I’ve started anticipating September 23, 2019. It will be the 110 year anniversary of my Granny’s birth. One hundred ten years ago in Lake Victor, Texas, outside of San Antonio, she arrived on the planet. The way I understand my Granny’s father was the postmaster. I don’t know what her mother did.
Her mother died when she was young. I’m not sure of what—maybe cancer. Her father also died of cancer when she was nine. It’s hard for me to imagine her father died about the time women were getting the vote in this country. She didn’t like to talk about her childhood. She had a brother we called the Pickle Man because he worked in sales for a pickle company.
When her father died, she had a grandfather who had a farm. He took in her brother because he could work on the farm. Granny had to go to the Masonic orphanage. At times, she went to her grandfather’s during the summer.
[Granny age 21. Picture doesn't do her red hair justice.]
When I was around six and learned she was an orphan, I said, “You were like Little Orphan Lucille” thinking she was cool like Little Orphan Annie. I could tell by her face she didn’t think it was cool. I never said anything like that again.
Once in a great while, something would trigger a memory. Music was a big part of the education at the orphanage. With no radios, music was a big part of the culture of her community. People got together playing instruments and dancing on Friday and Saturday nights.
She was whistling one day. I commented on it. She said, “It used to get me in trouble because I whistled in the halls in the mornings. It was against the rules. They wouldn’t let me visit home [her grandpa’s] because of it.” This was absolutely incomprehensible to me. I couldn’t get her to explain. As I kid, I couldn’t imagine such outrageous punishment for whistling.
Granny played the organ. I found out later that she played the piano before that. I would sit with her and sing songs while she played. My favorite was “Mobile”:
“They saw a swallow building his nest.
I guess they figured he knew best.
So, they built a town around him
And they called it Mobile, Alabama.
“They took a swampland, heavy with steam.
And added people with a dream,
And they dream became a heaven
By the name of Mobile.
“Pretty soon the town had grown
And they had a slide trombone
With a man who played piano
And a swallow who sang soprano.
“No use you wonderin’ where you should go
It’s on the Gulf of Mexico
Where the southern bells are ringing
And the climate’s ideal.
It’s a honey suckle heaven
By the name of Mobile.”
It was fun to sing while she played. It was also a way to be close, sitting next to her on the organ bench because Granny wasn’t a cuddler. She played a boatload of instruments. She had an accordion, trumpet, ukulele, and a funny recorder thing with piano keys. I got to play with them all, even though, I could never actually play them. When I was twelve, my grandparents gave me a guitar. That’s how I expressed my musical ability. I always wanted to learn the piano but my mother said we couldn’t afford lessons. At least, I could carry my guitar around with me.
As Grandpa’s second wife, Granny was my mother’s stepmother. She came to live with them at eleven. My mother was troubled having bounced around foster homes after her parents separated. She and Granny never had a good relationship. Granny took in a series of teenagers needing a place to stay. She never turned down a kid in need.
She couldn’t have children. I never knew why. When I was born, it was a chance to have a baby. I was named for my grandparents, Joe and Lucille, to make Joceile. My mother chose the spelling. If it had been “Jocille,” people might know how to say it. Still, Joceile is fine by me. At least, it follows “I before E except after C.” My mother said she was thinking of the word “ceiling.” In my imagination, I think she didn’t want my name to be just like her stepmother’s. But, I’ll never know.
At three months, my mother was happy to let my grandparents start taking me on weekends to their Vashon Island beach cabin. There’s a sweet picture of Granny holding me. I was loved in two households. I felt really lucky. In fact, Granny always called me “Love.” The notes I’ve kept from her start out “Love.” Answering the phone, she always began with “Hi, Love.” I will always be able to hear her voice in my head.
[Picture of Granny holding me sitting on wooden cabin steps with my god mother looking on in 1958.]
* * * * * * *
I learned not to ask Granny for what my mom wouldn’t give me. A simple example. I was five. I really wanted six-shooters like the boys had. I wanted the big ones with chrome sides and holsters to carry them on each hip. My mom wouldn’t let me have them. So, I convinced Granny to take me to Mrs. Spencer’s variety store where they had lots of stuff including toys.
I shyly pointed out the six-shooters I wanted. As much as she wanted to give me anything, Granny just couldn’t buy the big six-shooter set. We settled on a much smaller set which wasn’t what I wanted but I took it. When my mom saw them, she told Granny she had told me I couldn’t have them. Granny took me aside and said, “Don’t you ever do that to me again.” It wasn’t mean, just firm. She had a way about her that brooked no nonsense. I apologized and said I wouldn’t. It tainted the little guns for me with shame. I gave them to my brother. I never forgot the lesson.
Once, my daughter disappointed Ronnie and I. After we recovered, she said, “I never want to see that look on your faces, like you just lost your puppy.” That’s how I felt about Granny. I never wanted to hurt her.
A different time around that age, Granny overheard me telling a friend outside that she wasn’t my real grandmother because she was my mother’s step-mother. “I guess that makes her my step-grandmother.” Granny didn’t say anything but I saw the hurt in her face. I resolved never to make that mistake again. Granny was my Granny and no one could take that away from me or her.
At Vashon, Granny and Grandpa had their respective jobs. Grandpa worked outside all day. After breakfast, he came in for lunch and dinner. Granny managed inside the house, cleaning, and cooking. Her outside activity was to go for a walk with me every afternoon to look for agates. The beach went around a wide, long cove full of smooth sand with striations of gravel. It was a 10 to 20 minute walk depending on how far we went and how low the tide was. She’d stroll along with her head bent looking for agates. Every so often, she’d bend down and pick up something to look at.
We’d discuss it. It could be polished glass, a white rock, a shell, or an agate. Very occasionally, it was petrified wood. If it was an agate or petrified wood, she’d smile and tuck it in her pocket. She had a keen eye. I’d look along with her when I wasn’t carrying on about something or asking questions. She had bottles of agate collections around the beach house on shelves and windowsills. It was long after she couldn’t walk along the beach anymore I learned that her friend, Jack, who was a rock hound had spread his years of agate collections on the beach much earlier. I hadn’t known she was patiently retrieving Jack’s agate collection.
[Granny standing on bulkhead at Vashon circa 1970.]
Granny was also a busy crafter. She would knit and crochet and completed various homey projects. As a member of the Eastern Star, the women were always working on things to sell to support the Masonic temple or charity. I have a collection of my favorite things she made. Velvet covered styrofoam balls with pinned ribbons and beads. A flat framed Christmas tree with costume jewelry she collected that she and my great-grandmother wore. The Christmas lights turn on and reflect the jewelry. I have crocheted afghans and table cloths. Many family members have small kiln fired Christmas trees with real gold painting and small colored lights.
The greatest gift Granny gave me was unconditional love from the day I was born. It wasn’t the type of blind love where I could do no wrong. It was steady, supportive, unwavering love that did not diminish with my life’s follies. Exposing me to that kind of love sustained me and taught me what real love is. Without that love, I wouldn’t be the person, partner, or parent I am. I wouldn’t have triumphed over hardships. In turn, I wouldn’t know how to meet people and share the kindness and love I have known. People like Granny keep humankind, as well as individuals, moving forward instead of drowning.
* * * * * * *
Unfortunately, my young life was filled with abuse in my parent’s house. As my parents fell apart, my mother leaned on me physically and emotionally. I saw my grandparents less and seldom went to the beach house. My parents separated when I was 12 causing my mother to desperately need me to fill my father’s void. My own spiral into mental illness began to threaten my life. At 14, I ran away from my mother and ended up at my grandparents. I stayed with them for a week before moving in with my father. This was a bad move.
After a month with my father, I landed in Western State Hospital. Towards the end of my five month stay, I rediscovered my grandparents as a life line. When I got out, they took me in when it was obvious that neither of my parents could provide a safe home. Granny never turned down a kid in need—even a very, very troubled kid. They saved my life.
My grandparents provided a home with consistency, structure, and regular meals. I entered ninth grade with a bit of hope for the future. They lived in an apartment behind their old fashioned gas station/garage in a three story building with five bedrooms. Dean was Granny’s nephew-in-law by her first marriage. He was their boarder. Grandpa and Dean worked in the garage repairing cars and pumping gas. Granny had retired from her secretarial position. She did the books for the business, keeping house, and cooking meals for the four of us. We all ate our meals together. When she let me, I helped with the dishes. But, I had to be quick or she’d get them done first.
It was the early 70s. My grandparents read two newspapers a day. The Seattle Post-Intelligencer (P-I) in the morning and the Seattle Times in the evening. At the dinner hour, the news was on with Harry Reasoner and Howard K. Smith. The news caused political discussions at the table. It was the Vietnam War followed by Watergate. If things got heated, Granny would say, “Now, that’s enough of that.” No one dared challenge Granny. Her quiet authority tolerated no dispute. If she said we were done, we were done.
As much as I loved Granny, I wasn’t above messing with her a bit. She didn’t like tart foods. Occasionally at dinner, she would ask if something was too tart. Grandpa and I couldn’t resist saying no and watching her take a bite and make great faces. Her lips pinched and her eyes squinted as we laughed. She was good natured about it if we didn’t do it too often.
I also had a joke I could trot out now and then. “Granny, what begins with F and ends with UCK.” She’d do that same tart taste face before I proudly pronounced, “Firetruck!”
I made decisions with unintended consequences. Granny took a bath each morning, One day at breakfast, her hair was wet. I asked her what happened. She stiffly informed me that someone had wrapped a wash cloth around the lever for the tub faucet. When she went to fill the tub, the shower came on and drenched her. I was sheepish. I took baths at night. The previous night, I couldn’t get the faucet to stop dripping. The wash cloth was my temporary fix. I had forgotten about it by morning.
I learned not to tell Granny about a friend being mean to me. She never forgave someone who hurt me. I’m pretty sure my mother fell into that camp. She’d see me cry after my mother called me. It was difficult for her to watch my pain. It was years later I learned that when my mother lived with Granny her estranged mother called her and made her cry. There are cycles that carry on whether we know it or not.
Granny was a thoughtful, loving soul. I was fascinated by the recently built Weyerhaeuser Building along I-5 in Federal Way. For my 15th birthday, Granny called them up to arrange to take me to lunch there and have a tour. I was thrilled. Now, it’s amazing to think that would engage a teenager. But, Granny knew. Clearly, I was destined to work in offices.
Because I was tall and thin, I had trouble finding pants to fit. Granny helped me pick out a pants pattern and fabric. She made me pants—with pockets! I never learned to be a competent seamstress. With quirky clothing preferences, I appreciated her contribution.
My grandparents supported my musical tastes. I missed the Rock ‘n Roll era. I loved Helen Reddy with her “I Am Woman.” They took me to not one but two of her concerts opened by The Pointer Sisters who were not yet famous. I was over the moon and joked about doing something so Helen Reddy would notice me at the concert. We watched her on Flip Wilson until she got her own show.
I struggled to keep my mental health in check. I did a fair job until my senior year in high school when it slowly dawned on me that I was a lesbian. This was a terrifying idea. At a young age, my mother suggested it was better to be dead than gay. I was so frightened of being gay that I sliced my wrist, ending up in the psych ward of the University of Washington Hospital. I was there for three days. For the first time in my life, I was told by staff it was okay to be gay. What a concept.
After discharge, I told Granny I wanted to go to the UW women’s center to learn more about gay women. It was hard to say the word lesbian. She supported me. I went to talk to my first known lesbian. I was so scared I’m sure I had an out of body experience. Back home, Granny asked me how it was. I said, “I don’t think it’s for me.” She nodded noncommittally. There was more to come.
I made a valiant attempt to be straight. I had exactly six dates with boys/men. On the last date, the guy propositioned me. Apparently, I needed to know that was an option. When he asked me to sleep with him, it was like he threw a bucket of cold water on me. I had no interest. My next step was to talk to Sandy, a female friend at school, about our mutual attraction and act on it. We became involved. I’m sure Granny knew we were sleeping together. When girls had sleep overs in those days, it was unseemly to inquire as to our actual sexual activities.
* * * * * * *
Granny was always direct. I never expected her to be sneaky. As I approached high school graduation, I was driving her one day and she asked me, “If you were going to have a car, would you want a Ford Galaxy like Edith’s [her sister-in-law] or a Mustang?” My family only had Fords. Other makes were unconscionable. I didn’t think anything of it and told her I’d rather have a Mustang. Who wouldn’t?
During my last week of school, my Grandpa told me he had to do work on the car I usually drove. I drove Sandy and I home to the station after school. There was a car parked in my usual place. Sandy asked about it. I said they were always parking cars around. As I pulled in next to it, Sandy said, “I think you better look at this car.” I looked over to see a giant card with my name printed on it hanging out the window of a 1969 blue Mustang. I Just Couldn’t Believe It! I got out jumping around. It turns out they had traded in Granny’s old ’62 Thunderbird to buy me a car for graduation. I was speechless. Later, I felt so damn cool driving that Mustang.
* * * * * * *
Sandy was a fencer and had started young. It was an unusual thing for a girl. As we graduated, she received a scholarship from the University of Pennsylvania to join their fencing team. We both worked together at Pepe’s Mexican Restaurant that summer on Highway 99. Sandy prepared to move to Philadelphia in September. I was planning to attend Green River Community College and continue living with my grandparents. Sandy was my first partner. Anticipating a long distance relationship was a new experience and not a welcome one.
I talked to Granny about it. I told her I wanted to go with Sandy. She said simply, “I don’t want you to go.” We both knew she couldn’t stop me but I planned to remain in Des Moines. It was way harder than expected.
The summer of ’76 after graduation Sandy and I continued to work at Pepe’s. Sandy was good at waiting on people. She had an easy smile and a shy countenance. I was not well suited to restaurant work. I put things on heating trays and learned how to put the ingredients together. I never did memorize the menu. Otherwise, I washed the dishes. Granny and Grandpa continued to go to Vashon on weekends while Sandy and I worked together. We had that young love thing as the summer wound to a close.
In late August, I watched Sandy pack. She took the Greyhound bus to Philadelphia. Four days and four nights in bus land. We talked briefly when we could, relying on pay phones. Finally, she reached Philadelphia and began her new life. I was consumed with loneliness. Discovering the magic of love in the spring only to lose it in the fall. We talked a lot. I knew if I stayed in Des Moines we’d lose touch. At 18, I was too young to evaluate the importance of a love commitment.
After many long distance conversations, I decided to pack up the Mustang, head cross country, and follow my heart. At Vashon for a week in late summer, my grandparents didn’t know I was packing to leave late on a Saturday. I couldn’t stand to say goodbye to Granny. A note would have to do. As she did occasionally, she called to check on me. I was never good at keeping things from her. I staggered through a conversation and said, “Do you know?”
“Know what?”
“I’m planning to leave. To drive to Philadelphia. I’m packing to go.”
“Oh, Love, I didn’t know… Let me talk to your Grandpa and call you right back.” I waited nervously. I didn’t know what was coming next.
The phone rang, “Your Grandpa’s coming. He wants you to wait. There’s something he needs to do to your car.”
“Does it really need something?”
“He says it does. I’ll stay here.”
“You’re not coming?”
“No, I’ll wait here.” I was both relieved and disappointed. I didn’t know if I could face her. I could deal with Grandpa.
A few hours later, Grandpa came home to work on the Mustang. He did what he needed to, hugged me, and went back to Vashon. Later that night, I headed south on I-5 to Portland where I’d head east on I-80. Before leaving, I talked to Granny again. I told her how much I loved her. She told me to stay in hotels, call every night, and she would pay. She told me not to sleep by the side of the road.
The first night I did sleep by the side of the road in the Dalles, Oregon. It was high country with wind and a lot of white mice scurrying across the dark road in my headlights. With poor sleep, I resolved to follow Granny’s guidance the rest of the trip. The next night I stopped at a Motel 6. Motel 6 cost $12. I remembered when Motel 6 started several years prior it was named Motel 6 because it cost six dollars a night.
I called Granny collect every night telling her where I was and where I was going. Motel 6 had a useful little pamphlet with a United States map locating each Motel 6. I plotted my course across the country jumping from one Motel 6 to the next. I drove 12 hours a day playing whatever radio music I could find in my Mustang. Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now” was the theme song. My neck and shoulders were sore. Fortunately, all Motel 6s had “magic fingers” for a quarter. Fifteen minutes of bed vibrations soothed my sore muscles. Five days and nights later, I rolled into Philadelphia, found a place to park, and met Sandy.
The Philadelphia experience is another story. I got a clerk typist job in a big insurance company downtown. Sandy and I got a fully furnished dump apartment with a year’s lease in west Philly on the border of an impoverished neighborhood. I called Granny every Sunday after 5 when the long distance rates went down. I never stopped missing her. Ever.
For my birthday on December 27th during Christmas break, Granny paid for my brother, three years my junior, to fly out to Sandy and I. She didn’t come herself. But, she sent Zack. My brother and I were close. We had a great time. Zack saw a piece of the east coast. He was a slice of home. It still didn’t make up for being away from Granny.
[ Me, kitten Napoleon, and Zack in Philadelphia apartment.]
Our apartment was a third floor walk up. The winter was snowy, lovely, and cold. The apartment had crappy heat. It was my first experience using the gas oven to warm up. We couldn’t leave food out due to cockroaches and discovered cockroaches and mice couldn’t get on top of the refrigerator. All other food went into the refrigerator whether it needed it or not.
In late winter, Sandy got disillusioned with college and dropped out. She got a job at an insurance company close to my work. We began saving money to come home. With spring, crime increased in our neighborhood. The first floor apartment was burglarized. A few weeks later, the second floor apartment was robbed. We had four deadbolt locks on our door but knew the break-ins were coming our way.
The end of March 1977, we quit our jobs, picking through our stuff to pack in the Mustang. On April 1st, we left before the rent was due in a very full Mustang with our kitten, Napoleon, tucked in the car. We drove our long way back to Washington using the Motel 6 route book. I called Granny every night to tell her where we were and where we’d be the next night.
Returning home felt so good. I swore I would never leave the Puget Sound again as long as Granny was alive. It was too painful to be away from her. It was one pain I could do something about by just staying close.
* * * * * * *
Coming home, being near Granny, and eating dinner with my grandparents was rewarding. On the other hand, life was challenging. Sandy and I both quickly got jobs in downtown Seattle with insurance companies. I was still a clerk typist. We had relationship drama involving, Elizabeth, another out lesbian from high school. We got in a doomed three way relationship. I’m not sure exactly what Granny knew. Throughout the nonsense, she was her usual centered self. Then, I did something really extreme.
In talking with Sandy and Elizabeth, it became clear to all of us that I was terribly unhappy as a woman. They both encouraged me to follow my inner self and become a man. In fact, Sandy had given me the name in high school of David Alexander Moore. Due to the non-monogamy chaos, Sandy and I broke up. In our apartment, we supported my 16 year old brother. Elizabeth moving in with Zack and I cushioned the finances. Without telling Granny, I went through a screening process and began taking male hormones working my way to becoming David. I wasn’t sure how or when to tell her.
For my 20th birthday, I legally changed my name to David. I wasn’t aware of all the disruptive processes involved. In small town life, the people you get services from know everyone. My auto insurance was managed by my grandparents’ insurance agent. Once my name and gender were changed on my driver’s license, I called my insurance agent (also my grandparent’s agent) to notify him that my name was changed and, uh-hum, my gender was changed too.
“Hi, Pete. I need to let you know that I’ve legally changed my name. It’s different on my driver’s license than it was. It needs to be right on my policy.”
“Ok, I see.” He didn’t. “What is it?”
“David... ah, Alexander Moore.”
“What?” Remember, this is 1977. The only transgender person known to most was the tennis star, Renee Richards.
“David.”
“David?”
“Yes, David.”
“Ah, oh. David? Could you give me the full name again?”
I did. “I’ve also changed my gender to male on my license.” Several seconds went by.
“Ah.... You know.... that will...ah, probably cause... your, ah, rates to go up?”
“Yes. I know. Can you make the change on the policy?”
“Yes... I can do that. I’ll have to call the company. I don’t know what will happen to the rate though.”
“That’s okay. Thanks.”
“Ah, yeah. Talk to you later.” He ended a very uncomfortable phone call.
My next stop was to see Granny at the station. She looked very disturbed. “Joceile, I just got a call from Pete, our insurance agent.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”
“Is what he said true?” We had a long conversation about what I was doing. “Is there anyway to make you change your mind?”
I thought about it knowing there was nothing. “No.”
“I’m still going to call you Joceile.”
“That’s fine, Granny.”
“I’m not going to tell your Grandpa.”
“Ok.”
As my dress, deportment, and voice became more and more male, there was no indication that Grandpa was ever aware of the situation. As it turned out within seven months of my name change, I decided I would rather be a male-ish Joceile than a non-female David. I was only too happy to tell my grandmother.
“So... I’ll always be Joceile.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I know it’s been hard on you.”
“I never told your Grandpa. I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights.” That’s all she said. When a woman of few words told me she had a lot of sleepless nights and had to wrestle with the issue alone, I felt pretty bad. Of course, being a dynamic young person, there was always more to come.
* * * * * * *
I haven’t said much about my grandparents’ boarder, Dean. Dean was the nephew of Edith. He came to work at the station in his late twenties, living with my grandparents until his retirement at 65. During that time, Granny fed him, washed his clothes, and made his bed every day for $100 month. My grandparents and Dean smoked. Nightly, there was a cloud of smoke in the living room as they watched television. I sat in the dining room to avoid the smoke doing homework. Dean’s only other off work activity was drinking, usually to excess, mostly on weekends when my grandparents were at Vashon.
After returning to being Joceile, I was still in relationship with Elizabeth living in Olympia. With family in Des Moines, we often came to Seattle and stayed at the station in my old bedroom. The apartment was open to the station. The building was locked but any family could come through any time. We all had keys and came and went.
One Saturday night, Elizabeth and I were there when Dean came in drunk beyond reason. He was usually a quiet drunk. This time, he said, “What are you doing here?” It was pretty obvious I was staying in my grandparents’ home and told him so.
“You have no right to be here. This isn’t your house.” He carried on for awhile in an increasingly loud tone of voice. He was impossible to reason with. Finally, Elizabeth and I retreated to my bedroom until he went to bed.
When I told Granny about it later, she was hot. Her first husband had been an abusive drunk. When she met Grandpa, he drank. She made it clear she wouldn’t tolerate drinking. Grandpa could have one beer on Sunday afternoon. He was smitten by her red haired beauty and agreed.
She had no tolerance for drunks. She said she would handle Dean. I was to tell her if it happened again because that would be the end of it. I learned she told Dean in no uncertain terms if he ever treated me like that again he would be out. Thirty years and nephew-in-law or not. There would be no discussion. Dean apologized to me. If he did come in drunk after that, he went straight to bed with few words. We both knew Granny would hold him to it.
* * * * * * *
In the early 80s, Grandpa’s brother, Norman, was murdered in Los Angeles. He was a gay man who had broken up with his long time lover, Ray, the year before. Ray had been found dead from erotic asphyxiation with his hands tied behind his back in a hotel room with piles of cash. Norman was very sad about the death of his ex-partner. He said the cops weren’t interested in finding the party responsible and had said, “What’s the difference? Just another gay gone.” Hearing those words from Norman echoed in my mind for a long time.
A year later, Norman was robbed. He thought he knew the culprits. They were friends. Apparently, Norman called them and said they better come back because they missed stuff. They did come back, abducted Norman, killed him, and cut off his finger for his ring.
Norman and Ray owned a lot of real estate in the LA area. As Grandpa and his remaining brother, Virgil, sold the property, money came to my grandparents causing a need to invest. Granny asked me if I wanted them to help me buy a house in Olympia. This wasn’t something a prudent person turned down. In 1983, they helped me buy a house by co-signing the loan and agreeing to pay part of the monthly mortgage payment indefinitely. Yet another loving act by my grandparents.
* * * * * * *
I was never quite out to Grandpa. I never knew what he was thinking about my love life. In the mid-80s, I brought a new partner to the beach. In hanging out, we were giggling about a yellow book we were reading called Saphistry. I didn’t put a grocery bag cover on it but I did keep it face down. We had to leave Vashon early on a Monday morning around 6. Grandpa got up before Granny and said, “Will you leave that little yellow book for me?”
Sapphistry, The Book of Lesbian Sexuality was a lesbian’s lesbian book. “Grandpa, it’s not a good book for you to read about this. I can get you a better book.” I hadn’t realized he’d been paying attention.
“I want you to leave that yellow book with me.”
I sighed, “Okay, I’ll pick it up when I come for dinner next week.”
Later, Granny got up and said, “Don’t leave that yellow book with your Grandpa.”
“I already told him I would.” She pinched her lips in disapproval.
Later that week, I came for dinner prepared to talk to Grandpa about the book. When I walked into the kitchen, Granny said, “Here’s the book. Don’t talk to your Grandpa about it.”
“Granny, I want to talk to him.” I was determined. I’d thought about it the whole week. She wasn’t stopping me. I waited for an opportunity.
Grandpa came in from work and I followed him down to the basement. “Grandpa, did you read the book?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No. If that woman you’re with wants you to do that with her, don’t do it. It’s not right.”
I didn’t have much time following him to wash his hands before dinner. “Grandpa, have you ever had oral sex?”
“Once, with a woman. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. I never did it again.”
At that point, I didn’t have much else to say. “Grandpa, I’m gay.” But, there wasn’t any answer and silence enveloped the subject once more.
* * * * * * *
In keeping with my role as grandparent challenger, I told Granny my partner was pregnant in 1986. I explained my brother was the sperm donor. “You know what that means? It’ll be your grandchild.” I remember telling her while she was in the kitchen at Vashon standing at an old white enamel drain board/sink looking out the window. There was a fine view of the beach as it spread around the cove with tall trees at the high water mark.
“I know what it means.”
“They didn’t….”
“I didn’t think so.”
I wasn’t looking forward to telling her. I always told Granny everything before I ever imagined telling Grandpa. She sighed and looked at me saying, “I’m not going to tell your Grandpa.” I explained that he would have to know it was his grandchild. “Are you going to tell your mother?” If my mother knew it wouldn’t be a secret.
“Yes, it’s her grandchild too."
“Just wait,” she said, “I’ll tell him.” I waited, knowing that a new baby would win Grandpa over pretty quick. And when she came, Alex did just that.
* * * * * * *
When Alex was two, I separated from her biological mother. Ronnie had been my best friend for years. Ronnie knew Alex since before her birth. Ronnie was the first to care for her outside of me and Alex’s other mother. I made sure to never share any conflict with Granny about Ronnie. I was in for the long haul with Ronnie. Granny liked Ronnie. I think she recognized another person who loved me the way she did.
[ Alex, Granny, and I in front of our house in west Olympia 1991. ]
* * * * * *
In my early twenties, I bought a motorcycle. Granny’s only words were, “Please. Be careful.” I wanted to learn how to work on it. Grandpa was all too ready to help me with mechanics. I was surprised he included me so easily when as a girl I wasn’t allowed to work in the garage. It was Granny who thought it was improper for a girl to pump gas. That was a mixed blessing. From a young age, my brother had to work with Grandpa all the time. I got to loaf around. As an adult, I spent a lot of time in my home workshop, surprised to discover I had mechanical aptitude.
After Alex was born, I still hung out in my workshop. I was in my shop early one evening when the shop phone rang. Granny was four years older than Grandpa. Her health was worse and she was far less active. We all expected Grandpa to outlive Granny. It was Grandpa on the phone. He never called me. Immediately, I was on alert.
“Honey,” he said.
“Hi, Grandpa.”
“Your granny...” I waited. “Had chest pains...”
“Yes,” I encouraged.
“...We called the guys at the fire department,” his voice broke. As a twenty year voluntary fire fighter, he knew everyone .
“They took her to the hospital...and she’s...” I waited with gritted teeth. “In critical care...”
“Grandpa, IS SHE ALL RIGHT???”
“Yes... They don’t know... She’s being tested.”
“Where is she? I’ll come up.” It turned out Granny was relatively okay. Ronnie and I visited her and checked in with Grandpa at the station. After her recovery, I told Grandpa he needed to start out with, “She’s okay. That’s what you start out with when someone has been injured.” The way he did it I was really scared dreading the worst.
The odd part was a few years later Grandpa died from heart attack without warning in 1994. He dropped dead working by himself in the basement of the Masonic Temple while pouring a concrete floor. He was found by a friend Granny called when he didn’t come home for dinner. It was a stunning turn of events. Granny knew hardship. She dealt with his loss better than I imagined he would with hers. He had turned 80. She was 84.
In some ways, things continued as before. She still lived behind the station. Edith’s son, Gene and his wife, had bought my grandparents out of the business. There was someone at the station all day during the week. The butcher was across the street. The grocery store was down the street. She still drove in Des Moines. For years, I had come every week for dinner when I came up for counseling. Now, it was just dinner with Granny. We went to Moby Doug’s, now Wally’s, for grilled salmon and French fries just down the street.
I had always called her once a week Sunday evening. Now, I called her every day just after 5 when the rates went down. She always answered, “Hi, Love.” Granny was a woman of few words. My goal was to keep her on the phone for five minutes. We talked about daily things, the news, people we knew. When she left a message on my answering machine, I used the video camera to record her voice. She didn’t like her picture taken or being videoed.
As time passed, we incorporated dinner, grocery shopping, and any drug store shopping. We checked out various restaurants. She didn’t have patience with fancy. We explored Shari’s. We both liked breakfast for dinner. I was sure Denny’s couldn’t screw up breakfast. We did that. I drove her around Des Moines, Kent, Federal Way, Burien, and routes along the water just looking and remembering what used to be. I drove her to Fremont in Seattle where she’d wait in the car crocheting during my counseling appointment.
I learned she had moved from Texas to California to Washington with her first husband who was a pilot in the 1930s. JW drank and was abusive. In 1939 or 40, she was hospitalized with an emergency appendectomy. JW fell asleep at home on the couch with a burning cigarette in his hand while she was in the hospital. The house caught fire. He died of smoke inhalation. He was brutal. She would only answer a few questions about him. In my mind, his death freed her. Although, she had always done secretarial work and could support herself. It was still a hardship.
I knew Granny wouldn’t live forever. I cherished each moment I got to spend with her. At one point, I got it in my head I wanted her to adopt me. “You’ve been the best mother to me. I want you to be my legal mother.” She thought about it. I talked to an attorney. Granny decided she didn’t want to pursue it. I think she was afraid of my mother living at the station where anyone had access. I realized how vulnerable she was. My mother was moody dropping in occasionally. I told Granny my mother didn’t need to know until after her death. Granny still said no and that was that.
When I could, I brought her down to stay with me in Olympia. It didn’t take much to entertain her. She crocheted Afghans. Several of my friends have one of Granny’s Afghans. With access to a TV humming along, she was easy. Ronnie facilitated cancer retreats involving travel. Granny was happy to stay with me but wanted to go home when Ronnie returned. She wouldn’t consider moving in with us. We continued to have our weekly visits of dinner, grocery shopping, and driving.
[Granny crocheting in rocking chair with the television at my house.]
In the fall of 1997, Granny started complaining of back pain. Years earlier, she had a hip replacement. Granny was resistant to physical therapy and struggled with exercise. She started tapping her right foot all the time. It was an indicator of how much pain she was in. Reflecting now, I know exactly what that feels like. Then, I could only imagine. At 88, she went to the surgeon that performed her hip surgery. The idiot surgeon said she needed back surgery. She did not question it. She was in pain and wanted it to stop. Despite my urging, she would not seek a second opinion. She was not interested in further discussion.
