2019 Jan 16
Funny the things you remember.
Just now, sitting here on the couch with my dog, trying to ease myself out of a bad mood by talking to Deacon, while petting him, I suddenly, for no discernible reason, remembered my Grandma’s raincoat. I remembered that I claimed it as my own when she died. It probably didn’t fit me very well. I know it was too long, because I hemmed it myself. Seeing my amateurish stitches in my mind’s eye, now, these 50+ years later, I realize how odd I must’ve looked to my fellow 7th graders, but I felt beautiful in that coat! It was more of a fall coat, but rain resistant. It may have been a London Fog, because I have a blurry memory of the tag, though it meant nothing to me at the time. It was lightweight against the chill of autumn breezes. Colorful, but in a muted fall palette and laid out in small, uneven, rectangles, with dark borders, a kind of stained glass effect. When I think of that coat, Dolly Parton’s song "Coat of Many Colors" is the background music playing in my head.
And remembering all of that, just now, brought tears to my eyes.
I wish I could say whether the tears were for Grandma, for the memories, for myself, or some combination, but I am uncertain of their true origin.
I wonder if she bought that coat because she felt beautiful when she wore it. I wonder, did she love the colors, and the feel of the fabric, the soft velvet collar? It was unlike most of her other coats, which were camel colored, or brown, or black. It was quite a departure from her mink stools, which I found creepy even as a child, with the poor creatures faces still attached, albeit with glass eyes replacing the real thing. I wish I could even say with clarity, that I claimed the coat because it was a connection to the Grandma I lost at age 12. I cannot. But, I am grateful for whatever quirk of memory lead me to reminisce about Grandma "Up Morningside", as we called her, on this dreary afternoon.
This was my mother’s mother. My very proper Grandma, who wore gloves and a hat when she went to church, or shopping downtown. My Grandma who smoked Herbert Tarreton’s, but never in public, because, "A lady never smokes cigarettes in a public place, and never on the street!" My Grandma who prayed the rosary, quietly, each evening after dinner, sitting in her Queen Anne chair, in the living room of her and Pap-Pap’s apartment. My Grandma who watched Lawrence Welk and Bishop Sheen on TV. My Grandma who went to mass every Sunday, on Holy Days of Obligation, and on anniversary dates of the deaths of loved ones. Grandma, whose paternal grandparents came form Ireland, and whose maternal grandparents were from Ohio and New York, and whose Mom & Dad were born in Minnesota and Ohio, respectively. my Grandma who was herself from a large family, being child number 5, of 7. My Grandma who married a man called "C.V.". My Grandma who gave birth to one child, either stillborn, or who died as an infant. She never spoke of the child. This is the Grandma who adopted a 6 month old girl from Rosalia Foundling Home, and named her Jean. This was my Grandma who never hugged the grandchildren. She was kind, but not warm, or open. This is the Grandma, at whom I lashed out verbally, at age 10, hysterically screaming and crying that she liked our cousin David better than she liked us, "your own grandchildren". Poor Helen! Grandma, I am sorry for being needy, and dramatic!
Most of what I know is after the fact. But the few true memories I have, that bubble to the surface occasionally, keep me warm, like that coat.
