My Grandma Peterson was not funny. In fact, she was so not funny that she was hilarious. A case in point: She lived kitty corner from the high school and one of her main hobbies was watching those high school students like a hawk. One day, while having a conversation with my brother Curt, who himself was in high school, she said with a look of sure disdain, "I watch what goes on over there. I know who's smoking dope." Just hearing the word "dope" come out of her mouth was funny.
Ray couldn't resist. "Really? How do you know?"
"I can tell by looking in their eyes."
"Well, Grandma, do you think Curt's smoking dope?" Poor Curt was the youngest of five brothers. They loved torturing him.
She gave him a long sideways look, then turning away with a sniff said, "I'm not going to say."
"Grandma!!" Curt was flabbergasted. Everyone else was in hysterics.
She also had an inexplicable aversion to having her picture taken. We don't have a lot of pictures of Grandma, but we do have many pictures of someone with a tea towel over her head or a hand in front of her face. I'm assuming that is her.
The woman would also never say goodbye. Not even on the phone where it is the socially acceptable way to signal the end of the conversation. I was surprised by a click and the dial tone in many of my conversations with Grandma. When she was done saying whatever it was she needed to say, she'd just hang up. I asked her once why she never said goodbye. Her answer? "It's too final."
I think it might have had something to do with her obsession with death. She talked about it all the time and acted like it was waiting just around the corner despite her strong health. Every time one of my brothers left for their 2-year church mission she would say, "Well. I probably won't be here when you get back." Over a span of about 15 years, she saw every one of them return. By the fifth grandson, it had become a joke of sorts.
But she was obsessed with some other things, too. Her flower beds for one. Standing between the street and the sidewalk in front of her house were two long, raised brick flower beds, which were planted with purple and pink petunias every spring. I can never remember any other flower or color ever being used. It was her way. Certainly she was a creature of habit, but then again, maybe she just knew what she liked. Anyway, the flowers were planted in very straight rows in a very specific color pattern. I guess you could say she lived her life with hospital corners, and she did not like when those corners were mussed in any way. Pity the child who made the mistake of walking the brick edges of those planters! And she didn't miss a one of them. She would open the door and give them a tongue lashing the likes of which they had never before experienced. I remember more than one time cringing inside her front room while a school chum of mine ran away in fear.
Having spent some years as a teacher, she had high expectations of children's behavior. We were very clear that we were expected to pick up our playthings before getting out another toy. She also was a stickler for coloring inside the lines and excellent posture. I can't color with my children without thinking of her, and I still hear her voice in my head, "Back straight. Head up. One foot directly in front of the other with toes pointing forward." Someone told me once that I carry myself like a tall person. Despite not knowing exactly what that means, I think I can credit my grandmother for it.
Oh, I credit my grandmother for a lot of things. I spent quite a lot of time there since her house was just across the block, through the neighbor's backyard. I have fond memories of that woman. She taught me to play card games: Old Maid and Animal Rummy. She wouldn't just let me win, either. If I won, I knew I had actually earned it. She always gave me saltines, cheese, and Coke for a snack. It's still one of my favorites. I remember spending the night at her house, sharing her room, she in one twin bed and I in the other. Before falling asleep she would tell me the story of a group of Indians who carried a settler girl away. I don't remember the rest of the story, but I do recall it was quite fascinating.
And oh, how I loved her macaroni and cheese. Well, that was what she called it. Now I know that it was just cheesy noodles. She'd boil giant elbow macaroni (the likes of which I have never found as an adult), throw in some Colby cheese (which she let me cut into cubes with the big knife), and stir until it melted. The ultimate cheesiness, stringing from the bowl to my mouth, filling the inside of the noodles. Heavenly. And then afterward she would let me wash the dishes, the incredibly hot water she insisted upon turning my little hands pink.
If it got on toward evening I could count on watching the Lawrence Welk Show with her. It was during one of these shows that she gave me some great performing advice: Never sing with your eyes closed. Paula Abdul has nothing on my Grandmother. She was giving that advice long before American Idol.
She also played a vital role in teaching me how to work. When I was old enough I got to mow her lawn, which was a treat since she had a riding lawn mower and being fascinated with the concept of driving, I was happy to drive anything mechanical. But Grandma wasn't satisfied with mediocrity. Her expectation was that any job worth doing was worth doing well. Doing her lawn meant raking, edging, trimming--the works. She could be a bit of a task master, but those lessons of hard work and going the extra mile have been a blessing to me. I never wanted to disappoint my grandmother, and I still don't.
Grandma Peterson died when I was fourteen years old. I have been without her longer than the time I had with her, but she is forever with me, inside my mind and my heart. She lives on despite the boundaries of mortality. She exists in the way I walk, the way I work, and the way I raise my children. As it turns out, we don't have to say goodbye because that kind of love is an immortality of sorts, and there is nothing funny about that. (And don't think for a minute that I doubt she's watching me like a hawk! Right, Grandma?)