As part of the pre-surgery work up, she had a chest x-ray. She told me they found a little spot, “But, just forget about it.” She waved it away with her hand. “We’re not doing anything about it.” Unfortunately, I was not in my best mental health space. Between her directions to “forget it” and my reaction to when she says “no, that’s it,” I literally did forget about the spot on her lung. She scheduled the surgery in January 1998. Ronnie and I had plans to take Alex to Florida to see Ronnie’s mother. I had to be home when Granny had surgery. I said if she couldn’t move the surgery I would stay home. She moved it to late February.
While I was in Florida, it was hard knowing my leaving prolonged her pain. I was gone for a week but imagined her sitting there in the station tapping her foot, watching TV, managing her pain. I felt bad contributing to more weeks of pain. I would support her through the operation. I just didn’t know what kind of long term strategy would be needed.
The surgery was uneventful. True to form, the surgeon announced it a success. Granny was moved to a rehab facility. She was very unhappy about the regimen of physical therapy. She did not recover well and wanted to leave. I visited her frequently. It was hard to be a cheerleader when Granny was grumpy. She checked herself out early because she wanted to come home to the station. She wasn’t able to care for herself. I spent the first couple nights with her. I was scared and uncertain about what came next.
We brought her home and settled her in. There were men during the day to check on her. She had trouble with basic care. She was still on pain medication. I helped her eat and get ready for bed. I went to bed that night fearing what the coming days would bring. Several times in the night, I helped her to the bathroom and worried for morning.
I needn’t have worried. Granny was nothing if not a realist. In the morning she said, “I can’t stay here alone.”
“No, you can’t. What do you want to do?”
“I want to go to the Masonic Home.” The Masonic Home was an iconic building on beautiful acreage on a hill in south Des Moines. Des Moines on Puget Sound had always been a haven for retirement communities. It included Wesley Gardens where my god parents had moved going from a single home, apartment, and nursing care before passing away. Judson Park was a newer facility close to the Masonic Home. I had friends with grandmothers there. I’d never visited. Then, there was the Masonic Home.
Growing up in my grandparents’ Masonic community, I visited many people over the years in the home. In my younger years, Granny played the organ for events. I remember the director and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Mitten. Their name sparked my imagination. People I knew had lived and died there. My grandparents had always said they would go there. Masons had an automatic place in the home.
Completed in 1927 with 30 acres of extensive gardens, the Masonic Home could be seen from Tacoma, Vashon Island, and the waters of Puget Sound. It was an excellent landmark for navigating by water or air. It was built for aging Masons, their widows, and children. With a majestic, castle-like design, it was enchanting for me as a kid. Great halls and rooms of elaborate dark wood with classic alcoves sprinkled with views of the sound. Oddly, in the late ‘70s, my mom worked there as a cleaner living in servants’ quarters on the fifth floor. Even the servants’ rooms were gracious. Visiting her gave me another opportunity to poke around the great building.
With Granny clear on what she wanted, I kicked into gear with arrangements to meet with a Masonic Home counselor. We met with her reviewing paperwork and asking questions. Based on our urgent need and an open bed, arrangements were made to move Granny there the following day. The transfer went smoothly. She had a bed in the convalescent center. It was a modern building on site. She was safe and looked after but it had that smell of stale urine and cleanser that similar facilities often have. Old people, mostly women, were parked in wheelchairs in the hallway with a mixture of confused and unseeing eyes. I didn’t like to leave her there but I had to get home and back to work.
I remembered when I was in high school Granny returned from seeing Grandpa’s mother in the Veterans Home in Retsil outside of Port Orchard. Granny traveled across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge every week to visit Grandma Smith. In the summers, I went with her. On this day, she sat me down. “If I’m ever in a nursing home, I don’t want to you come see me. I don’t want you to see me that way.”
I gave a sad smile, “I understand what you are saying, Granny. But, I’m sorry. I will be coming to see you anyway. I can’t leave you alone.” I hated to deny Granny anything but I couldn’t agree to this. I’m not sure if a quick little smile passed her lips. But, she replaced it with a slightly disapproving look and left it at that. It was silly. I knew she would never abandon a loved one to a facility. She had taught me that. I would never abandon her.
* * * * * * *
I came to see her twice a week at the Masonic Home. It was a haul from Olympia but I had to be there. They couldn’t get her off the pain killers since the surgery. She spoke to me but wasn’t active, seemed uncomfortable, and slept in bed a lot. They weren’t able to get her up and alert. Ronnie came with me on weekends. I couldn’t understand what was going on. While visiting late one weekday, I stood staring down at Granny. I thought to myself, “This woman is dying, and I have no clue why.”
I continued to work with them to help her reduce the drugs and be more alert. We were able to move her to the assisted living section with her own room, recliner, and television. She couldn’t focus on her favorite television shows. She complained they didn’t give her a shower often enough. She was still very unhappy.
Initially, she didn’t have a phone. My brother left her his new cell phone. Not many people had them then. She didn’t know how to use it. But, it felt better to us. She finally got a room phone and was able to get calls from friends. She spoke to Edith often. Edith and Wave were her in-laws from her first husband, JW. Wave was JW’s brother. Edith and Wave had been partners in the gas station with my grandparents before their son, Gene, bought them out.
