Grandma's words

Before i came to ecuador, i stayed with my aunt karen and grandmother (maternal) for a week to "make apple cider, do research on our family history and cook a meal for my grandparents." The idea was to take a bite out of who i am and let it grow or fester, whichever, while i traveled. Just so i could say to myself i wasnt running away from anything, that i would return to my country and not be one of those idealists who borrow dreams from others. Grandma may have Alzheimer's, but we arent sure anymore because she had a miraculous turnaround after we changed up her medicine. a testament to personal investment in your human patient.

i did make cider and called a few distant relatives and heard some great stories about MYfamily. I also cooked pork chop, made applesauce and mashed tatters for the grents one evening. grandpa's response: "Well, it's really good Maria. I can say now that you are ready formarriage." I wish i could get more material like that, but we had to move away from familywhen i was a wee-one with infrequent visits and ive always felt home-less. hard to reflect honestly on the fast-paced world without a home i think.

So while i was telling my plans to root up my family history to my catholic hippie oxymoron ofan aunt, she said she had something. Grandma, before all those roofies the silly doctors gaveher, had begun to write down what she remembered of her past. It isn't a journal, but rather a few images she captured from her past and told as stories. Then there were poems. In the littleyellow notebook, Mrs. Patricia Kerg also wrote poems. By the end, you get a sense her decline was close. She was a great writer, my Grandmother, and my blood seems to have worth to me now. Apparently, Polish blood. In my family the germans made the money and fought in the war. the irish drank. the cheks lied and the polish women suffered, they wrote.

I won't copy it all down here, but here's one poem that struck me. The literary value of this onedoesn't compare to grandma's story telling, but the details compliment ma grandfather's final message at our last supper while i was still a single blonde-haired blue eyed woman. (Note, i am still single) also, i find an unobliging and inelegant honesty in her poetry style in what little ive written.

Title: The Phonies
I am hitting golf balls at the country club.
With 60 cents in my pocket.
Lincolns, Cadillacs, Chryslers line the windy road.
With 60 cents in my pocket.
I ride in a rented car, live in a mortgaged home
with four children who hate me.
We coexist in a mutual hell of hate.
I am married to a man
Who owns us all, mortgaged, rented to the hilt.
the enormity of dullness wraps us in saran wrap.
Nothing changes.

could be a rap song. she crossed it out and tried again:

Net worth.
Rented Lincoln, mortgaged home, business, family.
Country club pretense
Golf, martini's, deductible charity
The whole ball of wax spells phoney.
Never say "no" except to tenderness or love
a lifetime (?) of T.V. at night
The tenuous trap of routine
Chokes all feeling, conversation.

And i think of every time i visited the grandparents in my childhood- always in their same spots, grandpas lazy-boy thrown all the way over there next to the window where he'd tenderly watch over the garden and do his daily NYT crossword puzzle. grandma never speaking unless addressed on the end of the red, white, blue tartan sofa that had room for us, guests. But she did love to write letters and her smile made us welcome.