Grandma made beautifully crocheted blankets, several of which my mother has to this day. I watched her crochet complicated stitches with bright yarn colors that seemed so easy as her aging hands just flowed through the yarn and around the needle and back through the spaces to create beautiful patterns.
It seemed like every female in our family knew how to crochet but me. I couldn't wait to learn and by now I was about 9 years old. Of course, being the youngest, it was natural that everyone would learn before I did. It's just that I had an extra problem: I was the only lefty in the family so who was going to teach me? My mother, to her credit, tried many times to show me but I just couldn't get it by watching her right hand and transferring the movements to my left hands. My big sister tried to show me, still to no avail.
One day, I sat in Grandma's kitchen with my head perched on my hands, in sheer frustration. "Grandma, I just can't learn how to crochet and I think it's 'cuz I'm lefty. I just can't get it." Well, I believe the day Grandmas become grandmas their brain power doubles when they are in the presence of their grandchildren. At first Grandma just sat there while I whined. Then she got up and came back with two crochet needles, some yarn, and the biggest handheld mirror she owned. She said, "I think today is the day you'll learn how to crochet."
Very slowly, she crocheted in front of the mirror, whose reflection looked to me like her left hand was holding the needle instead of her right hand. I was able to mimic her movements one at a time until finally I'd completed a stitch --a real stitch! From there I eventually completed a whole chain. Then she taught me (still in the mirror) how to return to create a second row.
It's a lesson I'll never forget. On many levels.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Grandpa and the Pool Table
This past weekend I taught my girlfriend, who recently got a pool table (billiards), the basics of playing pool. She caught on right away, and she'll be beating her grown sons in no time!
Grandpa Backhus had a 9-foot championship-size pool table in his basement. The story goes that he discovered it in his Uncle Herman's barn in Califon, NJ. It became his, he refurbished it, and he suddenly had a good recreation room in his basement. He installed a bar and put a piano down there, too. When I was about 5 or 6, he started to teach me how to play, one step at a time. I used a small cue stick that was for tight shots, but he told me it was made especially for little kids like me.
He taught me how to apply chalk to the stick and why, curl my index finger around the stick, but not too tightly, and to balance my other fingers on the table for support. Hitting the cue ball into any ball was the first step. Then hitting the ball you intended was the next step. Sinking a ball on a straightline into a side pocket was the next and finally moving to angle shots. It was a years-long process, I'm sure, as my brain developed to understand the geometry behind the game.
As you can imagine, at 6 years old, I was too short to be that effective, so Grandpa had a stool for me. When it was my turn, I simply moved my stool from place to place and took my shots. He taught me early on how to use the bridge (something to lean the stick on when you can't stretch that far), because I'd needed it often back then. And it was a great day when I could play a whole game without scratching (sinking the cue ball when it wasn't supposed to go in). It was an even better day when I could win a game. I'm sure, however, I didn't really ever win against him, my father, or my uncle. It was fun thinking I did, though!
Am I that good? Oh no, but I can hold my own in most games played by ordinary people. As a high schooler, our town recreation hall where the teenagers hung out had a pool table. Back then it was regarded as more of a man's game, so the boys made it clear they didn't really want me to play, which annoyed me. So, I'd wait my turn, and on my first few shots, I'd act a bit uncoordinated and get the, "See? You're a girl" comments. That was my "cue" to just clean up and leave them in the dust. You see, none of them knew that I had a Grandpa who didn't think I was "just a girl." He taught me all tricks I could absorb and how to hustle anyone who made fun of me.
Thanks, Grandpa.
Grandpa Backhus had a 9-foot championship-size pool table in his basement. The story goes that he discovered it in his Uncle Herman's barn in Califon, NJ. It became his, he refurbished it, and he suddenly had a good recreation room in his basement. He installed a bar and put a piano down there, too. When I was about 5 or 6, he started to teach me how to play, one step at a time. I used a small cue stick that was for tight shots, but he told me it was made especially for little kids like me.
He taught me how to apply chalk to the stick and why, curl my index finger around the stick, but not too tightly, and to balance my other fingers on the table for support. Hitting the cue ball into any ball was the first step. Then hitting the ball you intended was the next step. Sinking a ball on a straightline into a side pocket was the next and finally moving to angle shots. It was a years-long process, I'm sure, as my brain developed to understand the geometry behind the game.
