Lives To Work

It's been an interesting Thanksgiving break. We spent it in Ohio with my grandmother, who lives a mere six hundred fifty miles away. Our gas guzzling SUV still runs like a cheetah with over a 100K on the odometer, and the kids have become acclimated to these long trips.

My initial worry was telling my dad that we weren't staying with him. Never mind that his dog scared the shit out of us when he bit my littlest boy the last time, or that my step-brother, who drinks a continuous stream of beer to avoid withdrawal seizures, is living with them now and occupies one of the two rooms. Besides that, the master bedroom connects the rest of the house to the only bathroom, and to accommodate us the last time, my father hooked up a makeshift porta-potty by the guest bedroom, so that they were basically crapping in a bucket.

But dad took it well, but he did manage a stab of guilt, which missed any vital organs.

Beth got a full dose of Family Dynamics 101 this trip, which as it turns out lasted about one day too long. My closest ancestors and some of my living relatives rose from the hills of West Virginia, like the zombies of Michael Jackson's Thriller video. This is not a knock on a state I have never visited, only on the mentality of a people that haven't been exposed to modern social restrictions, which is good and bad.

I had to chastise my father once and grandma twice for using the n-word, which irritates me more because they know we don't allow it. We were watching Daddy Day Care with Eddie Murphy, and granny was laughing along with us. Then granny said, "That nigger sure is funny." My son was riveted on the television screen and hopefully didn't hear.

"Grandma, not in front of the kids."

"Well, what do you say then? Brown? Colored?"

"I try not to draw the distinction unless it's necessary. In this case I would refer to him as that guy, or that actor, or I would just call him Eddie Murphy."

She just grinned at me like I was a puppy doing a cute trick.

I asked questions. Lots of questions. I need to understand how dad came to be who he is, and of course, the key is my grandmother. She lives in a veritable clean room, and works like a machine. She hasn't a single interest, no hobbies, and doesn't watch television except for the news, nor does she go to the movies. When grandpa died, she had nobody to take care of, which is her sole function. Our visits give her someone to cook for and clean up after. There is a saying my dad coined: grab your plates, mom is done eating.

Her father died when she was two years old. He worked for Goodyear tire, like most of my Ohio family did. I plan to research this, but it happened in 1923 (or 1929). Something came loose and crushed him. The company paid my great-grandma five thousand dollars, which sounds small, but allowed for the house, which was only partially built, to be sealed up and livable. Great-grandma was six months pregnant, and had to go it alone raising three children in a two bedroom house, and so she slept in a bed with my grandma, and my great uncles shared a bed in the other room, which they continued to do until they were old enough to strike out on their own.

Since she was old enough to lend a hand, my grandma helped her mother clean offices and other people’s homes. I think her childhood was cut short, and it affected her in ways she cannot understand. To her, life is work. My great uncle, her brother, is nothing like her. His children are successful, one having played professional basketball in Italy, and now happily married and living in Switzerland. Grandma’s are miserable and sad. I asked my dad how his uncle raised his children. Dad said, "Like you do."