My sweet Grammy passed away last weekend, so I thought I'd come out of blog hibernation, remove Pearson from the spotlight (only temporarily!), and fill everyone in on one of the dearest people in my life. Grammy was, for lack of a better term, rough around the edges. She could be the sweetest woman in the world one minute — I'll always remember the feeling of her pruny hands grabbing my cheeks and planting a wet one on me — and hilariously grumpy the next. If you've ever eaten at a restaurant with Grammy, you know exactly what I mean.
There should have been some kind of warning light on her for waiters and waitresses in the immediate area. One of two things was bound to happen: the waiter was going to be kissed for doing such a great job, or yelled at for mucking it all up. Actually, the only time I saw her kiss anyone was at a Chili's in Dallas, where she planted another pruny wet one on our waitress after what Grammy considered stellar service. So unfortunately, the latter was the far more expected outcome. It all begins with the drink order. Grampy (the most patient man I'll ever know) would order for her: Martini on the rocks, VERY dry, extra olives. Then the menu translation takes place, which usually just consists of Grampy yelling every single item, including ingredients, to Grammy in hopes that she'll actually be excited about something. "Chicken Parmesan!" "What?!" "Chicken PARM-E-SAN!!" Eventually, she'll shrug her shoulders, go back to her drink, and Grampy will order for her. One time, he had the gall of ordering her fajitas. I believe her response was "Why would you order something at a restaurant that you have to make yourself?!" I personally thought it was a good point.
Anyways, the salad comes first (usually too early for Grammy's taste) and she ignores it like it offended her. Once her drink is getting low, she'll show some interest and begin slowly picking at the greens. And this is where it all goes downhill. Generally, at least 15-20 minutes have passed since we've ordered at this point, and the food is almost up. But don't you DARE bring that entree until every piece of lettuce is gone on Grammy's plate. If you do, there's no going back. All hell breaks loose. Managers get involved. Awkwardness, and hilarity, ensues. Usually it's the typical "What the hell is this?!?!" but if we're lucky, other tables will stop what they're doing and stare. If you can keep from laughing at this point, you're a bigger man than I. It's just the charm of eating out with the Gramster.
Speaking of charm, she had it. It was downright bizarre how someone could be so grumpy, and yet so charming at the same time. It was a strange phenomenon – you just couldn't be around Grammy and not smile. She was so lovable, and yet, tried so hard to be unlovable. But man, I loved her. As strange as it sounds, I actually enjoyed it when I walked into my parents' house and it wreaked of smoke. It probably meant that it was Christmas time, but more importantly, it meant Grammy and Grampy had arrived. Grammy was only allowed to smoke in two rooms: the guest room at the back of the house, or the kitchen. But that smell quickly made its way to the front door. It was unmistakable, and it's oddly nostalgic for me.
One day that I'll always remember was the day that Grammy and Grampy finally agreed to go bowling with Gillean and me. They were avid bowlers, even belonging to a league in South Bend, and yet we could never convince them to go with us when they came to Dallas — they apparently "required their own balls." But after much convincing (begging), finally, FINALLY, they agreed. We trekked out to Don Carter's and got ourselves a lane. Now, to really understand this story, you have to understand Grammy. Grammy was not very mobile. She didn't have to use a walker or anything, but she didn't exactly move with a "spring in her step." It took her a while to get from point A to point B, and generally she stayed put in point B once she got there. So when Grammy grabbed her bowling ball, spryly hopped onto her tiptoes up to the line, wrenched her body and impressively threw a spinner down the lane, you could hear an audible gasp from me and Gillean. "Shocking" would be an understatement. She was as nimble as a 20 year-old! And as she turned back to us, you could see that she was not messing around. Bowling was serious business for Grammy. But she was no longer on her tiptoes. She trudged back to her seat, grabbed a cigarette and waited for her next turn. And believe me, she wiped the floor with us. I had never been more impressed with an 85 year-old.
The last time I saw Grammy was at her home in South Bend, Indiana. Well, actually Granger, but a certain university has made South Bend a little more well-known, so we'll stick to that. They lived in a beautiful little house on the back side of a golf course — their backyard is literally the rough on a Par 3. Gillean had never been, so we went up there to spend time with Grammy and Grampy and go to a Notre Dame game. We had phenomenal tickets to the game, and yet, the most vivid memory from that trip is of Grammy sitting at the end of her couch, tapping out her cigarette. It's easily the first visual that comes into my head whenever I think of her. Legs crossed, staring straight ahead, bathed in a yellow glow from the lamp that sits next to her above the ash tray. Tapping. Tapping. She's not in some sort of trance, but you'd think she was.
The funniest part, though, was what she was doing with her cigarette. Ever since I've known Grammy, she's smoked at least a pack a day, if not more. And apparently had been for the past 70+ years. I always liked to joke that Grammy was like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons: her 90 year-old body was in a delicate state of homeostasis, created by the presence of every disease known to man canceling each other out. She was a walking medical marvel. And being a patient smoker, it's no surprise that when Virginia Slims (her preferred brand) introduced the new "fire-safe" cigarettes, she wasn't pleased. As I mentioned, she likes to tap, tap, tap, smoke, tap, tap, tap, smoke, and so on. And what happens when you don't smoke a fire-safe cigarette fast enough? It goes out. Grammy would re-light her cigarettes at least 10 times, each preceded by an extremely distraught "JOHN!?! It's the damndest thing!!" I'm laughing even as I write this. It never gets old.
During that trip, Gillean and I got a chance to talk with her and Grampy for what seemed like hours about how they met, their families, their time in the military, amongst other things. She had a pretty rough upbringing: born in Waltham, Massachusetts, then living in an orphanage for 4 years until she was taken in by a foster family and moved to Piedmont, California, right outside Oakland. She joined the Women's Army Corps and served during World War II, when she met her future husband, John Stewart. She absolutely lit up with pride when she talked about their time in the military, but always made sure we knew that she out-ranked Grampy. They moved around quite a bit, taking my mom and her sister, Debbie, to New Jersey, Miami, and even Rio De Jeneiro (where my dad asked my mom to marry him). But in the end, they settled in little South Bend, Indiana. I'm so glad that both Gillean and I got to sit and reminisce with her that day. And now in hindsight, the trip itself was a huge blessing, and something that we'll never forget.
I do wish I had gotten to know Grammy better. She lived in Indiana ever since I was born, and I really only got to spend a week with her during Christmas each year. We never really got very deep — we mainly just stuck out our tongues at each other — but the time I did have with her was memorable, to say the least. She may have been rough around the edges, but deep down, she was an extremely sweet woman who loved us very much. And we definitely loved her. Along with all her quirks.
So I'll be drinking a very dry martini on the rocks, with extra olives tonight, in honor of Anna "Grammy" Stewart. You're more than welcome to join me.
We'll miss you, Grams. You were unforgettable.