As you can imagine, at 6 years old, I was too short to be that effective, so Grandpa had a stool for me. When it was my turn, I simply moved my stool from place to place and took my shots. He taught me early on how to use the bridge (something to lean the stick on when you can't stretch that far), because I'd needed it often back then. And it was a great day when I could play a whole game without scratching (sinking the cue ball when it wasn't supposed to go in). It was an even better day when I could win a game. I'm sure, however, I didn't really ever win against him, my father, or my uncle. It was fun thinking I did, though!
Am I that good? Oh no, but I can hold my own in most games played by ordinary people. As a high schooler, our town recreation hall where the teenagers hung out had a pool table. Back then it was regarded as more of a man's game, so the boys made it clear they didn't really want me to play, which annoyed me. So, I'd wait my turn, and on my first few shots, I'd act a bit uncoordinated and get the, "See? You're a girl" comments. That was my "cue" to just clean up and leave them in the dust. You see, none of them knew that I had a Grandpa who didn't think I was "just a girl." He taught me all tricks I could absorb and how to hustle anyone who made fun of me.
Thanks, Grandpa.
Grandma and the Sleepover
Sleeping at Grandma's house, even though only 75 yards away from home, was always a big event. The prospect of staying up late, watching TV in bed, eating snacks "late" at night made the event much to look forward to. My mother, in particular, wasn't big on sleepovers. Staying up late wasn't an option and eating snacks in bed isn't something allowed in our house. (For the record, food in bed is not allowed in mine either.) She liked knowing all her children were home, and of course now that I'm a mom, I understand those feelings. Sleepovers with Grandma, however, were OK.
Of course dinner with Grandma started with Egg in a Cup; you can read that other story on this blog. Grandma had a small television in her kitchen on a wheeled cart. So not only did we watch TV during our meal, Grandma wheeled the TV into my bedroom for more TV watching later. How lucky was I!
My bedtime was quite early back then--about 8pm--and my mother felt pretty strongly about it. In turn, my grandmother felt pretty strongly about not having to argue with my mother if I was allowed to stay up late in her house. And she didn't want me or her to lie about what time I "was in bed." So exactly at 8pm, I "was in bed." Yup, teeth brushed, all cleaned up, in pajamas and under the covers. I "was in bed" promptly at 8pm. So this way, we were telling the truth, however partial, to my mom the next day when she asked, "What time did you go to bed?"
What wasn't asked was, "Did you watch TV in bed? Did you have a snack in bed and have to brush your teeth again? What time did the light get turned off?" So I guess that's how I learned how one avoids the truth through omission or how to manipulate the truth. Hmmm, doesn't sound very ethical, but it was sure fun! It was our little secret when Grandma and I had a sleepover.
Of course dinner with Grandma started with Egg in a Cup; you can read that other story on this blog. Grandma had a small television in her kitchen on a wheeled cart. So not only did we watch TV during our meal, Grandma wheeled the TV into my bedroom for more TV watching later. How lucky was I!
My bedtime was quite early back then--about 8pm--and my mother felt pretty strongly about it. In turn, my grandmother felt pretty strongly about not having to argue with my mother if I was allowed to stay up late in her house. And she didn't want me or her to lie about what time I "was in bed." So exactly at 8pm, I "was in bed." Yup, teeth brushed, all cleaned up, in pajamas and under the covers. I "was in bed" promptly at 8pm. So this way, we were telling the truth, however partial, to my mom the next day when she asked, "What time did you go to bed?"
What wasn't asked was, "Did you watch TV in bed? Did you have a snack in bed and have to brush your teeth again? What time did the light get turned off?" So I guess that's how I learned how one avoids the truth through omission or how to manipulate the truth. Hmmm, doesn't sound very ethical, but it was sure fun! It was our little secret when Grandma and I had a sleepover.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Grandma and the Deal with Her Stepson
Grandma lived in a blended family even before anyone really knew what one was. She brought her 12-year-old daughter to her second marriage; her husband brought his two sons. One of those sons was a little boy and so glad to have a mom. The other was 14 and was not so happy.
You see, the 14-year-old was 9 when his mom died of heart failure right in front of him while she was hanging her laundry on the outside line. And from all accounts, she was a treasure of a mom, who adored her little boy, and their relationship was very special. Her other son, her baby, was only 5 months old at the time of her death. So the 14-year-old had a lot of feelings to deal with now that his dad had remarried--even if he liked her just fine. And let's face it, being 14 can be a turbulent time for anyone, even without these extra challenges. Add to it that his Dad came home married, without telling him. His new stepsister had been at this little private ceremony; he'd been denied it, he felt.
