My grandma often said, “He’s a winner!” about my son, reflecting her immense pride in us all, even when we struggled to feel it ourselves.
My Grandma absolutely loved me. Like most others, I had two grandmas. One who loved me dearly, but didn’t like me much. Then there was the Grandma who absolutely loved me and also liked me quite a bit. While both were piano teachers, one gave private lessons, and since she liked me, would set aside money to buy me and my brother and cousin things at the department store. She would hand us each a five-dollar bill and let us pick out anything we wanted. Never did she question our choices of a plastic rifle, an action figure, or anything else as long as it was in the $5 budget. At her funeral, when introduced to these students for the first time, I joked that the minimal money she charged often would go to us, to the chagrin of my brother and cousin.
It’s not possible to think about her without including both my older brother and my oldest cousin all together. Our trio was allowed unthinkable perks from the rest of the family as the first grandkids. Our exclusivity began like most with the isolation of the kiddie table, but when other grandkids came along instead of making room for them, we were granted the refuge of escaping to the backroom. Grandma and Grandpa’s bedroom was temporarily converted for us during holidays into our private dining room and den. As we got older, entry to the private room was extended only to our guests. None of the other grandkids were granted access.
As the lone emissary between the two worlds: that of the adults and us the older kids, my Grandma would scuttle back and forth making sure we had enough to drink and to ensure that our plates were as full as we wanted them to be. One of the things that needed to be on each of our plates – included with the turkey or ham or other meat – would always have to be deviled eggs. I’m not sure which of us loved them more, but anytime we didn’t get one or didn’t have enough, she would say ‘Well, I made it just for you.’ And that guilt would make you accept as many eggs as a kid could possibly eat. It didn’t hurt that they were delicious. Others in our family have since tried to use her recipe, but none of us come close to the perfection that were her deviled eggs.
Our island unto ourselves was a staple of every holiday. For Christmas, we’d venture out long enough to unwrap gifts and say as many ‘thank yous’ as necessary before retiring back to the room to open packages and compare goodies and scoff at the inevitable pairs of socks. Did the rest of the family come to resent us a bit for the treatment we got over everyone else? Maybe. We were being exempt from anything we didn’t feel like doing and that might have rubbed a few people the wrong way. But my Grandma always wanted to feel comfortable. It was that comfort that made visiting her all the more an escape.
When a date was set, we would mark it on the calendar and count down the days until we all three would spend the night at her house. My older brother, myself, and my oldest cousin would all meet at hers after school. She’d first take us out to a quick dinner at anything we wanted but was almost always Skyline. After dinner, we’d head over the Blockbuster, and she’d let us rent a game each. All of these games were 3 or 5- day rentals, but we’d only be over at her house for a night or 2, but that never mattered to her. Value was us having a good time.
Sometimes, instead of going straight back to her place and diving into our video games, on special nights she would take us bowling. She would destroy us. There was no mercy. She would encourage us to play a good game, but rarely would she give us pointers. We were there to have a good time, and she was there to utterly humiliate us. On the even more rare occasions that my Grandpa would come along bowling, the game became a serious affair. They instantly switched from caring Grandparents to fierce rivals. Though there wasn’t any animosity between them during the game, they’d shit-talk each other in ways that only seniors who have been together since teenagers can. Their digs were subtle and as the game progressed, the score would tighten back and forth. They played like their pride was on the line. As we watched them, you could tell that this was always something they shared. No matter who won, the loser would always want another game. Usually, us kids didn’t stick around for the rematch, and instead sought out the arcade to drop quarters into machines to shoot or beat something up.
At night, the three of us would switch between whatever cartridges we rented and play until our Grandpa, decked out in undershirt tucked into whitey tighties, would tell us lights out. When morning came, we were awakened to the smell of bacon. There was always a spread for breakfast. A selection of mini-breakfast cereals, chocolate milk, and scrambled eggs.
