Grandmomma's Hands

Over the weekend, I journeyed to the land of my forefathers… Okay, let me stop making it sound all Alex Haley-esque, like I went back to Africa and found Kunta-especially since I just went down to Tidewater area of Virginia for a family reunion. And beyond the gathering being a chance to watch my mom try to do the Booty Call. Or me begging my uncle to finally reveal that I am, in fact adopted because I can’t be related to these people. Or even during our family history having a cousin reveal that he might have married a distant cousin of ours… This weekend was a chance for me to have a face to face heart to heart with my grandma, where she handed me an old fashioned lesson about enduring.

Let me say that my grandma is one of my favorite people left in this world. It wasn’t always this way of course, especially when I was younger and I could only see her as that old lady who was my mother’s mother. And when my parents were going through their divorce, that old lady said a few unkind words about my father that had me crying and HATING her. But somewhere, thankfully, I got to know her as a person and realized that honesty is pretty much all a person is gonna get from her. Her truth is biting and the type that sometimes you just don’t want to hear. I guess because I’ve grown up in a sugarcoated culture it stings a bit more when granny keeps it real. Stop giggling so much-it’s not that funny! You better not embarrass me in front of these people now! Or that your food Ain’t hitting on nothing. But that’s just how grandma rolls.

And now that I’m older I’m privy to those grown up conversations held in the living room while the children run around outside (also, no more kids table-holla!). It was my grandma who revealed those secrets that paint a more colorful family picture…like who was gay, or an alcoholic and who was adopted into the fold. And somewhere during these care and share sessions, when she gets to something crazy that she just doesn’t understand she always says I don’t know, I guess I’m just old fashioned. And I never tell her she’s wrong, that she is the furthest from old fashioned. Born in 1928 my grandma is still driving her ’98 Volkswagen Jetta, checking her account balances online, and asked me to help her find her a pair of denim capris to wear with her calf boots.

Nor do I know many people my age whose grandma has a Master’s Degree…but mine does. And what I learned this weekend was that she quit her program two times before her final attempt. She told me how she would come home after work and class to find my grandfather reading his newspaper, and my mother and her two older brothers complaining about their hunger pains. And my grandfather’s response to the whole situation? Was that she should have been there to feed them children. Now, I loved my grandfather, but this was some bullsh*t! Two times my grandmother had to quit to tend to their children. Had to put her goals on hold. Had to wait and not faint. I told her that in today’s day and times that would have been grounds for a divorce! She laughed, paused, then said I suppose it would be now. I guess I’m just old fashioned. But you know on that last attempt your grandfather had dinner ready for me every night when I got home. Of course he was retired and the children where grown by then, but that food was good. And I’m glad I stuck with it because now I get an extra $2,000 in my check because of that degree. Well alright Grandma, make it rain! Make it rain!

Of course there was a message, encouragement and pieces of advice that I gleaned from my grandma’s tale, all of which I won’t bore ya’ll with. I’m just glad that old lady has become a friend who shares her stories that get me to thinking about my life and times. She makes me question what I feel I should be, what I should be doing, and what I’m willing to put up with because I’m an educated woman… As she casts her pearls onto me, I realize that I don’t know too much about nothing…and that’s the honest, old fashioned, timeless truth.

See You In Seven

Merry CHRISTmas

Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree,
For me.
I've been an awful good girl,

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight.

- Santa Baby, Eartha Kitt

It's that most wonderful time of the year. Trees and houses decorated with twinkling lights, red bows, and holly. Mall parking lots jam packed with angry drivers cursing and beeping. School Christmas pageants and Hallmark movies made for TV. Honey baked hams and spiked egg nog that will be the catalyst for an argument between Uncle Ray and Cousin Mike (well maybe that's just Christmas with my family).

And the star of the show: Santa.

What? You thought I was gonna say Jesus? Ha! It's not PC to mention Jesus or any other religious component of the holiday. Even if the reason for the season is the birth of Christ. If folks actually celebrated that, then who would pay $500 for a Nintendo Wii because every store is sold out and they're willing to pay double the amount just to make little Timmy happy on Christmas morning? Who would stand in line for hours out front of the Apple Store to get the newest nano for their ungrateful teenager who barely even speaks to them? Who would torture their toddler by forcing them to sit in Santa's lap for a cute photo op even though the baby is scared shitless, screaming at the top of its lungs?

Maybe my cynicism stems from my upbringing. I grew up being told the truth from jump. My mom was like "The Story of Santa is a lie. He does not exist." Some would say she robbed me of my childhood. As an adult, I disagree. I'm glad she was honest. Plus I've always asked too many questions... I probably would've picked the story apart at age 5.

As a kid, Christmas was my favorite holiday. Yes, even sans the myth of the jolly one. Every year, we would go out and pick a real Christmas tree. I always liked the tall 7 footers. My grandma would come to visit and stay for about a week. She would bring her own pots and pans and take over my mom's kitchen. We would decorate the tree while singing carols with all our might. Grandma and I would make cookies on Christmas Eve. That evening, Grandma would set aside a plate of cookies & a glass of milk for Santa. My mom would go "ain't nobody gonna eat them cookies but Dark & Stormy." Grandma would be UPSET! She would tell me Santa is real and scold my mother for saying otherwise in my company.

At first I would ask questions like how does Santa know what I want since I never sent him a damn letter. And how will he get in the crib when we live in an apartment. And I know he and the elves can't make an Atari game system by hand. But afterwhile, I started playing along because it made Grandma happy and I enjoyed watching her smiling with joy in her eyes knowing I was the cause. I always knew that my mom hid the gifts in her bedroom closet. But I wouldn't peek because I preferred being surprised on Christmas day.

Once I grew up, moms better explained her reasoning for not lying to me about Santa. She said she'll never forget how she felt when she found out Santa wasn't real. Sure she wasn't scarred for life, but she felt so betrayed by her parents and family. Moms also said she'd be damned if some random a** white man took the credit for the gifts that she purchased with her hard earned money. I think her exact words were something like "they stole enough from us already."

And the most important reason being that she felt I deserved the truth.

Now that's just Dark & Stormy's interpretation of the sitchyation... I will say that I miss the days of hearing 'Away in a Manger' and 'We Three Kings'. When Christmas wasn't complete without the airing of "The Little Drummer Boy." When people didn't get into fist fights over the last talking toy on the shelf. My mom and I both had the privilege of knowing Christmas as the birth of Jesus with a little Santa sprinkled on top. But nowadays the little youngins are like Christ who? That's all good it you're not of Christian faith. But don't celebrate the holiday without celebrating the holiday. Stop fakin. CHRISTmas is its name.

So, do you tell your kids about Santa? When did you find out Santa wasn't real? Would you tell your kids the same or raise them differently?

I do wish all of you a wonderful holiday season. Feliz Navidad, Habari Gani, Happy Hanukkah, and Ho Ho Ho!

Tumultuously Yours,

Dark & Stormy

To Grandmama's House We Go...

I hope that everyone had a great Thanksgiving yesterday! The upcoming series of holidays has got me thinking about family, my grandmother in particular and I realized that we are coming to the end of an era. That’s right. Ain’t no more big mamas.

I’m talking about:

Praying grandmamas. Church fearin, big hat and fresh suit wearin, scripture quotin’ hymn sangin’, shoutin’ and moanin’ grandmamas. Deaconess. Sunday school teacher. Backbone. Big mama.

Working grandmamas. Maids. Cooks. Cotton Pickers. Nurses. Teachers. Secretaries. Civil servants. Factory workers. Working 12 hour shifts. Doing jobs our generation of women could never fathom. And still holding the dual roles of mother and wife. Keeping a clean house and a happy husband. Going without so that their families could have. Deferring their dreams so we could have ours. Big mama.

Cooking grandmamas. Chicken fryin w/ one hand behind their back, pork chop smotherin, sweet potato peelin, collard green cutting, black eyed pea shuckin, peach preserve makin, sweet potato pie bakin, tea & lemonade sweetnin, no measuring needed and it always tastes sooo good grandmamas. Big mama.

Fighting grandmamas. Southern born or Northern bred, each battling their own war against racism, injustice and discrimination. Marching grandmamas. Not letting arthritis or the sugar or high blood pressure steal her joy. Had to walk 10 miles each way to school just to get a basic education. Keeping their families together at any cost, but understanding when to let a man go and having the resolve to raise a family on their own grandmamas. Becoming parents all over again, as they raise their grandchildren because their own kids have gone astray. Big mama.

Black, brown and high yella grandmamas. Black don’t crack grandmamas. Dispensing wisdom cloaked in Southern colloquialisms and lesson teaching metaphors: somethin’ in that milk ain’t clean, just cause you put kittens in the oven don’t make ‘em biscuits, just cause you got money don’t mean you got sense… Quilt sewers. Ass whuppers. Tear wipers. Soothers. Life savers. History makers. The keeper of our deepest values, our stories, our traditions, our people. More than words could ever describe. My grandmama. Your grandmama.

What have you learned from your grandmama? Think about it and cherish those memories. Or you can share them here! Do you think yo' grandmama makes the best peach cobblers this side of the Mississippi? Do you have an infamous beatin story to tell? Is there a piece of advice that you learned from her that you live by? Talk about it! It’s the end of an era y’all…

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!