Grandma said that she knew it wasn't going to be easy. She told me she knew stepmothers had the famous reputation of being mean and terrible. So she gave a lot of thought to how to handle this new situation for all the children. Finally, the opportunity presented itself. After lots of surly behavior and tense moments, the 14-year-old showed his anger and shouted at her, "Don't bother me. You are NOT my mother and I'm not going to call you Mom." Grandma thought this was the perfect opening. She responded with something like, "I know I'm not your mother. I can't be your mother. And it's so terrible that she passed away. But I can be your father's wife that you can get a long with. Let's make a deal." She said she knew she had his attention.
"You don't call me stepmother. Call me Helen. And you won't see me trying to be your mother but maybe we can be friends somehow." My grandmother said their relationship was fine from then on.
And this 14-year-old, now an older man of 77, will tell you the same story in nearly the same words and has said how thankful he was to have Helen come into his life--just when he needed her most.
You see, the 14-year-old was 9 when his mom died of heart failure right in front of him while she was hanging her laundry on the outside line. And from all accounts, she was a treasure of a mom, who adored her little boy, and their relationship was very special. Her other son, her baby, was only 5 months old at the time of her death. So the 14-year-old had a lot of feelings to deal with now that his dad had remarried--even if he liked her just fine. And let's face it, being 14 can be a turbulent time for anyone, even without these extra challenges. Add to it that his Dad came home married, without telling him. His new stepsister had been at this little private ceremony; he'd been denied it, he felt.
Grandma said that she knew it wasn't going to be easy. She told me she knew stepmothers had the famous reputation of being mean and terrible. So she gave a lot of thought to how to handle this new situation for all the children. Finally, the opportunity presented itself. After lots of surly behavior and tense moments, the 14-year-old showed his anger and shouted at her, "Don't bother me. You are NOT my mother and I'm not going to call you Mom." Grandma thought this was the perfect opening. She responded with something like, "I know I'm not your mother. I can't be your mother. And it's so terrible that she passed away. But I can be your father's wife that you can get a long with. Let's make a deal." She said she knew she had his attention.
"You don't call me stepmother. Call me Helen. And you won't see me trying to be your mother but maybe we can be friends somehow." My grandmother said their relationship was fine from then on.
And this 14-year-old, now an older man of 77, will tell you the same story in nearly the same words and has said how thankful he was to have Helen come into his life--just when he needed her most.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Grandma and How She Finally Locked the Door
Grandma had a first husband. She'd adored him, she told me, for many years from the time she was a teenager and almost up until the end. He was tall, blond, sophisticated, and loved her, she said. And she couldn't marry him 'til she was 21. She counted the days until they could marry. He was dashing and from the photos we still have, she was right. Yet when their daughter was 5 years old, he finally left "for good," as Grandma put it. "For good" was always in there story because he'd left and returned many times during their marraige until he left "for good."
She was telling me this in 1975 when suddenly couples married 20 years were divorcing, something relatively unheard of until the 70s. But in the late 30s and the 40s, it was still considered outright unacceptable. So she endured it the best she she knew how. And I wondered if she envied the new freedom of women to divorce with less stigma.
Their marriage was up and down, and she said that often he didn't come home at night. She left the door open for him the many, many nights he didn't come home. I never did ask where he went or why he didn't come home; even as I got older it just seemed better to not ask for those details. Finally, though, she did say that he wasn't faithful. I must've been about 12 or so. And that was my introduction to infidelity and the damage it could cause. She'd endured it, she said, at a time when you didn't get divorced or the social ramifications were worse than the divorce itself.
Finally when my mother was about 5 years old, he'd made it clear that he was not returning, was seeking a divorce, and was moving out of the state. He even managed to get an annulment (how is a good question here) so child support wasn't required. He simply moved on.
On that terrible, final day, she said the one thing she remembered the most was that after he left "for good," she walked up to the door and locked it. Just locked it, stood there for a few moments, and then went to bed. For the many nights that door had been open waiting for him to come home, she hadn't felt safe. Once she locked it, she realized she and her daughter were now much safer in their own home--and mostly from him.
