Three of a Kind

For Aunt Pat...

My grandmother favored woolen suits, even in summer, over stockings, and low-heeled, sensible pumps. Her perpetually brown hair was styled in a manner that put one in mind of finger waves from the 1920’s, and when she rose in the morning, two sets of crisscrossed aluminum hair clips rode her ears. Upon entering the kitchen, she made a beeline for the large, economy sized vat of orange-flavored Metamucil she had positioned over the sink upon arrival, and downed a glass before turning to pour a cup of strong, always black, coffee.

She visited us almost every Christmas, staying, despite our protestations for more time, exactly one week, unaware that the previous week had been spent in a flurry of cleaning, in anticipation of her arrival. It was the only time my mother did a complete overhaul of our house, from baseboards to ceilings. Despite our efforts, Grandma Eakes brought her own stash of cleaning supplies, with which she scoured the ceramic bathtub, thoroughly, before bathing.

My grandmother was a card shark. Rummy was her game of choice, and my sister and I looked forward to our nightly card games with relish, despite knowing she would, most certainly, win. While she studied the hand she had dealt, we learned about her life, as she spun tales of the “no-good” boyfriend she had dated for years and years, and her “young pup” of a boss in the high-end men’s clothing store where she provided alterations. The hands that dealt the cards had made her living as a seamstress for most of her life, and she would pass that skill on to her daughter, who crafted almost every stitch I wore until I was twelve years old. I, in turn, carried on the tradition, by sewing for my daughter.

Though frugal, she liked to window-shop, and took her granddaughters to the mall every December 26th. As we approached the ladies’ hat department, my sister reached out to touch the soft felt of a dainty black-veiled hat. At Grandma Eakes' insistence, we began to try them on. As we surveyed our reflections, she came up from behind, “Oh, Laura, you don’t have the face to wear a hat. Now, Stacye….Stacye has the face for a hat. It takes a very plain face to wear a hat.”

The woman spoke her mind. When someone at the dinner table protested that my mother was still minding the stove, my grandmother reminded us that she “didn’t look as though she has missed many meals”.

As she aged, my parents convinced her to move to Atlanta, and procured, for her, a roomy apartment in an assisted living high-rise nearby.

When she forgot where she parked her car, they found it in her usual spot, and immediately sold it. She was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

When the bank called my sister, telling her that Grandmas Eakes had walked across six lanes of traffic to insist they cash, yet another, Publisher’s Clearinghouse check, she piled her children into the back of her Suburban. When she and the bank officers began to relate on a first-name basis, decisions were made.

Everyone, tenants and family members alike, knew what it meant to make the move to the upper floors. Each of us, together and apart, made the trek to her apartment and talked jovially while discarding mountains of plastic grocery bags, armies of carefully-stacked,out-of-date canned goods, and a year’s supply of paper napkins.

We made the move piece-meal. As I clumsily maneuvered a closely-packed, well-worn cardboard box between the yawning doors of the golden-colored elevator, I turned to make sure she was following me, wondering if she knew what was happening. The elevator rose slowly towards her new home, until the doors opened, to reveal a waiting octogenarian who had, apparently, made Grandma Eakes’ acquaintance.

“Well, hello!”, she cried gaily, removing the crumpled wad of tissue in her hand before offering it.

The aged woman on the other side of the doors, took the offering while meeting my gaze.

“Oh!”, Grandma Eakes, began.

“Where are my manners?”, she asked no one in particular, as she turned.

“This is my very best friend from grade school…”, and...

“I’m sorry…what is your name?”

I smiled my reassurance as she wrestled with her memory, unknowing that these would be among the last words I would hear her speak.

Weeks later, in my sister’s basement, I walked through the remnants of my grandmother’s life. The antique, brocade upholstered dining set I had admired while boxing up her life, reminded me of the juxtaposition it had presented inside her apartment, and my vision of her singularity at one end. It now sits in my dining room, well-worn, leaves down, just as she left it. And, a superfluous collection of embroidered handkerchiefs filled one drawer of her over-stuffed, pine-hewn dresser. They now comprise a quilt that, as I draw it over my legs, brings me warmth and draws her closer.


© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll