On the House

I think you’re either the kind of person that goes for all the free food samples at the market or you’re not. Given the chance, my husband could happily survive on the offerings from the product demonstration tables at Costco. I get unbearably self conscious walking by the Sample Bar at Trader Joe’s. I can’t even make eye contact with the guy in the Hawaiian shirt handing out the plastic shot glasses jammed with mushroom turnovers.

It was against my Gram Melva’s principals to snub a freebie. During a Mother’s Day weekend trip in 1997, my mom and Gram and I stayed at a lovely hotel in a seaside town. After a late lunch at a local Mexican cafe we were on our way back to our room when Gram noticed that there was an afternoon tea set up in the lobby. She stopped us as we headed to the elevator. “Where are you going?” Gram said.

“I want to lay down for a little bit.”

“But there are snacks down here,” said Gram.

“I know but aren’t you stuffed?”

“Yes, but we have to eat some,” she whispered, “it’s gratis.”

Even though I am genetically predisposed to going for the free stuff, the idea of taking it makes me nervous. On our recent trip up north, while Jeff and Bob were at the breakfast buffet, I sat at our table eying the basket of darling imported jams.

“Don’t these look good?” I asked Jeff when he returned.

“Take them with you.”

“No.”

“Put them in your bag, you can have them at home.”

“Should I dump the ramekin of sugar packets in there too? Please, I can buy my own jam.”

“Just do it. For Gram.”

Two days later, we were back home. I opened the little jars of sweet contraband in our kitchen. Their contents were delicious and even better, they were gratis.

Parting Words

Gram in 1948

In the summer of 1998, my funny, “pistol” of a grandmother, Gram Melva, got a cough. It rattled in her chest and she described it as feeling like something was “broken inside.” Two weeks later, she was diagnosed with cancer. When she heard her diagnosis, she was angry about her lifelong smoking habit. She wasn’t angry that she had ever started, she was angry that she had bothered to quit four years before. She missed her “smoky friends.” Within a month she was in intensive care.

The week Gram went into the hospital, was the same week that my first marriage was ending. I sat with Gram in the ICU and told her about the break up. We had divided our possessions. We were moving out of the house and I had found my own apartment. Gram listened and nodded. Soon she would be fitted with a tube that would help her breathe but would not allow her to speak.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me close. She was still able to talk but not above a whisper. I realized that this would likely be our last conversation, what she said next, would be her final words to me. I expected her to tell me that I would be okay, or that she was proud of me, or that she loved me. Instead, Gram said, “Get the china.” From my Gram, this was a perfect, funny, parting shot. She died a few days later.

I shared the story of her final words with my soon-to-be ex. He knew Gram well and he listened and laughed in the right places. Two days later, I returned home from work and sitting on the doorstep of my new apartment was his half of the dishes, carefully wrapped in newspaper and packed inside a large moving box.

I got the china. I miss her every day.

Gram

Gram with her father, around 1929

Inspired by this post by Erin at It's Your Movie about her favorite photo of her grandpa, I was reminded of this favorite photo of my grandmother.

In March of 1994, my maternal grandmother, Melva Joyce, turned 70. One of the birthday gifts I gave to “Gram” was an empty journal in which at the top of every page or two, I wrote a different question for her about her life, her tastes, her philosophies, or her memories. I asked her to fill it out in her own time and then give it back to me for my birthday. She completed the book with thoughtful, sweet, and sometimes funny answers.

When I look at this photo of her, I think of her answer to my question, “Have you ever stolen anything?”

“When I was six or so, I stole chocolate from my grandmother’s purse. After a eating quite a few squares, it didn’t taste so good anymore. I learned that what I thought was candy was actually a chocolate laxative. Needless to say I was “set free” for a couple of days. I was found out, but my parents didn’t punish me. They thought my 'situation' was punishment enough.”

Gram passed away in 1998. I miss her. Our book helps.