Tuesday, November 27, 2012


        This grandmother walks into a season (holiday)SOOOO engrossed in poring over the fractured reams of scribed fiction which she is polishing into her first real, 'big people' BOOK - "The Lemon-Haired Lady Diary" - that she fails to notice the particulars of her environs.  Also escaping her - the fact that it is far too late to make editorial 'LIFE/SITUATION' changes.
        Looking right -"What's this?"  She recalls a storm. . . 
but didn't know the house on the corner of her street had lost a four story-tall pine tree.  (Well, they didn't lose it as such.  I mean it's pretty hard to 'misplace' a forty-something foot high wood flora which ultimately lay resting across a heavily-trafficked entrance road into the hood.)
        Remembering now darkness, candles, serving 'cold shoulder' at dinner, she stares at what is now its exposed underbelly - the eight foot in diameter spread of obviously un-tended ROOTS - short, stubby even, and wrenched facilely from Mother Earth's surface - a vegetarian "Latchkey Kid", victim of neglected grooming, nourishment, SIGH, "Ladies, pu-leez, CHECK YOUR ROOTS!"
        Gazing left, her reality is accosted by remnants of travel - an obscenely over-sized suitcase so recently nuzzled in the freshly-painted, warmth of her daughter's 'now-in-her-own-new-home'- guest room.  Ah, yes, Thanksgiving - a Sunday-pre through Friday-post gathering.  The Grandmother flew;  
Grand peep Mia flew to greet her.  (Doesn't get any better!)
        Her 'Poppy' drove to relieve their home of thirty plus years of daughter's loving, lively childhood  treasures - teak wood roll-top desk; music box collection (32);  china/costumed dolls populated by a traditional Pierrot Clown, a genuine Red Cross Nurse and the obligatory 'Southern Belle' ONLY one of which seemed edgy about moving North; a family heirloom Martini Shaker with six short gold/cobalt-striped glasses crafted by artisans in Europe circa 1898 AND the cannot-be-outdone-model of efficiency - wrapped, labeled and 'ready to be opened' with accompanying squeals on that magic 'Santa Day' from our cluttered house to daughter's spanking, new one.
        Then she began to re- experience as chirping what had been the piercing shreds of commentary on the four flights she had endured to and fro: "Inside voice, Billy."  "They husband/wife.  Go together.", watching her needed 'assistance' wheelchair being pilfered for half of an Asian couple by an agent obviously in league.
        And the parade of cellphone texts - meaningless when received; "I'll be there when you land, Mom." (daughter)  "Mom, find a coffee shop.  Relax, Philip." (son in Virginia)  "Dad got lost.  I'm finally home.  Leaving now to get you." (same daughter)  Finally, "A Bloody Mary, please."
"Ya know, if I weren't six months pregnant, I'd have one too." (This from aircraft row partner on last leg of return home flight.  She possessed the added badge of having mothered the 'outside voiced', heinous, small, male offspring who, transfixed by a smidgen of "Trail Mix" packaging fetchingly exposed by a slightly ajar zippered compartment of my purse, expressed decided disinterest in placing any part of his body on Mommy's bulging sibling pouch to feel Jackson moving.  Repeatedly, in something as far removed from dulcet tones as you can get.)
Grandmother to grandmother in head: "I don't drink on planes.  But even if I were nine months pregnant and had to share my life space with you and your 'alien' child, I'd have at least two all the while wondering if there was time enough for a 'post graduate' Cosmopolitan."
      Once settled in her gloriously empty base (Hubby driver was warmly ensconced in the home of our two dearest friends.  Seemed prudent to break up the trip.  Of significantly higher moment, a visit with this couple, this doting duo that defines the value of relationships, rejoices in the treasure the careless refer to simply as 'humor' and welcomes the sojourner with more heartfelt 'rapture' than that afforded "Himself", would be motive enough to take a long road trip.) the grandmother continues her walk.
        She plods, vacuums, launders - all the while basking in the familiar background newsfare cum ads:
"I've been using catheters for years, but I gotta tell you, . . ." (Actually, sir, you do not 'gotta'.)
". . . is applying testosterone to his underarms! Yes, new "AXERON" (? Roll product ON to axillae?)  significantly increases low 'T'.  Do not use near women who are or can become pregnant.  Excess hair growth has been reported.
        She's subconsciously musing, begins to see images of a potential sequel frame:  The most vivid reveals the couple (positioned 'American Gothic').  She is gruffly bearded; he is pale, breaking a sweat as he wrestles with pushing up amply-filled triple D bra cups. 
        This grandmother walks into her sun room, languidly stirring the smile she's added to her orange spice tea because the night fog is lifting giving up the day to the sun.  The moon - which bestows ownership of the night to the woman - recedes and 'man's day' is abornin'.  Her smile broadens with the knowledge that her 'frame lady' has all day to get a smooth shave and her hubby will miss his sunrise - what with those inflated half-moons.
        So nothin' old is 'NU' again. Ya think? 
Later, Lorane. . . . 

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