Edith had grown up in northwest Arkansas and came out west with Wave who was also in the airplane business. In Edith’s upbringing, one cared for family members. Granny informed me she wanted to go live with Edith. They also lived in Des Moines a couple houses from where JW had died. Edith was eight years younger than Granny and in good health. She and Wave had an extra bedroom. Granny had been in assisted living for three weeks when we moved her in with Edith and Wave.
We brought her recliner and fitted out her room with a good bed with lots of light from the windows. For the first time in several months, Granny was happy. She was still a bit out of it but felt very cared for. I was worried about Edith caring for Granny but Edith seemed fine. She bathed her. Granny ate meals with them. It appeared it would work out okay. I knew Granny was looked after by a woman who loved her. I wasn’t sure about how long it would last but I knew it was good for Granny.
It turned out it lasted three days. On the third day, Edith called me. Granny had trouble breathing and they called the fire department. The fire department was next door just a couple doors up from the Masonic Temple where Grandpa died. She told me they took her to Highline Medical Center in Burien.
Ronnie and I drove up from Olympia not knowing what was going on. I said, “I hope it’s not lung cancer.”
“What makes you say that?” Ronnie wanted to know.
“I don’t know. I just got a feeling.” Unconsciously, I remembered the lung spot.
She was in bed at the hospital, breathing, and looking very tired. The doctors hustled us off to a private room. “Your grandmother has lung cancer.” Granny smoked for 75 years until she had her heart attack. Even after the heart attack, it was difficult for her to quit. She snuck one in the bathroom regularly until she finally quit. “One lung is completely involved.”
“Can she live with one lung?” I asked.
The doctor shook his head, “No. The other one will be involved soon. There’s nothing we can do.”
“There’s nothing to do at all?” He shook his head. Disappointed but not surprised, I had known she would pass one day. I had been dreading it for a long time.
With us there, the doctor explained things to Granny. She was fine with it. We had to figure out where she could go to hospice. The likeliest place was the same place she had been for rehab after surgery. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“It won’t be the same as last time. They won’t make you do stuff. They’ll just take care of you.”
“I don’t want to go back there.” She insisted. We didn’t have any other options for hospice care. I came up the next day to visit. I didn’t want to leave her but had to get home to Ronnie and Alex. She was moving in two days. I called her planning to come up for the move.
“Hi, Gran.”
“Hi, Love.” We talked. She kept asking about the rehab place saying she didn’t want to go. I told her I’d be up the next day. I don’t know exactly how the conversation went wrong. I do remember her saying, “I’m not stupid.”
“Granny, I don’t think you’re stupid…” I think we were talking about the rehab place but it was a less than satisfying conversation with a final, “I love you.”
“I love you too."
Late that night, I answered the ringing phone. The nurse said, “I went to check on your grandmother and she wasn’t responsive. She’s still breathing but I think she’s passing. I can’t say how long it will be. Maybe ten minutes. May two hours.”
“We’ll be up as soon as we can get there.” Ronnie and I jumped in the Mustang and drove up to Burien. We got there at two in the morning.
The nurse said, “She’s gone. I’m sorry. She passed pretty quickly after we called.”
I stood looking at Granny thinking, “Granny, I’m so sorry I didn’t see you today. I love you. Dear, sweet woman.” I touched her still face and kissed her gently. I looked at the incredible stillness of death. I sat there crying, knowing this was a goodbye like no other.
The nurse came in, “I came in earlier and she was still awake. I said, ‘You’ve got to get some sleep. You’re moving tomorrow.’” Granny looked at her and said, “Oh, honey, I’m not going anywhere.” As usual, Granny knew best.
The next days and weeks passed quickly. When you do those things that close out another person’s life, it’s just a lot. My mother wanted stuff. Ronnie and I took what we wanted and left my brother and mother to take care of the rest. The station got emptied of the things my grandparents had collected over decades. Gradually, it was bare.
For a long time every day, five o’clock was hard for me. There was no call to make. No one to encourage to stay on the phone for five minutes. I had my time with Granny. I had enjoyed her and relished the love she had given me for 40 years.
A few months after her death, Gene said he was selling the station. He said he waited until Granny was gone unwilling to make her move. He sold it to Jim, a station employee, who later sold the building for a significant profit. It was gutted and remodeled into several businesses including a restaurant. We once had dinner there. I could still smell the station. You don’t get rid of generations of grease and oil that easily. The restaurant didn’t last.
Reading this, Ronnie said the love was in the room between Granny and I. There weren’t overt demonstrations of our affection for each other. Granny was a woman of few words. The love was just in the room.
Ronnie and I often talk about the good qualities we share in our parental figures. Like her dad, Bert, I love baseball. I’m a bit rigid. He and I both were civil servants for over 40 years. Like her mom, Shirley, I communicate with word salad. We are lucky to live on a lake. Yesterday, I was making fun of people on House Hunters. It’s a reality show about people buying their dream house. I parroted that we enjoy the “like lafestyle” then thought and said, “or lafe likestyle?” Ronnie didn’t bat an eye.
As a parent, the love I have for my daughter is based on Granny. There was no purer love. The one person in my life like Granny is Ronnie. They have the same unwavering values and capacity for great love. Alike in many character ways, Ronnie also ends each night laying in bed reading until she turns out the light. This small act is a visible reminder of kissing Granny goodnight as she read in bed. I’m often reminded I’ve still got the best person in my corner. This Love has always been looking out for me. If I believed in life after death, I’d say Granny still has a hand in it.
L’Chaim.
Joceile
9/3/19
