2001:May:24
2001
I'm one of those people who have trouble remembering anything from my childhood, how long I've been with Mark, what year my grandmother died, what year my car is, etc. There are some memories that are embedded in me though. One particular one involves people who are all now, without a doubt, dead. I was reminded of it because I have a craving for pole beans, and my great Aunt Anne made the best pole beans in the world. Contrary from what you could infer from my earlier writings, I don't HATE family. This particular moment was when I was visiting my Grandmother Sutherland at the Brittany apartments in Atlanta. I must have been about 7,8,9, or10. I loved going to my grandmother's stable environment. There were never any guilt trips, tears, or distance. It was (as they say) all good. My brother and sister would all say the same. We don't really know or consciously love each other, but we certainly loved our grandmother. She always had everything spotless and smelling vaguely floral (she was an early potpourri advocate). I had an entire shelf in her closet dedicated to things I liked. She always kept stationary, crayons, and pens there. Every morning I was there, I awoke happy. Grandmommy (as I called her... not grammy, greatmomma, nana, or others - of course when she got her stroke and became a different person, I called her Granny - after that witch on the Clampetts) and I would spend all night laughing and telling stories. I was always fooled when she'd start the story out about a little princess going through the woods, or a little bear, but most of the time, the punchline was that it was a story about me or her as a little girl. My Mother and Father were so tense and manipulative to me (this was before I forgave them or even realized that I would escape one day) that it was sheer bliss looking in the photo albums and having Grandmommy tell me who this pretty lady was or that beautiful Christmas scene. Before my parents, I realized, my family (at least on my mother's side) was normal and Norman Rockwell. Anyhoo, this could easily be a forty page tribute to my grandmother, but this is about pole beans. Grandmommy had loads of friends in the Brittany apartments. No kids were allowed to live there. It was a magical place to me with dappled sunlight, crabapple orchards, pink brick buildings, flower beds, and a pool. If you saw it now, it would probably look like a trashy, old apartment complex. (They've since opened it up to people with children.) I LOVED old people. We had this wonderful couple who lived next door to my grandmother - an elderly gentleman who wore a hat and put his hand on the curve in your lower back to guide you with oh so gentle support (he did it to me once and I'll never forget it) and a gentle, declining wife. My grandmother's sister-in-law, Aunt Anne, lived downstairs. She was a bit prissier than my grandmother, but I loved her. Her apartment was a completely different feel with peach carpet, darker interior, loads of plants, decorative wall china, and crystal knick knacks. Her best attribute was her organ - which I could play at low volume. Anyway, one day we visited her and she had pole beans cooking. I had never had them before, and, although I didn't LOVE green beans, I tried them. I must have eaten two bowls before I politely realized that she didn't have that much. Ahhhhhhhhhh they were so good. Then we all sat around and I listened to that wonderful old lady gossip and chatter while playing on the organ. If you asked me why I remember that particular day when I can barely remember any days, I couldn't tell you.