She was telling me this in 1975 when suddenly couples married 20 years were divorcing, something relatively unheard of until the 70s. But in the late 30s and the 40s, it was still considered outright unacceptable. So she endured it the best she she knew how. And I wondered if she envied the new freedom of women to divorce with less stigma.
Their marriage was up and down, and she said that often he didn't come home at night. She left the door open for him the many, many nights he didn't come home. I never did ask where he went or why he didn't come home; even as I got older it just seemed better to not ask for those details. Finally, though, she did say that he wasn't faithful. I must've been about 12 or so. And that was my introduction to infidelity and the damage it could cause. She'd endured it, she said, at a time when you didn't get divorced or the social ramifications were worse than the divorce itself.
Finally when my mother was about 5 years old, he'd made it clear that he was not returning, was seeking a divorce, and was moving out of the state. He even managed to get an annulment (how is a good question here) so child support wasn't required. He simply moved on.
On that terrible, final day, she said the one thing she remembered the most was that after he left "for good," she walked up to the door and locked it. Just locked it, stood there for a few moments, and then went to bed. For the many nights that door had been open waiting for him to come home, she hadn't felt safe. Once she locked it, she realized she and her daughter were now much safer in their own home--and mostly from him.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Grandma and the Manicure
Grandma always had perfectly manicured fingernails. In her old age, she had a placemat at her spot at the kitchen table, which now that I think of it, was at the head of the table. Interesting in itself.
Under that placemat was a treasure of things she might need at any moment. It was pretty scary what she'd pull out from under there sometimes. And one of the items was an emory board. Not the soft disposable cardboard ones, but a real, metal emory board. She'd whip it out during any conversation and fix one of her nails. They were all long, always had perfect clear polish on them, and it seemed none of them ever broke. Through cooking, cleaning and anything else, those nails were perfect. As a child, I tried and tried to grow my nails to be like Grandma's, to no avail.
Yet Grandma didn't always have long nails, she said. Mrs. Livolsi made her grow them. And she always called her Mrs. Livolsi--never anything else when telling a story about her. Mrs. Livolsi was her boss in the 40s, during WWII, when Grandma no longer had a husband, she had a daughter to raise and needed to support them. So she got a waitressing job at a diner-type restaurant that is now the Japanese Steak House on Rt. 17 in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. Back then it was a hangout for fledgling aviators trying their hand at Teterboro airport as well as other regulars.
Grandma was a nailbiter, however, and that was just unacceptable to Mrs. Livolsi. With her thick accent, she told my Grandmother that she could not have hands like that to present to the customers and still expect tips. She painted bright red nail polish on Grandma's nails as a reminder to not bite them and to grow them or else. And grow them she did, until they were beautifully long and presentable to the customers. Grandma called those 5 years of waitressing some of the best years of her life for all she learned and experienced. Eventually she met my Grandfather and remarried. And once that was the case, you generally didn't work outside the home again. But she kept her nails manicured perfectly for the rest of her life.
Under that placemat was a treasure of things she might need at any moment. It was pretty scary what she'd pull out from under there sometimes. And one of the items was an emory board. Not the soft disposable cardboard ones, but a real, metal emory board. She'd whip it out during any conversation and fix one of her nails. They were all long, always had perfect clear polish on them, and it seemed none of them ever broke. Through cooking, cleaning and anything else, those nails were perfect. As a child, I tried and tried to grow my nails to be like Grandma's, to no avail.
Yet Grandma didn't always have long nails, she said. Mrs. Livolsi made her grow them. And she always called her Mrs. Livolsi--never anything else when telling a story about her. Mrs. Livolsi was her boss in the 40s, during WWII, when Grandma no longer had a husband, she had a daughter to raise and needed to support them. So she got a waitressing job at a diner-type restaurant that is now the Japanese Steak House on Rt. 17 in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. Back then it was a hangout for fledgling aviators trying their hand at Teterboro airport as well as other regulars.
Grandma was a nailbiter, however, and that was just unacceptable to Mrs. Livolsi. With her thick accent, she told my Grandmother that she could not have hands like that to present to the customers and still expect tips. She painted bright red nail polish on Grandma's nails as a reminder to not bite them and to grow them or else. And grow them she did, until they were beautifully long and presentable to the customers. Grandma called those 5 years of waitressing some of the best years of her life for all she learned and experienced. Eventually she met my Grandfather and remarried. And once that was the case, you generally didn't work outside the home again. But she kept her nails manicured perfectly for the rest of her life.
