heart attack selling to a little old white haired lady.
One of the family stories about my grandmother is that one year she was working in her garden and she found this strange, fern-looking plant growing in the flower beds. She thought it would look pretty in her dried flower arrangements and picked some. When my uncle was at her house he asked why on earth she had marijuana downstairs! She asked a police friend and sure enough - my gram had pot growing in her flower beds! Of course my Uncle #1 blamed Uncle #2 and vice versa, and we never knew how on earth it got there, but my gram always thought that story was pretty funny.
Grammie couldn't hear very well, unless you were talking about something you didn't want her to know. Then she could hear you even from a different floor of the house. She would fall asleep in her chair at night, and then insist she wasn't sleeping and be grouchy when I turned the TV off. She would surprise me at times, when I told her we bought a house with a water tank so we'd have to conserve water, my 70+ grandmother told me with a lilt to her voice, "I guess you and Bob will just have to shower together, huh?" GRAM! What a thing to say!
There's no way I can really describe her here; I think part of it is that I'm still trying to process through her not being here. I'm so grateful I got to know her, to have my son know her, to hear some of her stories, and to love and be loved. Her passing was hard; for a religious woman she sure fought heading off to glory. I just figure that she was going to go on her own damn time and not on some medical time line.
Some day I'm going to have to be serious and sit down and try to write about Dee King. If anyone has an idea about how to describe the smell of Camay soap, the clink of silver miraculous medals, and the bustling oneriness of a 5'2" white haired tornado, please let me know.
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