Grand Ma-Ma
by Michael A.
Skrien
“Things
could always be worse.” Grandma would say.
Then she would sew grandpa to the back of the
chair and light the curtains on fire. Smashing
glassware, tipping over the lamps and holding her
glass eye high above her head, grinning slyly,
saying “See? See? SEE!”
I have such fond memories of Grand Ma-Ma.
She is the reason I studied embalming. She taught
me most terminal illnesses are psychosomatic. Her
skills in taxidermy were legendary. Grandpa
– rather, his likeness - is still sewn to
the blue and green paisley chairback, eyes and
mouth wide open. His likeness as real as his
silence.
We never knew whose parent Grand Ma-Ma was. My
folks weren’t around much and she never told
us. But oh, the joy and bounty she brought to our
childhood. My brother and I can still give any
house pet a lobotomy without getting blood on the
carpet. We owe her that.
Grandpa never could speak without her
interrupting. The most he could emit was a
syllable or two, his mouth agape, the words
forming like a slow and slobbery eviction of
orifice. Back in they’d go as Grand Ma-Ma
spoke her version of his thoughts. His eyes
turned towards the noise. “He said to clean
up the kitchen!” We’d follow grandpa’s
suggestion and go clean the kitchen. Grandpa was
usually so frightened he soiled himself.
She taught me love. There used to be a rabbit
that would frequent the garden. He would eat the
lettuce and various items Grand Ma Ma had planted.
One morning she woke my brother and me up early.
She held a Winchester 30-30 deer rifle in her
hand and carried it pointing forwards. We tip-toed
out the back porch that looked out over the
garden. There was the rabbit, munching away, nose
twitching, and chewing. As she motioned, I opened
the screen door ever so slowly. G-Ma gently
raised the gun and took aim. POW!!! She blew a
hole just to the left of the rabbit that made it
jump 5 feet in the air, after which it ran scared
and into the woods. “That’s love.”
She said.
She was tough as nails too. Most of the time, she’d
walk around with an awl sticking out of the back
of each hand, each one having stabbed the other.
“He who lives by not caring about stabbing
himself in the temple with an awl, shall die by
not caring about stabbing himself in the temple
with an awl.” Her wise words still ring in
my ears. I stayed away from awls after hearing
that.
Some days, I sit on the couch and “talk”
with grandpa. He’s a good listener. We both
yearn for the good ol days with Grand Ma-Ma. Then,
per her final instructions, we’ll take a
pinch of her out of the urn and sprinkle it in
our chartreuse and tequila cocktail and down it.
Sometimes grandpa needs help with his. I can
still hear her saying “He said drink your
shot, boy!”
Ahhhhhh….Grand Ma-Ma. I raise my glass and
my eye to thee!
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