From there, my Grandpa would put on golf while we found a movie to watch on their premium channels. To this day, I still can’t understand why they would pay for movie channels they never watched. My only guess is that the golf channels came packaged with them, so there they were.
We’d always find a movie that was entirely inappropriate for us to watch, but instead of forbidding us from watching something, my Grandma (much like my Dad) would only question us on our choices. “Why would you watch that?” It didn’t help that without fail, any time we found a movie, my Grandma would come into the room at the most obscene or violent scene. Like, she had seen the movie before, spied us from the other room, and knew when her queue came to spring upon us. A good example of this was the film The Running Man (Paul Michael Glaser, 1987). We were caught up on the action flick when my Grandma walked in and asked her usual “Whatcha, watchin?” Before we could answer, Dona Hardy delivered her incredible line about who was going to make the next kill. When Dona replies that Ben Richards would be the one, the host reminds her that Ben is a ‘runner’ and she has to pick a ‘stalker’. Now, my Grandma is watching the screen, she’s laser focused on this woman who is only a little bit older than her as Agnes McArdle retorts: “I can vote for anyone I want, and I endorse Ben Richards. That boy is one mean motherfucker!” My Grandma rolled her eyes and let out her signature “oh good grief, boys…”
It was always something like that. Maybe we picked movies that had a high chance of it happening, but we were given freedom with her to make those mistakes, and it was liberating. For the rest of her life, it was like that with her grandkids. She wasn’t always crazy about the choices we made, but she was damn proud of each of us for our own reasons and she let us make those mistakes without putting us through a guilt trip.
In the last years of her life, my son had just been born and I talked to her on the phone every few days. Her mind was going, so sometimes in the morning she’d ask me how California was or if it was later in the day she’d ask if I was going to drive down from Ohio to see her in Kentucky. Even in those dim conversations, there would be these glorious moments of clarity where she would tell me about her childhood or how my dad or aunts or uncles were as kids. Overall, she was incredibly proud of me for being a stay-at-home dad who took care of my son since he was a newborn. During our conversations, I’d ask her how to get the baby down for a nap or the best way to get him to burp. For someone who felt trapped in the only safe place she could stay, she loved being useful and still being able to support me. She was still my Grandma. From what I heard from the people who got to spend time with her during those years, the stories were mixed. Some would struggle with being around her because of the dementia and paranoia that was getting progressively worse since my Grandpa passed. I would listen to her talk about how she felt like her kids were controlling her or taking power of her life away, but in the same sentence, she would talk about how much of a blessing they were. I’ve been away from all that family for so long, both in physical and emotional distance, but being able to talk to my Grandma on the phone gave me one last experience of being a part of that family.
She wasn’t always crazy about the choices we made, but she was damn proud of each of us for our own reasons and she let us make those mistakes without putting us through a guilt trip.
She was able to meet my son a few times. She would light up when she saw him. The first visit she still looked like she had when I was a kid, and with my baby boy on her knee they both had the biggest smiles. It is a memory and photo that means the world to me. There was a phrase she used all the time, but I didn’t really understand it until she made it about my son. She would say “He’s a winner!”. At any reference to anything he did well or tried, she would respond with that. It made me think back on all of the times she had said it about us or her kids or grandkids or daughter or son in-laws. She was immensely proud of all of us even when we weren’t proud of ourselves.
When she passed a thread that ran through all of our lives and one that kept us together came apart. I remember leaving the service and suddenly feeling an empty feeling while being surrounded by that side of the family. She had always been the one who made me feel like I mattered at those gatherings and when she was gone, truly gone, I knew that I would never know my family in the same way that I had with her. I don’t mean any of that in a negative way. My family is filled with some absolutely amazing people. Their love for their kids and own grandkids, how hard they work providing the best life possible for each, is inspiring. I know that I will always love each one of them, but there is a piece missing that will never be replaced. She was a winner and we all won by her being in our lives.
