Back on the Road

I'm headed back to Brownland.  My grandmother is suffering from more frequent  and violent seizures; she is not long for this world, I don't think.  

I have been thinking about her a lot, and I've been thinking about our relationship quite a bit.  

The image on the left was taken on the steps of my grandparents' house in Newton, Massachusetts, where my mother and I lived briefly after she left the Black Panther Party.  I think I'm barely two in it.  The reason this picture intrigues me (besides the fact that I really can't remember ever being so small) is that I'm on my way to nursery school with my Gramma.  Apparently I used to go with her to her nursery school, every day.  I am pretty sure the dress I'm wearing is probably a hand me down from my aunts, and  although I can't remember being that small, I can remember what it felt like to wear my hair like that-- I can feel it pulled tight on my scalp and the bobby pins sticking into my head.  I can smell the cocoa butter stuff my my mother used in my hair.  I'm still thick thighed, and I still walk with my head ducked like that (that is me being careful not to stumble.  I think I've always had a depth perception problem).  

For the life of me, though, I can't remember riding solo with my Gramma.  And not just in this era... I remember my grandmother's car from that era:  a huge brown wood paneled station wagon.  I remember wanting to sit in the "way back" and how we used to be jumbled around in the car, seat belts unfastened and carefree.  I remember my Gramma smoking and driving and calling out things to us and admonishing us to sit down, be quiet and "stop it. All of you."  I don't remember being one on one with her in the car, like, ever.

I used to go places with my Grandaddy all the time-- when they lived overseas, he came to Washington more frequently.  He would have lists of things he had to bring back and meetings to go to; visits to different places.  I would somehow be in the right place at the right time-- lingering in the living room at my Nana's, holding my Elizabeth I book looking bored, and he would clear his throat and ask me if I wanted to accompany him.  I always, always, did.  And we would talk about all kinds of things; I was surprised to realize as an adult that my grandfather is somewhat bashful.  I think of him as expansive and self-assured; the reason I used to want to be a doctor was because I thought I would be like him and know everything.

Although I cannot recall us being alone together in the car, I can tell you things that I learned from my grandmother:  that you cannot think clearly with a messy workspace; that "well heeled" comes from the idea that the very rich had very nice shoes of which they took great care; that dangling participles should never, ever be tolerated; that books are your friends and will always stand you in good stead; that you should greet the day, the world, your life and every single person you meet by looking each squarely in the eye (proverbial or not) and giving a firm handshake.   I learned that if she says she will pick you up, no matter what the hour, she will come.  I first heard many adages, proverbs and sayings from her-- she is an encyclopedia of such.  I learned a few of my favorite short cuts in Washington from her; I adopted her disdain for crazy new neighborhood names.  I enjoyed hearing her talk about different of the communities we would visit, and how she used to ride around the city with her father.  

The last new thing I learned about her was many, many years ago, when my grandparents first renovated Brownland.  I learned that despite having eight children, and constantly entreating all to come visit, with their children, and despite wanting all of us to climb into cars together and ride up and down a mountain or to a historical marker, despite seeming to invite everyone into the living room, or to sleep in Nana's apartment, or to Highland Beach or some other far flung locale, my grandmother truly cherished being alone.  She liked to sit in the sun parlor and read, or research or think without anyone around.  I remember that one afternoon, when I'd stolen into the Yellow Room to read my book, away from all the attendant Frenches, I was suddenly aware that someone else was in the old house, too.    We each had the revelation at the same moment.  

"Tania, is that you?"  she asked.

"Yes, Gramma," I replied.

"I'm enjoying the quiet, too," she said.  And that was that.

In that moment she was the only-cherished child and the apple of her mother's eye; the nerdy bluestocking who loved learning.  In that moment, despite a lifetime of divide, I actually felt like there was a piece of me that resembled her.  And I liked it.