Grandma and the Drawers
At one house I was considered a snoop; at Grandma's house, I was simply curious. And thinking about it now, I'd like to take a lesson from her today in growing a child's curiosity. Grandma let me (and my siblings, I'm sure) go through nearly every drawer in her house and look. Look but not touch! And look, I did.
Playing with my neighborhood friends got boring sometimes, so there was always exploring at Grandma's to pass the time. The living room furniture drawers were full of little books and random photo slides that my Grandfather took and left in there to look at periodically. Curled black & white photos were in those drawers, too, mostly of my Grandfather's relatives who were long gone by the time I started my snooping in earnest. The dining room was the least engaging to me--no hidden meanings there. The drawers were full of all the items taken out for various holidays--napkins, little Pilgrim, Christmas items, Easter items.
The basement furniture and cabinets were full of more of these photos, as well as some hidden chests down there with clothes, more photos, and objects that simply accumulated during their lifetime. My grandmother's bedroom top drawers--the clothes were of no interest to me--were full of costume jewelry, photos of my mother as a baby and toddler (she was an only child until she came to have step brothers), my mother's baby book, and photos of Grandma's mother (my great-grandmother). The spare bedroom on the main floor housed everything of my great-grandmother's--clothes, jewelry, card games, and her photo albums. That was great fun to go through.
Upstairs was unused in their older years--so it was a treasure to explore. In the hall was the one piece of furniture brought to the house by my grandfather. It had belonged to his first wife who died at 33, leaving him a widower with a 9-year-old son and a 5-month-old son. This secretary housed a stamp collection, a coin collection (both thought of as boring to me at that time), many photos of this grandmother I never knew, photos of my his sons as children, and various magazines that for some reason were chosen not to be discarded. Another bedroom upstairs had drawers that housed letters written by my uncle to my grandmother and grandfather while he was in the Navy. Now that was insight into the early 1960s! Another room, my favorite bedroom housed books and more books, many of which I have in my house today as well as that antique bedroom set. The last small bedroom had an old manual typewriter in it--I spent countless hours trying to teach myself to type. I'm still learning.
When my grandparents passed away within months of each other 24 years ago, there were a lot of questions from my parents about "where was this or where was that and where do you think they put this or that?" Guess who knew the answers?
Playing with my neighborhood friends got boring sometimes, so there was always exploring at Grandma's to pass the time. The living room furniture drawers were full of little books and random photo slides that my Grandfather took and left in there to look at periodically. Curled black & white photos were in those drawers, too, mostly of my Grandfather's relatives who were long gone by the time I started my snooping in earnest. The dining room was the least engaging to me--no hidden meanings there. The drawers were full of all the items taken out for various holidays--napkins, little Pilgrim, Christmas items, Easter items.
The basement furniture and cabinets were full of more of these photos, as well as some hidden chests down there with clothes, more photos, and objects that simply accumulated during their lifetime. My grandmother's bedroom top drawers--the clothes were of no interest to me--were full of costume jewelry, photos of my mother as a baby and toddler (she was an only child until she came to have step brothers), my mother's baby book, and photos of Grandma's mother (my great-grandmother). The spare bedroom on the main floor housed everything of my great-grandmother's--clothes, jewelry, card games, and her photo albums. That was great fun to go through.
Upstairs was unused in their older years--so it was a treasure to explore. In the hall was the one piece of furniture brought to the house by my grandfather. It had belonged to his first wife who died at 33, leaving him a widower with a 9-year-old son and a 5-month-old son. This secretary housed a stamp collection, a coin collection (both thought of as boring to me at that time), many photos of this grandmother I never knew, photos of my his sons as children, and various magazines that for some reason were chosen not to be discarded. Another bedroom upstairs had drawers that housed letters written by my uncle to my grandmother and grandfather while he was in the Navy. Now that was insight into the early 1960s! Another room, my favorite bedroom housed books and more books, many of which I have in my house today as well as that antique bedroom set. The last small bedroom had an old manual typewriter in it--I spent countless hours trying to teach myself to type. I'm still learning.
When my grandparents passed away within months of each other 24 years ago, there were a lot of questions from my parents about "where was this or where was that and where do you think they put this or that?" Guess who knew the answers?
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