Behind the Seams
My Beloved ForeMothers
[And All The Sh*t They Left Behind]
We’ve heard the term “grandfathered in”, but what about the strong & wild women behind these guys?
My maternal grandma, Leota Irene [cruising above], was a devoted housewife who couldn’t cook a decent meal to save her life and was a notoriously drowsy driver. As an industrious mother of four, she made not only all of her daughters’ Sunday Best, but would also whip up tiny matching versions for their dolls. One of my favorite and too few memories of her was the entire weekend she spent hanging wallpaper in my childhood bedroom of pastel bunnies while I sat on the floor and colored. Breast cancer took this one when I was only 8, so we didn’t get much time to really know each other. From what I remember, she loved hard and showed it in the way she ran her household.
On my father’s side, Mary Kendrick [the masked babe on the Home Page] was the most frightening presence a childhood can imagine. I hated going to visit her. Topping out just shy of 5ft, she could stare you square in the eye until you behaved and was the Queen of Correcting Your Grammar. Mary didn’t believe in waste of any kind. You would not leave the table unless your plate was clean and even then there were four different receptacles under the kitchen sink for sorting anything you might think you want to throw away: compostables, burnables, recyclables, and garbage. Explain that to a 6 year old! I know adults that still can’t figure it out! But as strict as she seemed, she also had a dry sense of humor and loved earning her stay at casinos. Cancer took her just as our mutual appreciation for crossword puzzles and Manhattan—both the place and the cocktail—was strengthening our inevitable bond.
GrandMother can mean a lot of things. It can bring up feelings of tenderness, guidance, and nurturing. Or it can illicit feelings of discipline, fear, and boredom. To me, the term “GrandMother” evokes a sense of thrift, heritage, and ingenuity.
Though I didn’t get nearly enough time on this earth with either of my g’mas, I know I’m like them. I feel their presence every time I appreciate something ugly; in every stitch I sew to save an old favorite or create something new; in every treasured heirloom I’ve inherited, whether or not I know from what corner of the Earth it came or what story it could tell. I figure if it’s made it all the way into my hands, it’s worth treasuring by sole virtue of being once loved by the women who loved me too.
