Posts Tagged ‘grandparents’

When I was a wee bit of a girl, about ye high as the old timers would say, (I’m actually still ye high, to be perfectly frank), I spent a lot of my time with my grandaddy in Dumas. My granny would wake me up early in the morning…we’re talking, like 5:00 a.m. She would cook me Aunt Jemima buttermilk pancakes in her microwave. She still has that same microwave, actually; at my granny’s house, appliances and other home furnishings seem to last for years. She would turn the microwave on for about 50 seconds and heat a stack of two pancakes. Then she would pull them out, rub them down with Land o’ Lakes whipped butter, and douse them in Caro syrup. I will never be able to walk down a grocery store aisle of of cooking oils and syrups and see Caro syrup without thinking of those early morning Dumas breakfasts. Most people in AMA don’t even know what Caro is; I will never forget it.

I always shared a room with my grandaddy; he had twin beds, and my granny had her own room, with a double bed that she slept in alone. I had never seen it any different, and I never thought to question it. I would pad down the hallway from the east end of the house and make my way to the stool at the bar in the kitchen. My granny would bring me my pancakes with a glass of Tang. Never orange juice; always Tang. After my breakfast, I would wash up and come back to the living room to join my grandaddy.

Around 5:30 a.m. he would walk to the garage door, right behind my little breakfast bar stool, and open the garage. Then he would reach down and pick up the brown shoes sitting beside the door. That was the spot for his shoes. They rested on a piece of newspaper. My granny didn’t like people walking around in her house with shoes on, so…(that’s probably why her carpet lasted so long, as well). I don’t know what brand they were; it would probably make this story more realistic. But they were brown, and had brown laces, and in my head the brand will always be Granddaddy Footwear.

After lacing up his shoes, it was time to hit the door and hit the road in his four-door Buick Le Sabre. We would drive down Dallam street, take a right at the stop sign, and head north to the Allsups. I loved morning coffee with the old timers at Allsups. They would always fawn over me and tell me silly jokes and congratulate my granddaddy on “makin’ such a good lookin’ kiddo.” He would chuckle and guffaw and pat me on the head, acting modest but lapping it up. He was proud of me and I idolized him; it was a nice symbiotic relationship. After the morning formalities, the fellas would gather around a common table at Allsups and read the paper and talk shit about God knows what while I would drink juice after juice and read comic after comic, with my granddaddy footing the tab the entire time. My favorite was Archie. I loved to read what new antics Archie would be up to, bouncing back and forth between the two women in his life, good girl Betty and sexy rebel Veronica.

I laughed at the love triangle back then. I didn’t laugh about similar situations later.

So this morning, we had our typical routine described above. When we got to Allsups, there were some new visitors, some lady friends of the old guys. That’s cool. They were cute. They pinched my cheeks and stroked my hair and oohed and aahed. My grandaddy made sure to introduce to all of them. I don’t remember one from the other; hell, I’m not trying to be rude, but to a four year old (and, to be honest, to a thirty year old), most old people pretty much look the same unless you are personally related to one, and even then it can be iffy in a crowded, smoky room (thank goodness I don’t run into my grandparents at the bar; I might not recognize them).

I can’t tell you what the woman looked like, is what I’m saying. But she’s an important player, so take note.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully; the old guys had coffee with the old biddies and around 9 a.m. grandaddy and I went home. I don’t remember how the rest of my week went. I suppose uneventfully. My mom came to pick me up later that week and on the way home, I regaled her with Dumas stories of the grandparents. I don’t remember, but obviously one consisted of the morning Allsups time with the ladies. And I guess, 26 years ago, I remembered that lady’s name because I told my mom about my “grandaddy’s lady friend so and so…”.

And that’s when the shit hit the proverbial fan.

We went home and my mom called my granddaddy, her daddy. She was crying and she cussed him up one side and down the other. This post seems to reflect amnesia, but honestly, I don’t remember all of it. I just know that my mom said if he ever had me around that bitch again, she would kill them both.

Many years later I discovered that I had met the Other Woman. Isn’t that funny, that a man I considered to be devoid of all sexuality (seeing as how he didn’t even share a room with my granny) could have a girlfriend on the side, a sancha? Not funny, haha. Just…funny.

That was, I think, my first knowing brush with infidelity in my family. Later, it would hit come much closer to home. And I don’t mean L-Hole. That was simply the coup de grâce
for me. But this is where it began.

I wish I had something more profound to say. But this is it.

It is what it is.


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